Chapter XIV: Part 14

Myrtle had trod some pretty rocky ground, literally and figuratively, since coming into camp—besides heating gallons of water from time to time at the mine to bathe my sprained ankle—and she certainly was entitled to indulge in a little “fun” at our expense. Myrtle had quoted correctly, but that “grizzled” reference belonged to quite another class of miners. And I may say this was the first and only time I had ever heard that bewhiskered old saying while in the mining country. It was of course a carryover from another era. And, had she not questioned my statement about the gun-toters, I should have told her that there are no such animals in the mining country now.

Myrtle was holding in her hand a gold nugget—real, glittering, yellow gold — about the size of a walnut, and Frank knew instantly its source. She had taken it out of my pocket—but I doubt if Frank knew positively, until this minute, that I had it. He said to me, “You better drop it in that shaft over there by the underground house. There’s but one place that it could have come from—and if exhibited around here, it might get somebody in trouble.” He hastened to say, however, that it would not be me; that he was sure that I had got it legitimately, though maybe a little less openly than the $10 nugget I had secured when he and I were exploring the depths of the famous Quartette mine at Searchlight. That’s the place where someone had said before the camp was named that it would take a searchlight to locate pay ore.

I said, “Yeah, drop it in the shaft and have someone in the future find it, and then spend thousands of dollars trying to locate its source.”

He said, “Any miner who knows his stuff would know that it didn’t originate in this lime formation. It’s straight out of a porphyry dike—and was, until you got hold of it, closely guarded under lock and key.”

I could have told him that I knew all this, but a more brilliant idea struck me—leastwise just for the moment I thought it was bright. But, then, on second thought, what if the assay on our big body of material I had been so sure was just like the Hoosier zinc, should prove me wrong. Well, anyway, I would “ shoot the works.”

I said, “It strikes me that there are some men around here who count themselves miners that do not exactly at all times know their stuff.”

Myrtle said, “Now, now—don’t commence on that zinc again.”

“Well,” I said, “I’ll still bet my old hat that it is zinc.”

Frank said, quickly, “If it’s zinc, I’ll eat your old hat — and do it with relish, too, brother.”

“And in that case, if you win, smart boy, you still stand to lose your hat,” said Myrtle, to me.

I believe Frank had already begun to see the light, sense a probability, cherish a hope. Although lead ore running 71 and 72 per cent by the carload had been shipped, the present lean condition of our lead mine could well stand bolstering with a big body of zinc. But of course he would not want to admit, first off, that his “tenderfoot” partner had stumbled onto something of such vital importance. In school, and at countryside lyceums back home, Frank was a top negative debater—always on the “contrary” side. And it was probably the stubborn Welsh in him that caused him to stick by his guns now”His father had been a miner back in Wales—in the identical neighborhood’ that afterwards became known as the locale of the movie, “How Green Was My Valley?”:

I do not know the result of the assay made by Harry Riddell for Frank—but I do know that Frank wrote me, that fortunately, I was going to be minus an old hat, someday. But, for the present, would I send him $500 to start operations on “our lucky zinc find?”

An assay made for me, by C. S. Cowan, whom I met on the train, and who was assayer at W. A. Clark’s United Verde mine, Jerome, Arizona, showed fifty-five per cent zinc. Assayer Cowan wrote me that it was a big surprise to him. He had told me he doubted if the sample would show any zinc.

In the crude, it shipped out by the carload at forty-three percent. But at that, it was no bonanza. Western smelters could not handle that class of ore—and the freight rate to the zinc smelters in the gas fields of southern Kansas, was $500 a car.

Unlike the dark sulphides of the Joplin (Mo.) and Galena (Kans.) district, where paying mines were operating on six per cent zinc, ours was a carbonate ore, running to high values. It was light in color, with the richer ore comparatively light in weight. Frank said it would likely, as she goes down, turn to sulphides and be more permanent, with less values.

But, brother—”she” didn’t go down.

By way of explanation, I might say here that on the preceding Friday, Frank and I paid a visit to the Keystone mine near the summit, north of the Goodsprings highway. Situated in a porphyry zone, it was the only gold mine of importance in the district—with an output of more than a million dollars up to that time. And it might be consoling to my partner, who at that time (1907) had spent sixteen of his thirty-seven years working in the Nevada mines, to state here what he already knows—in fact, he’s the source of my information—that Jonas Taylor, working a silver deposit on his claim, allowed the Keystone gold ledge to lay dormant for three years after he had discovered it. But when he did finally wake up to its possibilities, three days work rewarded him with a four-foot vein of gold ore running $1,000 to the ton—in shipments.

Our former Wetmore citizen, Green Campbell, did not get in on this—but he located, and his estate still owns the Golden Chariot, adjoining. And one of Green’s associates, William Smith, hurriedly fetched his friend Samuel Godbe over from Pioche, and after one look at the uncovered ledge, the latter played a winning hand in a big game without risking any chips. Mr. Godbe asked for, and received from Mr. Taylor, a thirty day option on one-half interest for $20,000. Mr. Godbe then rushed to San Francisco and sold half of a half-interest to Mr. Perry, a banker acquaintance, for $20,000 cash. A few months later Mr. Perry sold his quarter interest to Mr. Blake, of Denver, for $40,000. And nobody had lost any money — yet.

