Chapter XI: Part 11

While we were waiting the change of mail at Lower Le Sueur, the deputy sheriff asked me to get out of the stage, and said to me: "Major [I was called major in those days], had we not better take another look at those fellows in the stage? They are going out of the country when everybody is coming in. It looks to me suspicious." I agreed with him, and took another look. I at once discovered that they were both dressed from head to foot in new slop-shop clothes, indicating the necessity for an entire change of costume, and I concluded from this clue there were sufficient grounds to suspect them. So the deputy sheriff said: "You hold the stage ten or fifteen minutes, and I'll go to Henderson, and take out a warrant, and arrest them on the arrival of the stage; so that, if we are mistaken, no particular harm will be done." He started on. I got my hand-bag out of the boot, and buckled on my six-shooter, all of which was seen by the thieves, who must have fully understood the program; at least, such must have been the case with the Frenchman, as subsequent events led me to doubt whether the German was a participant in the theft, or more than a mere deserter. I had a sense of uneasiness about the double-barrelled shotgun carried by the German, but I thought I could handle the other man. We started, and, much to my relief, when we reached the ferry over the river, the German fired one barrel of his gun at a pigeon, and snapped several caps on the other, which refused to go off. As we approached Henderson, quite a crowd had gathered at the hotel to see the arrest, and just as the stage swung up to the sidewalk, the Frenchman took out of his pocket a small penknife, the largest blade of which could not have been over four inches long. He opened it so quietly that it did not excite my apprehensions in the least, although I had my right hand on my six-shooter, intending to draw and cover him the moment the stage stopped. He made a desperate lunge at his breast with the knife, and handing me a carpetbag which lay on his lap, he said, "The money is all in this bag, sir," just as if we had been talking the whole matter over. I, fearing that he might strike at me with the knife, drew my revolver and struck him sharply over the knuckles, making the knife fly out of the window, and seizing him by the throat with my left hand, I covered him with my pistol. The stage stopped. Retaining my hold on him, and still covering him with my pistol, we got out of the stage, on the sidewalk. He wavered for a second, and fell dead. He had put the knife an inch into his heart. I found in a belt on his body, and in the bag $5,320 in gold, which I deposited in the United States land office, at Henderson, subject to the order of Major Cullen, who got it all in good time. The Frenchman had in his pocket some letters from a lady in Strasburg, written in French, conveying some very tender sentiments. I never thought he was a bad man, but had yielded, as many do, to a strong temptation, and had decided to die rather than be captured. It was not more than twenty minutes before we were on our way to St. Paul. As no evidence connected the German with the theft, he was sent back simply as a deserter.

A curious question arose as to the reward. Major Cullen insisted on giving it to me. I knew very well that, had it not been for the superior detective sagacity of the deputy, the thieves would never have been caught, so I refused it, as I would have done under any circumstances. Then the sheriff claimed it, and finally the major left its disposition to me, and I divided it between the sheriff and the deputy, partly because I thought it just, and partly to keep the peace in the sheriff's official family. Where the extra $320 came from, or where it went, I never knew nor cared.

THE PONY EXPRESS.

As western settlement progressed after the purchase of the Louisiana territory from France in 1803, it gradually extended up the west side of the Mississippi, until the State of Missouri was admitted into the Union, in 1820, which was followed by the States of Iowa and Minnesota, along the line of the Mississippi, and Kansas and Nebraska, on the Missouri. The Mexican War occurred in 1846, and as one of its fruits California was ceded to the United States, and was admitted to the Union in 1850. The territory which now composes the States of Washington, Oregon and Idaho was finally determined to belong to our country by the treaty with Great Britain, which was signed July 17, 1846, fixing the boundary line between us and the British possessions at the forty-ninth parallel of north latitude. These extreme western acquisitions gave us an immense coast line on the Pacific Ocean, leaving a stretch of country between our Pacific and central possessions, on the Missouri, of considerably over two thousand miles in extent, which was uninhabited by whites, and composed the hunting grounds of many savage tribes of Indians and the pasture ranges of countless herds of buffalo. This vast area of country was practically unknown and unexplored, although it had been crossed by the expeditions of Lewis and Clark, in 1805-1806, John Jacob Astor in 1811, Captain Bonneville in 1832, Marcus Whitman in 1836, and John C. Fremont in 1843, to which sources of information may be added the prejudiced reports of the Hudson Bay Company.