We had driven Sam Yount’s big sorrel mare up Kerby gulch to the Kerby mine, owned by the Campbell estate. From there, we walked maybe a couple of miles—a pretty rough climb—to the Keystone, arriving at about 10 o’clock. The camp cook, the only man above ground, thought the miners were working on the 800-foot level. Frank said he knew his way around—that we would go down in the mine and contact them. He had worked in the Keystone a short while before.

Like an addict bucking a slot machine always hoping for the next turn to crack the jackpot, Frank had put his last dollar into the development of our own prospect, and consequently had been compelled to work in other mines to get a stake. And since it was not in the cards for Frank to distinguish himself, as part owner of the Kansas-Nevada mine — and also, in later years, as if finding a good mother for his “kids” while on that political economy excursion into the East was not enough, he cashed in on that outlay by getting himself elected for the fourth time, to the legislature — assembly, it is called in Nevada. Then to Reno as Regent of the University of Nevada. Also, still later, he started a one-man crusade against gambling. But in Nevada—well, it was slow work.

And, mind you, we ourselves, Frank and I, were at that very time stuck in a mine gamble which might—and did — keep us feeding the “kitty” for years before we could know whether or not we would ever be able to pull out with a winning.

We lighted candles and started down by way of an incline shaft. The Keystone doubtless had a vertical shaft, I believe back on higher ground, straight down to the 1,000 foot level, with safety cage, operated with power. Likely a standard shaft! under state supervision, similar to the one which Frank and I were eased down to the 1100-foot level of the Quartette mine at Searchlight—on a day off from our inspection at Crescent. My cousin, Ella Bristow-Montgom-ery-Walter, lived in Searchlight, and Joe Walter, her husband, had taken time off from his barber business to show us around. Frank had seen the manager of the Quartette, likely through the solicitation of Joe, give me a gold nugget, worth maybe $10.,

I did not collect these rich specimens for their intrinsic value—but rather for study and comparison. Our hope for gold at that time lay at Crescent, between Goodsprings and Searchlight. The specimens from neighboring camps could be helpful in determining our course of development.

At the Keystone, we had gone down that incline shaft to the 700-foot level before the tenderfoot in me began to assert itself. We had walked down the incline easily enough, then climbed straight down on a ladder for maybe twenty-five feet—and then repeated by incline and ladder, gaining distance away from the portal, as well as in depth.

At the 700-foot level, Frank had a sudden notion that we might be heading for trouble. There were crosscuts going out from the various levels, and the miners might be working in any one of them. And it was about time for the shots to be fired. He said we could get out quicker if we were above the works when the powder smoke began to come out. And I was positive that I had had enough. The mine was dripping water—and my nerves were shot.

It gave me a “weak” feeling not unlike I had experienced when Frank took me about 300 feet back into the tunnel at our lead mine to demonstrate a drilling, and the firing of a shot. It was late in the afternoon, almost sundown. Frank said we would have to hurry, as daylight was running out on us, and we yet had to make our beds out on the dump—that is, find places where the crushed rock had been trampled down to some semblance of smoothness. He said he was drilling in soft white lime; that the blue lime at the contact two hundred feet farther in, for which the tunnel was projected, and where, it was confidently believed, we would encounter a big body of lead, was hard as granite. He drilled a hole sixteen inches deep, then cut a suitable length of fuse, fitted a dynamite cap to one end, tapped it together lightly with his steel drill—then shockingly gave that dynamite cap, having a 500-pound explosive force — which alone has been known to blow a man’s hand off when hit with a hammer—a final clinch with his teeth. He had a little tool for clinching the caps, but he didn’t want to waste the time to fetch it. He “hooted” at my protest of that dangerous performance. We were about twelve miles from civilization, and I didn’t relish the prospect of being left alone out there in the night. He slit a stick of dynamite with his knife—dynamite has been known to explode with rough handling—but he eased my fears by saying a cow had chewed up a stick of dynamite without harm. He inserted the capped end of the fuse in the slit, squeezed it together and dropped it in the hole. He filled the hole with fine rock drillings, and nonchalantly tamped it with an iron bar. He lighted the fuse with a match—and said it was time for us to skedaddle to the portal. No report. Frank said he would go back in the tunnel and dig it out, and fire the charge. Now, I did protest. I told him to defer that job until morning. He thought maybe it would be best, said that a fuse would sometimes hangfire. Dusk was upon us. However, we found suitable spots for bedding down, and I rolled up in nice clean blankets I had purchased in Los Angeles the day before—and, using a “soft” white lime rock for a pillow, slept the sleep of a budding plutocrat. And, believe it or not, that delayed shot waked me before dawn. Frank had performed the dangerous task of digging out that dud, and reloaded the hole. He said, “It was no job for a simpering tenderfoot to watch. And furthermore, if you will stick around me you’ll learn something.” And that was no boastful exaggeration.

The Keystone manager took us to the administration building, unlocked a door, and showed us five tons of very rich gold ore piled in one corner of the office. A narrow strip of one inch and less—along the hanging wall of a four-foot vein of $40 ore—shot with particles of pure gold, averaging $72,000 to the ton, had produced that $360,000 pile of Keystone wealth.

The manager was very kind to me. He pointed out some extremely rich specimens, and watched me “eat ‘em up” — figuratively, of course. I knew that it would have been unethical, if not worse, for him to have offered to give me a specimen, especially at a time when all that “high-grading” was going on in Nevada, particularly at the Goldfield Consolidated Mines.

Satisfied that I had been sufficiently impressed, the manager turned to Frank—they were old associates, you know—suggesting that he might be interested in having a look at the work-sheet, blue-print, or something of other entertaining, on the desk. When Frank was sufficiently absorbed, with back to me, the manager stepped out the door, “whowhoed” and gestured—probably held up two fingers — which I afterwards interpreted to mean he was making known to someone he would have guests for dinner. And I still think I read the signals aright. Anyway, my hurriedly selected specimen had only the gold content of one double-eagle—and that would have been grand larceny in my state.

I do not know if the Keystone maintained a change-room, such as the management of the Goldfield Consolidated was compelled to install about this time to cope with its “high-graders,” But the Keystone had had experience with “high-graders.” Frank said that in earlier days, off-shift miners would ride the ore-wagons down to the mill in the Mesquite Valley near the town of Sandy, dropping rich pieces of gold ore by the roadside for their confederates, following on foot, to gather up.

At the Consolidated Mines in Goldfield every miner on coming off shift, besides having to shed his work clothes before he could pass the doorkeeper to get to his street clothes, was compelled to say “Ah!” Perhaps you can think of some other way a stripped miner might conceal a bit of gold? The miners did. And the detection of that unique manner of “high-grading” precipitated a riot that had to be quelled by the state militia. The Union miners agreed, magnanimously, to submit to the new order of things—provided that they be permitted to name the doorkeeper from their own ranks. The Consolidated had broken into some extremely rich ore, streaks of almost pure gold—and the miners were averse to overlooking any bets.

Back at the lead-zinc mine, Myrtle told us what she had experienced in Goodsprings during the week when Frank and I were at Crescent. As the wife of the partner of Frank Williams—no intent of implying self importance—she was at once taken into the hearts of the camp people. Perhaps her own personality was a factor. She had met, at the hotel, Mr and Mrs. Potter, of the Columbia mine; Mr and Mrs. McCarthy, (he was the surveyor); and Harry Riddell, the assayer—all late of Boston. And she had really begun to love the desert, with its ultra-sociable people. Even Mrs. Yount’s squaw cook—maybe she was only kitchen help—a Paiute Indian woman from up Pahrump way, Myrtle said, was friendly.

And, best of all, the camp children had supplied her daily—except of course those two days when Mr. Springer’s Gila Monster had the run of the camp—with a bouquet of wild flowers gathered from the mountain slopes. She loved that.

Also, she had enjoyed, particularly when with the children, watching a reddish-brown dog resembling a cocker spaniel, ride a horse, standing up behind a man. A prospector working a claim up near the summit, five or six miles out, rode a bay horse daily out of Goodsprings, to and from his work—always with the dog standing on the horse’s back. As it was a daily occurrence, the children had become accustomed to seeing the dog ride the horse—but they were especially anxious for Myrtle to view the spectacle, with them. Myrtle had met, and visited with, some of the children’s mothers. One of the women was from Soldier, Kansas, near our home. In fact, with faithful Elwood Thomas as escort, Myrtle had been pretty much all over the camp — except of course saloon row on the north side—Hobson street I believe it was called. Elwood had told her it was not the lowest spot in Nevada, but even so, it was no place for a lady.

Myrtle had now really caught the spirit of the West. She was actually planning on the spending of the yet undelivered profits of the mine, on a home in Goodsprings. Everyone had told her that we were on the high road to a big success. Our home would be on the “bench” near Charley Byram’s place, where we could be sure of getting water. Bachelor Charley Byram, I believe, had the only private well, with windmill, in Goodsprings. He was the son of August Byram, former partner of Green Campbell, in the sensationally rich Horn Silver mine at Frisco, Utah. Born in Atchison, Kansas, Charley was now — in Nevada and Los Angeles, where he lived with his mother and sister — -a typical Westerner, seemingly without the proper appreciation of a native son for his old home town. He said to me, “The last time I was back in Atchison, two years ago, I could have fired a shotgun down the full length of Commercial street without hitting a soul.” To one who knows the unobstructed and flat straightness of Commercial street, it seemed as if he should have been able to do better than that. Charley would have to up his sights and show marksmanship if he were to hit pay ore on his claims up in the porphyry zone. I believe he missed in this.

Myrtle said she wanted flowers, lots of roses, and green grass—a show spot, sort of oasis in the desert as it were. Something that everybody else didn’t have. Well, I too had been caught by the spell. Why not let her have them? Contingent, however, on one little reservation. Only if, and when, the lead-zinc mine should give up its treasure. We couldn’t spend all that money living a prosaic life.

Before leaving Goodsprings for California, Myrtle said to me, “Let’s come back this way. I’d love it. And since you think you are so good at discovering zinc overlooked by your partner, maybe YOU could, after all, find gold in ‘them thar hills’.”