When California was ceded to us by Mexico, very little was thought of it as an acquisition to our possessions. It was looked upon as a country out of which a small trade in hides and tallow might grow, but nothing more. I have heard it denounced on the floor of the house of representatives, in Washington, by some of the wisest statesmen of the day, as a bear garden, unfit for the use of civilized man; but prophets usually make bad work of matters about which they know absolutely nothing, which was the case with California in 1848. However, adventurous spirits soon found their way there, as they have always done in Western America, and in 1848 or 1849 gold was found accidentally by Captain Sutter, in digging a mill-race on his ranch, which discovery at once settled the status and fortunes of California. The news soon reached the States, and spread like a prairie fire on a windy day. All the subsequent gold excitements of Frazier river, down to and including the Klondike, have been insignificant in comparison. I was in New York at the time, and used to sit on the East river wharves, and see the ships sailing away for distant California with an insatiable boyish longing to join in the procession.

There was no way of reaching the promised land except by a voyage around Cape Horn or an overland trip from western Missouri across the great American desert, the Rocky and Sierra Nevada ranges of mountains, either of which routes necessitated a weary and dangerous trip of nine months' duration. The usual plan adopted in the East was to form a company of about one hundred or more men, calculate the probable expense to each, and divide it, purchase an old whaling ship, fit her up with bunks and cooking appliances, and get an outfit and sail. Of course, there was nothing involved in the enterprise but the departure, the voyage and the arrival at San Francisco. No steamer had ever crossed the ocean at this time, and all navigation was done in sailing ships. So great was the rush that a scarcity of ships was soon felt. I remember distinctly on one occasion, when an old played-out vessel, purchased by a party which proposed to take out a printing press and start the first newspaper, was seized by the maritime authorities and condemned as unseaworthy just as she was leaving port. The next morning she was gone, and made one of the quickest and most successful voyages of the emigration. It is a curious fact that, out of all the ships that enlisted in this hazardous enterprise, not one was lost or seriously damaged.

The overland route involved more dangers and hardships than the one by sea. Many people died on the way from exhaustion and disease, and many were killed by the Indians, but the emigration never ceased, or even lessened, from these reasons. I have followed the trails made by these emigrants in the Sierra Nevadas, and it seemed almost impossible that animals could have climbed the precipitous mountain slopes they encountered. These hardships, however, did not go unrewarded, because to enjoy the distinction of being a "Forty-niner" was ever afterwards a badge of nobility on the Pacific Coast.

It was not long, under this vast influx of immigration, before California became a well settled state, and its business relations with the rest of the country, or as it was then called, "The States," became very extensive and important, and the difficulty of intercommunication was seriously felt. There were no telegraphs and no railroads, and no way for business men to correspond with each other except across a continent on wheels or around a continent by sea. What was to be done? It did not take the genius of American enterprise long to solve the problem. The overland immigration and its incidents had developed a class of men skilled in horsemanship, Indian fighting, and all the accomplishments that attend the latter, such as courage, wary intelligence, and a peculiar sagacity in trailing and scouting, only learned by intercourse with wild animals and wild men. Such men, for instance, as Col. Wm. Cody, now celebrated as "Buffalo Bill," and Robert Haslam, distinguished as "Pony Bob," are its best representatives. This class of men much resembled the rough riders of to-day, and could be relied upon for any enterprise that involved adventure, courage and endurance. At the same time, the country was not lacking in a higher degree of intellect which could conceive a project that would call into play the utmost ability of this class of men.