Might say here that eight years later Myrtle had the chance to repay the old miner, Elwood Thomas, for his kindness by entertaining him in our home. Elwood — just in from Nevada — came into the Wetmore hotel one evening about eight o’clock when I happened to be present. Also, Henry McCreery—sometimes affectionately called “Henry Contrary”—Elwood’s brother-in-law, was in the hotel office at the time. We had a good visit together. When Henry was ready to go home he said, “Well, Elwood, I’d like to ask you to go home with me for the night — but I’m afraid Becky wouldn’t like it.” Becky Thornton was Henry’s sister and housekeeper—his wife Patience, Elwood’s sister, having passed on some years earlier. Elwood said, “Oh, it’s all right. Maybe I ought to go out and see the Old Man” — meaning his bachelor brother Manning, living a half mile east of town. Elwood was the oldest and Manning was the youngest in a family of seven children—but the older one was the younger in appearance. I said, “Come along with me, Elwood—I know Myrtle will be glad to see you.” And she was. They had done Goodsprings all over again before retiring that night. And, sadly, we were to see our very fine old friend laid to rest in the Wetmore cemetery within the week. He was fatally injured in a horse-and-buggy accident while visiting his daughter, Mrs. Maude Ralston, in Holton.

Elwood had told us that he had a message from a miner in Goodsprings to deliver to a woman in Wetmore, but he could not remember her name. The wife and I put in a portion of the night trying to figure out who it might be with a connection out there. The next morning after breakfast, I went with Elwood down to the Spectator office. Editor Turrentine gave him a personal, with comment, naming the man in Goodsprings whose message Elwood would like to deliver, if he could find the woman. It brought results. Mrs. Nels Rasmus drove over to Holton the day following publication — and received her message. Mr. Thomas had gone over there to visit his daughter. Mrs. Rasmus had lived in the home of P. T. Casey, the Corning banker. I believe she was an adopted child. The Good-springs miner was connected in some way with one or the other of the two Corning families.

Two years later—1917—I chanced to meet this man with a stalled Model T Ford near the summit west of Goodsprings, on a very slippery road, deep in snow and slush. In the car with me, were Joe Walter, Frank and John Williams, and the driver. We were coming down the grade, and he had been going up. Recognizing the name on introduction, I asked him—just to be sociable—what was wrong with his car? He answered rather smartly, “If I knew I wouldn’t be here.” It was probably a very correct answer — but I thought it was no way to dismiss a fellow who had a message from Mrs. Rasmus for him.

NOTE—Frank Williams died in a hospital in Las Vegas. Nevada, December 19, 1947. This story is printed, without change, just as it was written prior to his death.

MONEY MUSK Published in Wetmore Spectator—

January 24, 1936.

By John T. Bristow

The deep snows of the past month recall the winters back a half century, and more. It seems there was always snow on the ground in the winter months then.

In the early days, besides making boots and shoes, my father, William Bristow, hunted and trapped a good deal, whenever he could spare the time from his business. Always one or more of his boys would go with him on those outings. We all loved the outdoors—and with my father we were like pals.

Among his catches were mink, raccoons, lynx, bobcats, and sometimes a catamount. The catamount was an overgrown wildcat between the bobcat and the cougar in size. The largest one he ever caught weighed sixty-seven pounds. There are none here now.

My father did not trap for the little fur-bearing, stink-throwing skunk, but often one would be found in one of his mink traps. Then, from a safe distance, he would shoot the skunk, carefully remove it, and deodorize the steel trap by burning before making another set.

The time came, though, when my father thought he might just as well save the skunk pelts. Skunk fur was in demand at a good price, the best skins bringing around four dollars. My father was not avaricious. But times were close—and he had many mouths to feed. And four dollars was four dollars.

My mother, of course, did not like to have her home polluted with skunk essence—and her boys refused to help with the skinning. So, when my father would find a well-marked skunk in one of his mink traps he would say, rather sadly, as he tossed it aside, “That’s four dollars thrown away.”

Then, one Sunday when William Peters was along—he was called Methuselah, or Thuse, for short—my father found a big skunk in one of his traps. It had fine markings. He said, “I’ll skin this one, if Thuse will help me.” Thuse said he didn’t mind; he had trapped and skinned a lot of them without getting stunk up.

It was a cold day—ice and snow everywhere. And while they skinned that skunk my brother Charley and I built a roaring fire with the scaley bark ripped off standing shell-bark hickory trees, and some fallen dead tree limbs picked out of the deep snow.

When they had finished skinning the skunk my father walked over to the fire and threw the carcass into the flames. He and Thuse then went over to an open spring that came out from under the roots of a big elm tree on the Theodore Wolfley farm west of town, and washed their hands. They had returned to the fire and were bending over the blaze drying their hands, when my father said, “So you boys think you’re too nice to help your old daddy skin a skunk.” He laughed. Methuselah chuckled. Then, spreading his hands with a sort of satisfied air, my father said, “It’s as easy as falling off a log when you know how.” Thuse chuckled again, and said, “Pshaw—of course it is!” And then, as if giving instructions for his sons to note, my father went on, “I shot him in the head before he had time to kick up a stink and of course we were careful not to cut into the stink-sack.”

Charley said, “Smart guys—you two.” Father gave him a withering look, but said nothing.