California had been, and I think was, in 1860, represented in the senate of the United States by Senator Guin, who was associated with Alexander Majors and Daniel E. Phelps in transportation matters. They conceived the project of reducing the time between the Pacific Coast and the States by the establishment of an express, from St. Joseph, on the Missouri river, to Sacramento in California, a distance of about two thousand miles, which was to carry special business mails, together with light and valuable express matter, by means of ponies, ridden by young men rapidly for short distances, between the two points. Of course, this scheme involved an immense expenditure for stations all along the route, horses and men to ride them, and all other elements that would necessarily enter into the scheme. The matter was discussed fully at both ends of the route, and found many advocates and much opposition. The most experienced plainsmen and mountaineers pronounced it impracticable, on account of the dangers to be met with, and the opinion was expressed that no package risked on this line would ever reach its destination, and that all the riders would be murdered before a test could be made. Sense and experience seemed to uphold these views. It must be remembered that the whole distance was a wilderness of desert and mountain ranges, little known, and infested with the most savage Indian tribes on the continent, the relations of which with the whites were either unsettled or hostile. But, nothing daunted, the projectors decided to carry out their design, win or lose. They purchased six hundred Texas bronchos, built all the necessary stations, employed all the men required to operate and defend them, and secured seventy-five riders from the adventurous men found on the borders. The wages paid the riders were from $125 to $150 a month, with rations, and singular as it may seem to people of to-day, these positions were much sought for. Danger among this class of men has an irresistible fascination, and writing about it recalls an incident which verifies the assertion fully. When I lived in Carson City, Nev., the office of sheriff of Ormsby county, in which Carson was situated, was the most coveted position in the gift of the people, and it was well known that there never was an incumbent of it who had not died in his boots.

The whole arrangement was perfected with western rapidity, and the first pony started from St. Joseph in Missouri on the third day of April, 1860. On the same day and hour the western pony started from Sacramento in California. The distance between the stations was about forty miles, and was ridden in the shortest time possible. Two minutes were allowed for refreshments and change of horses. Each rider carried about ten pounds, and the freight charged for the full distance was five dollars an ounce. The line was maintained successfully for about two years, without any interruption more serious than the occasional killing of a rider by the Indians, when, in June, 1862, the first transcontinental telegraph went into operation, and the pony express, being no longer profitable, yielded, as many other things have since, to the all-conquering invader, electricity.

The first pony carried from the president of the United States a congratulatory message to the governor of California. The best time ever made between the two extreme points was when the last message of President Buchanan reached Sacramento in eight and one-half days from Washington. It seems almost incredible that such time could have been made with animals, when we reflect that the first expedition sent out by Mr. Astor, was eleven months in crossing the continent.

The pony express was a success financially to its projectors, and satisfied the hungering of the people for news from points so distant from each other, and immensely facilitated the transaction of business; but, in my opinion, it was most important in demonstrating that the western American never shrinks from encountering and overcoming obstacles that to most people would seem insurmountable.

KISSING DAY.

The Sioux Indian is an exceptionally fine specimen of physical manhood. His whole method of life tends to this result. He lives in the open air. He may be said to be born with arms in his hands. From the moment he is old enough to draw a bowstring, he commences warfare on birds and small animals. As he advances to manhood, he becomes familiar with the use of firearms, and extends his warfare to the buffalo and the larger animals. He rides on horseback from infancy, and excels as a daring horseman. He goes on the warpath when half-grown, and learns strategy from the wolf and the panther. He is a meat eater, which diet conduces to the growth of a lean, muscular, athletic frame, and a bold and highly spirited temperament. He is taught to spurn labor of any kind as unmanly, and only fit for women. His life occupation is, in the language of the old school histories and geographies, "hunting, fishing and war," in each and all of which accomplishments he becomes surpassingly expert.

I attribute the superiority of the Sioux over many other tribes to their meat diet and their method of transportation--the horse. This peculiarity has been noticed by travellers and historians for many years. There is an old and true adage which says, "We are what we eat." Washington Irving, in his story of "Astoria," says in regard to this subject:

"The effect of different modes of life upon the human frame and
human character is strikingly instanced in the contrast between
the hunting Indians of the prairies and the piscatory Indians of
the sea coast. The former, continually on horseback, scouring
the plains, gaining their food by hardy exercise, and subsisting
chiefly on flesh, are generally sinewy, tall, meagre, but well
formed and of bold and fierce deportment. The latter, lounging
about the river banks, or squatting or curved up in their
canoes, are generally low in stature, ill-shaped, with crooked
legs, thick ankles, and broad flat feet. They are inferior also
in muscular power and activity, and in game qualities and
appearance, to their hard-riding brethren of the prairies."

The general habits of the Sioux warrior tend to make him lordly, proud, and somewhat taciturn and morose, although he is not without a strong sense of humor. He is a good husband and indulgent father, but not at all demonstrative in his affections. Very little billing and cooing is noticeable among the nearest relations, and none between lovers. A kiss is regarded more as a ceremony than an endearment.

In the natural and savage state of these people, they counted time by moons and seasons, having no division of years, and, of course, knew nothing of our red letter days of Christmas or New Year's,--but after the advent of the Christian missionaries among them, they were taught to understand the meaning of New Year's day, and to recognize its arrival, and to distinguish it they called it "Kissing Day," everybody being expected to bestow a kiss upon his or her friends in honor of the day.

In 1857 I lived among the Sioux, having them in charge as their agent, appointed by the United States government, and when New Year's day came around, I found myself at the Yellow Medicine Agency, but was ignorant of their peculiar ceremonies for the occasion. I proposed to make the best of my isolation from my kind, and spend the day as pleasantly as circumstances would permit. While debating the subject of what to do, I was informed of the way the Indians celebrated the event, and told that I would probably be called upon by a numerous delegation of squaws, and that it would be expected that I should receive them by the bestowal of some sort of present. Not wishing to be ungallant, and desiring to gain information of the customs and manners of my savage wards, I ordered my baker to prepare several barrels of ginger bread, and purchased many yards of gaily colored calico, which I had cut into proper pieces for women's dresses, and with this outfit, prepared to meet the enemy.

At this point I will say a word about the Sioux girl and woman. As a general thing, the very young girl is by nature pretty and attractive. I have seen many at the age of thirteen and fourteen who had graceful figures, good carriage, and very beautiful faces; but they marry very young, and as soon as married become pack-horses for their husbands, carrying loads on their backs, by means of a head strap across the forehead, that it takes two men to lift from the ground, and very often when thus loaded babies, puppies, and many other things, will be put on top of the pack. They will trudge fifteen or twenty miles a day with this burden, bending forward, and staggering under its weight. The result is to spoil the figure and gait, and deprive them of every semblance of beauty. The awkward walk produced by this hard labor we used to call "The Dakota shamble." Under this treatment they soon look old, and become wrinkled, and are called "Wakonkas," which might be translated to mean old witches.

With this visitation in prospect, I awaited quietly their coming. About ten in the morning they began to assemble about the agency in groups of all sizes and ages. I could hear a great deal of giggling among the girls, and scolding by the elder women. They were apparently selecting someone to break the ice by making the first assault. Presently a venerable dame opened the door, and sidled in like a crab. She approached me and kissed me on both cheeks, and received her presents. Then they followed in a line, old and young, pretty and ugly, each giving me a hearty kiss, which, in some cases, I returned with interest. The ceremony continued with great hilarity and much frolicksome tittering and fun, until forty-eight squaws had kissed and been kissed by me. They all carried off their presents and seemed very happy. Whether it was all caused by the presents or not, I am unable to say, but I was not the grizzled old fellow then that I have since become. I have celebrated a good many New Year's days, both before and since, but none have left a more agreeable impression than the one I have described. I have never known the exact figures of Hobson's Kansas experience, nor can I make a just comparison between the Sioux and the Kansas article, but from the general reputation of that state, I would recommend the caress of the untutored aborigines.

If Hobson ever reads this story he will have to admit that there were others.

A POLITICAL RUSE.