Thus chagrined, Charley and I started away to gather some more fuel. Then there was a sharp pop—a sort of explosion, as it were—in the fire. We looked around into an atmosphere suddenly made blue with sickening fumes and sulphurous words of condemnation. We saw Pop clawing frantically at his whiskers—he wore a full beard then—and the two Willies were dancing around the fire like Comanche Indians.

It was all so sudden. That darned skunk carcass, as if in a last noble effort of defense, had exploded and the contents of that carefully handled stink-sack was hurled at those two self-assured skinners, with my father’s whiskers as the central target for some of the solids. Pugh! It was awful!

Adopting Indian lingo, Charley laughed, “Heap brave skunk-skinners!”

Father said, “I don’t like the way you said that, young man. One more crack out of you—and I’ll tan your hide.” But he wouldn’t have done that. Charley was a model of perfection, and no one appreciated that fact more than did his daddy.

Now, have a look at Thuse. A weazened little wisp of a man in his twenties—wrinkled, uncouth, slouched in his clothes always much too big for him, he looked as if he had already lived a goodly portion of the long span of years accredited to the ancient Methuselah.

On the way home, Methuselah, speaking to my father, said, “They’ll want to run us out of town, Bill, when we get back to Wetmore.” My father said he could bury his clothes, but still he was greatly worried about his whiskers. And, naturally, he was thinking about my mother, too.

Charley said, soothingly, “Oh, just go on home Dad, and play her Money Musk, and everything will be fine. Money talks, you know. You’ve got as good as four dollars in your game sack, and God only knows how much musk, if you want to call it that, you and Thuse have got on your own hides.”

My father played the fiddle, and while “Over the Ocean Waves” was his favorite, he played equally well another tune called “Money Musk.” He would entertain his family in the home of evenings with his old-time fiddling.

We reached home about dusk, purposely timed. My father and Thuse were both increasingly worried. Thinking that it might be more satisfactory to let father face his problem alone, or with only Thuse present—and for other reasons—Charley and I went out to the woodpile and stalled around a bit. Old Piute and Queenie came out of the doghouse to greet us. Father never took the dogs along when running his trap line.

My mother came to the door and called in her gentle, sweet voice—she was always gentle and sweet with her boys—”Come on in here, you little stinkers, and get your suppers!”

My father was not at the festive board that Sunday night. He was nowhere about the house, that we could see — and we ate our supper in comparative silence.

Occasionally, my mother would sniff at us, but she offered no protest. Doubtless her two darling boys carried more than a suspicion of the polecat’s pollution, but, having just had a whiff of those two Willies, her keen nose was unable to separate the real from the imaginary.

It was almost two hours later when father came home. Methuselah was with him. They were both appreciably slicked up—but not really so good. Father was, more or less, shorn of his beard, and looked “funnier” than his boys had ever before seen him. And, would you believe it, the first thing he did was to pick up his fiddle and play Money Musk. I looked at my mother—then turned to Charley, giggled, and whispered, “I don’t believe it’s going to work.”

Charley giggled, too, and said out loud, “I betcha I could name some slick skunk-skinners who are maybe going to have to sleep out in the doghouse tonight.”

Sitting ramrod straight on the edge of her chair, with a hitherto wordless dead-pan expression, my mother said, “You tell ‘em, kid.” That did it. Dad snapped, “You don’t smell so darned nice, yourself, young man!”

William Peters could play the fiddle almost as well as father. They teamed well in furnishing music for the town dances, in the old days. They now played as if there was urgent need for prolonging the agony. Nero blithely fiddled while Rome burned. And likewise those two Willies fiddled well into the night while my mother stewed.

GONE WITH THE WIND Published in Wetmore Spectator,

January—1943.

By John T. Bristow

I have been asked to “write up” the Kickapoo Indians. This I cannot do satisfactorily without more data. I do not know the history of the tribe and, at this late date, I do not choose to waste time in acquainting myself with the particulars. It takes a lot of research to do a story of that nature. And, historically written, it would be rather drab. Anyway, this is a hurry-up assignment I am writing now to help out Carl, The Spectator Editor, while he is playing a lone hand during his father’s sickness.

WANTS WRITEUP OP KICKAPOO INDIANS

From Porterville, California, George J. Remsburg, who formerly lived in Atchison, and years ago had some excellent historical articles pertaining to Northeast Kansas printed in the Atchison Daily Globe, writes:

“A while back I received from you a copy of the Spectator containing your article, Turning Back the Pages. You have given us a splendid story of the Old Trail days in Northeast Kansas. I read every word of it with intense interest, and am preserving it for future reference. Also accept my thanks for copies of the Spectator containing your Memory’s Storehouse Unlocked. It is a most interesting narrative, and I am glad to have it for my historical collection.

“Why don’t you write up some recollections of the Kickapoo Indians?

“Mrs. Robert T. Bruner, of your town, is my much beloved cousin—as good a girl as ever lived.”

Marysville, Kansas, Dec. 18, 1938. Dear Mr. Bristow:

I have just received the Diamond Jubilee number of the Seneca Courier-Tribune, and among other feature articles read your article on “Green Campbell.” I want to congratulate you on this product of your able pen. It presents the theme in a fascinating, interesting manner; and incidentally garnishes the subject with a lot of worthwhile pioneer history.

It is too bad that persons with your ability to write—to draw word pictures — with words from an apt, concise, and well-stocked vocabulary, should lay down the pen. Those products, tho very interesting now, with the passing of years become literary gems. So keep on writing, Mr. Bristow; we love the articles of your able mind and eloquent pen.

I don’t believe you have ever written up the Kickapoo Indians—right at your door? Why not reconsider—and do it now?

Under separate cover I am mailing you one of my latest books, “The Jay-hawkers of Death Valley.” I want to give you the opportunity to read it. You need not buy it.

John G. Ellenbecher.

Mr. Ellenbecher has been writing historic articles for many years—principally about the old Overland Trail. In company with Abe Eley, formerly of Wetmore, Mr. Ellenbecker called on me when I was writing the Green Campbell story. I told them that it would be my last. But it was not. I reconsidered. Twelve of the stories in this book have been written since. And I may write still another one.—J. T. B.

However, there are some incidents having Indian connections which might make fairly readable matter. The Kickapoos were, I judge, just like other Indians — pushed out of civilization to make room for the whites. They had come here before the white settlement, of course. Where they came from I do not know—Michigan, maybe.

The Kickapoos did not war with other tribes. Nor did they molest the whites. Still, they were Indians, and it was hard for the early settlers to believe that they would have a lasting record as such—since hostile Indians roamed the country west of the Blue river. Back in the early 90’s when the Kickapoos took up the Sioux “Ghost Dance, or Messiah Craze,” as it was called, and held all-night pow-wows for several weeks, there was some nervousness among the whites.

In the early 70’s the Kickapoos came to Wetmore to do their trading. They had Government money and were good customers of the two general stores. Later they did their trading at Netawaka, and still later at Horton. My father, a shoemaker, came to know some of them rather intimately. I knew many of them too.

Masquequah was Chief then. Many are the times I have sold him white sugar and red calico—the Indians would not buy brown sugar if they could get white sugar. This was when I was a clerk in Than Morris’ store. Associated with me then were Curt Shuemaker, George Cawood and “Chuck” Cawood. In the good old days we often piled up a thousand dollar sales of a Saturday.

I should, perhaps, amplify this assertion about the sugar. We sold at that time about four times as much brown sugar which came in barrels marked “C” sugar, as we did white sugar. One day the boss said, “The town’s full of Indians; sell no white sugar to anyone until after the Indians leave.” When I told the Chief we had no white sugar, he said, “Ugh, Indian’s money good as white man’s money—maybe. Indians go Netawaka buy white sugar.” And that is what they did. Sorry, I can’t tell you why Morris did not want to sell the Indians white sugar that day. It could hardly have been because it consumed more time-it was a busy Saturday—to “tie-up” white sugar. We had no paper sacks then. The system was to weigh-up the sugar, lay a piece of wrapping paper flat down on the counter, empty the sugar onto it; then tie it up—if you could. A green clerk like myself could waste a lot of time trying to wrap up a dollar’s worth of granulated sugar. Brown sugar would pack together, and wrap more easily.

The story got out that the Netawaka merchant would sell the Indian a bill of groceries, put it in a box, and a clerk would obligingly carry it to the Indian’s wagon—and then, while the Indian was loitering in the store, the clerk would slip out and rob the box, in the interest of the merchant. But, if this were true, the Indians seemed to like it. They followed the Netawaka merchant to Horton when that town got started in 1886. Also, it was said, a certain white farmer living near the southwest corner of the reservation, would sometimes ride out from Netawaka with one of his Indian friends, letting his hired hand follow up with his own rig. At opportune times, the white man would reach back and throw out packages for the hired hand to gather up. Methinks Sam would have had hard luck in fishing out a package of granulated sugar such as those tied-up by me.

The old, old Indians are, I believe, all dead now. Of the younger generations, I know little—except that they are the descendants of a once relatively large tribe, and that their once large domain has been reduced to thirty sections, and that much of the land within the boundaries of the reservation is now owned by white people.

H. A. Hogard, Educational Field Agent, and Grover Allen, Indian, were in Wetmore last Sunday practicing archery with George Grubb and Ollie Woodman. They told me the Indian population now numbers about 280. There are about fifty families.

For my first episode I shall tell you about a deer-hunt my father and I had with the Indians. In a former article I told you about an Indian with a party of deer-hunters we chanced to meet in the John Wolfley timber, whom my father named Eagle Eye. His Indian name was far from that, however.

It was Eagle Eye who had arranged this hunt. He brought along from the reservation, eight miles northeast of here, two extra ponies—one of normal size and not too large at that, and a little one for me to ride. While putting the saddle on the little pony my father asked the Indians if it were a gentle pony. Eagle Eye said, “Him heap gentle like lazy squaw.”

It had snowed during the night and was still snowing when the Indians arrived at day-break. Two deer-runs were to be covered and it would take a full day to do it. Then, too, our party wanted to, if possible, get onto the grounds ahead of other hunters. It was not very cold, and my father was pleased with the snow. Tracking would be good. A natural born hunter, snow always appealed to him. He had killed a great many deer in his native Tennessee.