All people who keep the run of politics will remember that the Republican party, now called the "Grand Old Party" (I suppose on account of its extreme youth), had its birth in the year 1854, after the death of the Whig party, and succeeded to the position in American politics formerly occupied by the Whigs, with a strong tinge of abolition added. It was, of course, largely recruited from the Whigs, but had quite formidable acquisitions from the Free-soil Democrats. It sprang into prominence and power with phenomenal rapidity, coming very near to electing a president in 1856, and succeeding in 1860. Minnesota resisted the attractions of the new party, and remained Democratic until 1857, when the first state election occurred, and the whole Democratic state ticket was elected. Since then the Democrats have never succeeded in our state, unless the election of Governor Lind in 1898 may be called a Democratic victory.

It was very natural that the politicians who had joined the new party should be exceedingly zealous and enthusiastic for its success. Such is usually the case, and verifies the old proverb, that "A converted Turk makes the best Christian." This phase of political tendencies was fully illustrated by the conduct of my old friend, Mr. James W. Lynd of Henderson, more familiarly known by us as "Jim Lynd," which occurred at the election of 1856, and forms the text for the present story.

In the early days of the territory much had been said, and generally believed, about frauds being perpetrated by the Democrats in the elections on the frontier. For instance, it was asserted that, at Pembina and the Indian agencies, one pair of pantaloons would suffice to civilize several hundred Indians, as, by putting them on, and thus adopting the customs and habits of civilization, they would be entitled to vote. There never was much truth about these rumors, and being on the border, and having charge of an Indian agency, where hundreds of men were employed, I knew a good deal about how these matters were conducted, and I can conscientiously say that there never was much truth in them. The nearest approach to a violation of the election laws that I ever discovered was at Pembina, and that was free from any intention of fraud. It would come about in this way: Election day would arrive, the polls would open, and everybody who was at home would vote. It would then occur to some one that Baptiste La Cour or Alexis La Tour had not voted, and the question would be asked, why? It would be discovered that they were out on a buffalo hunt, and the judges would say, "We all know how they would vote if they were here," and they would be put down as voting the Democratic ticket. Of course, this would be a violation of the election laws, but who can say that it was not the expression of an honest intention by a simple people. While I cannot approve such methods in an election where the law and the necessities of civilization require the voter to be present, I cannot avoid the wish that we were all honest enough to make such a course possible as the one adopted by these simple border people.

The Republicans being the "outs" and the Democrats being the "ins," of course all the frauds were charged to the latter, and every movement of either party was watched with zealous scrutiny. The law governing the qualification of voters provided that soldiers enlisted in other states or territories, coming into Minnesota under military orders, did not gain a residence, and citizens of Minnesota enlisting in the army did not lose their residence or right to vote as long as they remained in the territory. It so happened, in 1856 or 1857, that there were at Fort Ridgely a number of recruits who had enlisted in the territory, and had not lost their right to vote; but there was no precinct or place to vote where they could exercise their privilege. Knowing that they were Democrats, we had a polling place established at the "Lone Cottonwood Tree," a point about three miles above Fort Ridgely, for the purpose of saving these votes.

Of course, it soon became known throughout the valley, and my friend Jim Lynd, who resided at Henderson, about fifty miles down the river, conceived the idea that it was the intention to vote the whole garrison for the Democrats, and he determined to checkmate it by challenging every soldier who cast his vote, laboring, as he did, under the erroneous impression that an enlistment in the army disqualified the soldiers as voters. So when the election day arrived, Jim, who had walked all the way from Henderson, was on the ground early, fully determined to exclude all soldiers from voting.