In the old days in Tennessee there was hardly ever enough snow to do a good job of tracking. However, hunters down there this winter would have had snow aplenty to track deer—if deer still remain to be tracked. A foot of snow and thirteen degrees below zero was recorded January 19th at Nashville—where I was born, the second son of a tanner, at 11:30 p.m., December 31, 1861.

Also in our hunting party, riding a small pony, was a little Indian boy whom they called—shall I say—Nish-a-shin. This might not be correct. When we got lined out, Eagle Eye rode first, then my father. I was third in line and Nish-a-shin was fourth. Three Indians followed in single-file formation with long rifles carried crosswise in front of them. The Indians all rode bareback, even Nish-a-shin. My father had secured two saddles for us.

In the gray of that early Sunday morning after the storm abated and the white prairie lay still, Eagle Eye headed west toward the John Wolfley timber. We traveled in silence, never out of a walk. From the head of Spring creek we went across to Elk creek and Soldier creek.

At that time the whole southwest country was practically virgin prairie. The Dixon 40-acres where Maurice Savage now lives, and the Bill Rudy land where Joe Pfrang’s home now is, were the only fenced tracts in that section of the country. Bill Rudy went to California. Years later when my father went out there they renewed their friendship. And one time when I was visiting in Fresno my father took me to see Mr. Rudy. He owned an 80-acre ranch and seemed to be well pleased with the change he had made. He had much to say about the intense cold weather he had endured on his homestead here. The winters Mr. Rudy experienced in Kansas were very much like the one we are now having, only in the old days real blizzards were the rule.

On October seventeenth, 1898, Jack Hayden lost nineteen head of cattle, in a pasture north of the Rudy — or Pfrang — place, in an unusually early and unusually severe blizzard. The cattle drifted with the blinding snow-storm over a bank and piled up in a ditch. I was in Chicago at the time. It rained in Chicago, but coming home on the Burlington, the first snow appeared near the north line of Missouri, got heavier toward Atchison, and from Atchison west on the Central Branch, it was really heavy. That snow, and succeeding falls, kept the ground here covered in a sea of white until spring.

Those Indians called me “paleface papoose.” I was, of course, beyond the normal age of a papoose, but your old Indian was no fool. They probably reasoned that whiteman would not understand Indian’s word for youth. Eagle Eye had started calling me “paleface papoose” when my father was saddling the pony. Maybe it was because I had to have a saddle. Little Nish-a-shin you know rode bareback. He did not make much talk.

It was in the wilds of Soldier creek, in the big timber, where we made camp for dinner. One of the Indians carried a stew-kettle in a grain-sack and I carried a flour-sack having in it several loaves of bread baked by my mother, and maybe four or five links of butcher-shop bologna. Also two tin-cups, two tin-plates, with knives and forks for two. My mother did not think to put in spoons, but then of course she could not know the kind of mess we were in for.

With fallen deadwood dug up out of the snow a rousing fire was made—and the kettle put on. When the Indian dish corresponding to the whiteman’s mulligan was ready, all hands squatted down around the fire and devoured the food ravenishly, including my mother’s nice brown loaves of bread and the store bologna. My father had told me that I would be expected to eat of the Indian’s food and that I should pass our bread and meat around, as a token of friendship.

I cannot say now what kind of meat it was those Indians cooked in that kettle, but it was something which they had brought along. They had not killed anything on the hunt that day. However, I do not believe it was dogmeat. Surely Eagle Eye would not have done that to us. But maybe it was just as well that I didn’t then know anything about the accredited habits of Indians in general as with respect to their dogs. I can however truthfully say this much for the Indian’s stew. That dish—dog or no dog—didn’t gag me nearly so much as the bowl of Chinese noodles my father and my brother Frank cajoled me into eating with them and other members of their party — Harry Maxwell, a former Wetmore boy, and Dan Conner — while seeing Fresno’s Chinatown.

After traveling all day through the woods, following cow-paths and never deviating once from the single-file formation which characterized the start on that white morning away back in the 70’s we got back home at dusk. From sun-up until sun-down we had traveled, and not one deer did we see. Some tracks in the fresh snow were followed for miles. Only once did the Indians dismount and hunt a clump of woods hurriedly on foot, spreading out fanwise. They had glimpsed something moving among the trees—something which they did not locate. It was then I learned why they had brought the incommunicative Nish-a-shin along. Quickly he began gathering up the reins of the deserted ponies. I learned something else too. Pronto paleface papoose became a second edition of Nish-a-shin.

Starting up near Goff, the Spring creek deer-run came down to within a half mile of Wetmore, then went southeast across the prairie to Mosquito creek, thence up Mosquito creek nearly to Bancroft and across the prairie again to the head of Spring creek.

Three deer were the most ever seen at one time on this run. They came into a flock of 4,000 sheep I was herding for old Morgan on the Dan Williams place a mile south of town, where Clyde Ely now lives. The sheep were frightened and divided themselves into two bunches as the deer loped gaily through the flock.

If you don’t know, a deer-run is the feeding grounds of those ruminants. As long as the deer remain in the country they travel the same route closely. In the winter—in the old days here—they fed largely on hazel-brush and Other tender twigs.

We observed in our early hunts that the deer when feeding always traveled the circle in the same way, never reversing. Sometimes however when routed suddenly they would backtrack. And when pressed they would usually run with the wind. Probably that was not so much to gain speed as it was to camouflage the trail of their own scent and to more readily themselves catch the scent of their pursuers. When hard pressed they would sometimes take off with the wind and go ten or twelve miles off the run—in one instance, nearly to Sabetha. Whenever a deer would turn tail to wind we were ready to go home. I have seen them break out against the wind and then when off a reasonable distance circle around and go the other way. At such times my father would say, “Ah damn it, now he’s gone with the wind!”

Since I am employing a rather broad drag-line brand of technique, there is one more thing I might amplify here. In the beginning I said it would entail a lot of research to do a good Indian story, historically complete. Reliable information is hard to obtain. The old Indians—the Indians I knew—have all gone to their “happy hunting grounds.” The present generation does not seem to have a very clear picture of the old days.

For instance, I made two trips to the reservation about five years ago and interviewed a number of the older ones — second generation, of course—in a vain effort to obtain just one Indian word. You may recall that the tanyard story was, I might say, predicated on the Indian’s name of sumac. When a small boy, I had understood Eagle Eye to call it “sequaw.” I wanted to be accurate, as that flaming little bush played an important part in the story as well as in the tannery. Not one of them could tell me the Indian name.

I found one Indian, Henry Rhodd, 64 years old at that time, who said he could not tell me the Indian name for sumac, but he knew what their fathers used it for. He said they tanned their deer skins with it. That was the same thing Eagle Eye had so dexterously managed to convey to my father and me up in the Wolfley timber sixty-odd years earlier. Henry, whom I would judge carries a mite of French blood in his veins, sniffed as if he were inhaling the perfume of a fragrant rose, and said, “And oh it smelled so good.” This, however, did not coincide with my findings as a tanner’s helper. Still, I have seen my father sniff his newly tanned calf skins and say the same thing. Our tan-yard was just about the “stinkenist” place on earth.

In this connection I might mention that some years later I, myself, shot a deer on lower Mosquito creek. My brother Sam and I had started out one afternoon, the two of us riding our old roan mare, Pet. We struck a fresh trail south of town about where the three deer and the four thousand sheep had mixed. We followed the tracks to the Frank Purcell timber. There we ran onto John Dixon and “Dore” Thornton. They said they had been trailing the deer on foot all day.

John Dixon told me to go around to the south side of the timber; that they would follow the tracks through the woods. The deer came out running fast, and I shot it. The charge of buckshot from my muzzle-loading shotgun hit a little too far back to make a clean kill.

We trailed that crippled deer—it was shot through the body as evidenced by blood on either side of the trail—for a distance of ten miles to the very spot where it had been started in the morning. At the line between the John Wolfley place and the Mary Morris place, now owned by R. M. Emery, the following morning, we lost the trail because of melting snow and cattle tracks. The deer was found dead a few days later only a quarter of a mile away.

After it had been shot that deer laid down three times — at the Joe Boyce place, at the Bill Rudy place, and on the commons where the Ben Walters place is now. The first time it laid down the warm blood from the wound bored a hole in the snow. Darkness caught us at the old Dixon or Savage place. It was then we remembered the old roan mare was still tied back in the Purcell timber.

What boy is there who would not have been proud of that feat of marksmanship—plugging his first deer through and through as it ran past at almost lightning speed in its mad flight for life? Did I glory in the feat? I did. At first. As a big-game hunter I had, in my own estimation, scored high. Following in the footsteps of my father, a born hunter of big game, I had all but arrived. Plugged my first deer! I was the “toast” of the town! Or at least I could imagine I was. It would still be interesting to know just what would have happened had I brought home the venison. But I cannot now begin to tell you how adversely I was moved when the deer was found dead.

In a flash I saw it all—how I had dropped back into a crook of the old worm fence on the Roger O’Mera farm and waited for the deer, driven out of the Purcell timber by the three other hunters, to come within gunshot; how, as if it had wings, the deer, after being shot, cleared that high rail fence; and how its life-blood spurting two ways stained the fresh white snow where the little animal lit on the opposite side of the rails; how every few miles we saw it jump up from a brief rest and run on again, leaving more red on the white; and how, as we discovered the next morning after leaving the trail at dusk, that a wolf had taken up the chase and had sent the tired deer on and on without more rest back to the big timber from whence it had come and where, perhaps, in the throes of great agony, it sought its mate. And how, still pursued by the wolf, it had cleared in one great leap—its last grand leap—on a down-hill slope, a thirty foot hazel thicket.

Something indefinable, something unforgettable, made an impression on me then. And that something put the “kibosh” on my big-game hunting aspirations. I do not now count it a weakness. Though there were no game laws then, that crime was made all the worse because it was a doe.

My brother Sam, who rode with me that day, later, really brought home the venison, eclipsing all my past glory. But it took two trips all the way to Arkansas in a horse-drawn covered wagon to do it. The first and unsuccessful time he had for hunting companions Alex McCreery, John E. Thomas, and my father. Their bag was a few wild turkeys. The second trip Sam made with Roy Shumaker. This time they killed two deer. Then, for the first time, the sons whose father was a veteran deer-hunter, were to know the taste of venison.