It so happened that I was at my Indian agency, at Redwood, and on the morning of the election was to start for St. Paul. The agency was about ten miles up the river from the "Lone Tree," and, starting early in the morning, brought me to the voting place about the time the polls were opened. I knew everybody in the valley and everybody knew me, and we never passed each other on the road without a stop and a chat. When I arrived at the polls all hands came out to greet me, and after the usual inquiries as to how the election was progressing, the judges told me that Lynd had challenged the first soldier who offered his vote, and they, being in doubt as to the law, had agreed to leave it to me. I gave my version of it, but Lynd still disputed it, and insisted that an enlistment in the army disqualified the man as a voter. Being unable to convince him, I, with a significant wink to the judges, suggested that he should get into my wagon and go down to the post (where I knew the sutler had a copy of the statutes), and we could readily settle the controversy. He consented willingly to this proposition, and we started for the post. When we arrived, I gave my team to the quartermaster's sergeant, and we looked up the law in the sutler's store. I then began a game of billiards with some of the officers, and accepted an invitation to lunch. As noon approached, Lynd began to show signs of impatience, and he asked me when I proposed to take him back to the polls. I quietly informed him that my route lay in the opposite direction, and that I would not go back at all. Instantly it flashed upon him that I had taken him away from the polls for a purpose, and he fled like a scared deer over the road we had just travelled, leaving me to pursue my journey alone in the other direction. I afterwards learned that in the interval between Lynd's departure and return, all the soldiers had voted the Democratic ticket without challenge or obstruction. Whether my friend Lynd walked back to Henderson or not, I never certainly ascertained. I was sufficiently satisfied with the success of my ruse not to desire to inflict any discomfort on my dear enemy.

This was the only political trick I remember of having perpetrated on the enemy during my long participation in active politics, and I don't believe any of my readers will regard it as transgressing the proverb that "all is fair in love or war."

My friend Lynd was, like most of the characters in my frontier experience, killed by the Indians in the outbreak of 1862.

THE HARDSHIPS OF EARLY LAW PRACTICE.

Prior to 1855 the public lands of Minnesota were unsurveyed, and no title could be acquired to them. About that time, however, four United States land districts were established, with a land office in each of them. The districts were straight tracts of country extending from the Mississippi due west to the Missouri, the exterior lines of which were parallel to each other. The offices were at Brownsville, Winona, Red Wing and Minneapolis. I was then living in Traverse des Sioux, which place, together with Mankato, fell within the Winona district, so that any land business we had in our region of the country compelled a trip to Winona, a distance of nearly three hundred miles by water, or one hundred and fifty by land. After the closing of the rivers by winter there was no other way of getting there except to journey across the country.

At the time I refer to there was little or no settlement between Traverse des Sioux and Winona, and no roads. I remember that there were one or two settlers on the Straight river, where now stands Owatonna, and about the same number on the Zumbro, where now is Rochester, and one house at a point called Utica, about fifty miles west of Winona, and a small settlement at Stockton, on a trout stream which flows through the bluffs a few miles west of Winona. The latter place, being on the Mississippi and easy of access, was quite a flourishing town.

That fall I had been elected to the upper house of the territorial legislature, called the council, and the news reached us that there would be a contested seat in the council from some district in the southern part of the territory, but we had no particulars as to the locality or the person, and gave the matter very little attention.

A controversy had arisen between parties at Mankato as to the right to enter a quarter section of land which was part of the town site, and ultimately became a very valuable part of the city. I represented one side of the fight, but cannot recall the name of my adversary. It was customary in those days to lump matters by making up a party of those who had claims to prove up before the land office, and act as witnesses for each other. On the occasion of this Mankato contest we formed two parties, one from Mankato and one from Traverse, and started with two teams, on wheels, there being no snow, and the first day we reached a point in the woods, somewhere near the present town of Elysian, and there camped. When morning opened on us we found the ground covered with from twelve to fifteen inches of snow, which made it impossible to proceed further with our wagons. We did not hesitate, but accepted the only alternative that presented itself, and decided to foot it to Winona. We travelled light in those days, carrying only some blankets and a change of clothes. We _cached_ our wagons in the timber, packed our animals with our impedimenta, and started. Such a tramp would seem appalling at the present time, but we were all accustomed to hardships, and were equipped with good Red River winter moccasins, two or three stout flannel shirts, and thought very little of the undertaking. We drove the horses ahead of us to aid in making a trail, and made pretty good progress. I think it took us about five days to accomplish the journey, which we did without suffering, or even being seriously incommoded, as we found shelter at the Straight river, the Zumbro, Utica, and Stockton.

An amusing and interesting incident happened the night we arrived at Utica which, as I have said, consisted of one small log house. Our march that day had been a long and tiresome one, and I felt as if a good drink of whisky would be very supporting and acceptable, our supplies in that line having become exhausted by reason of the unexpected length of time consumed in our journey; but the prospect of getting one was anything but promising. While revolving the subject in my mind, and having all my faculties concentrated on the much desired end, I, by some accident, learned that the proprietor of the shanty was a doctor. At this discovery my hopes went up several degrees, and I determined to test his medicine chest. Putting on a look of utter exhaustion, with both my hands on my abdomen, and assuming the most plaintive voice I could muster, I said: "Doctor, I have made a long march to-day, and feel utterly broken up; have you not some spirits in your medicine chest that you could prescribe for me? I am sure it would be a great relief." He looked me over with suspicion, and said: "No, I am an herb doctor." I felt that my fate was sealed for the night, and prepared to seek my couch on the softest plank I could find, between the two men who looked the warmest of the party. While thus preparing my _toilette de nuit_, in a state of mind bordering on desperation, I heard the jingling of sleigh-bells, and a team dash up to the door, from which debarked two men, each comfortably full, followed by hand-bags, blankets and a two-gallon demijohn. They said they had driven from Winona that day, and would stay all night. They ordered supper, and while it was in course of preparation, indulged in a good deal of banter back and forth. Of course, I had formed the determination of becoming acquainted with the contents of that demijohn in some way, by fair means or foul, and became deeply interested in their conversation, looking for a favorable chance to carry my point. I noticed that one of them was very boastful about what he was going to do when the legislature met, and the other saying to him that "he would not be there three days before they would kick him out and send him home." At these words, it flashed across my mind that this must be the man whose seat was contested, and, waiting for a proper opportunity, when his friend was loudest in his assertions that he would not remain long in the legislature, I put in my oar, and said: "Maybe I will have something to say about that." In an instant the legislator gave me a most scrutinizing look, and said: "Are you in the legislature?" I said "Yes." "In which house?" he inquired. "In the council," I answered. I saw the man was bright and intelligent, and it was a study to watch the workings of his mind while debating to himself how I would be affected by his condition, whether favorably or otherwise. Having weighed the matter carefully, he showed his experience and good judgment of character by saying: "My friend, won't you take a drink?" From what I have said, it is unnecessary to record my answer. We spent the greater part of the night in pleasant social intercourse, drawing inspiration from the depths of the demijohn, which had seemed so far removed from my grasp but a short time before.

The man was the famous Bill Lowry, from the Rochester district. This incident made us sworn friends for life, and singular as it may seem, when the legislature convened, I found myself chairman of the committee on contested elections in the council. It is unnecessary to go into the details of the contest. Suffice it to say that the contestant had a very weak case, and Lowry performed all he had boasted that he would do on that eventful night in Utica.

We were engaged in trying our suit at Winona for several days. Captain Upman was the register of the land office, and presided at the trial. The captain was a jolly old German from Milwaukee, and a fairly good drinker. There was a building in the town which had been a church, but by the intervention of the evil one, had been turned into a saloon, and was popularly known as "The Church." This was the captain's favorite resort when thirsty, which physical condition occurred quite frequently, and he would always say on such occasions: "The bells are ringing; come, boys, we must go to church. It is unlawful to try cases on Sunday."

What influences dominated, I don't pretend to say, but I won for my client three forties of the quarter section in dispute. We returned home the way we went down,--on foot,--with the exception that at Stockton we constructed a small sleigh, sufficient to carry our baggage, which much relieved the animals. My client offered me one of the forty-acre tracts for my fee, but I declined, and accepted a twenty dollar gold piece for my services. The land which I refused became worth a quarter of a million of dollars a few years afterwards, but I had a good deal of fun out of the adventure, and never regretted the outcome.

TEMPERANCE AT TRAVERSE.

The first members of the judiciary of the Territory of Minnesota were Aaron Goodrich, chief justice; Bradley B. Meeker and David Cooper, associates, who were appointed in 1849. They were Whigs, and held their positions until a change of administration gave the Democrats the power, when William H. Welch became chief justice, with Andrew G. Chatfield and Moses Sherburne as associates. The last named judges were in office when I arrived in the territory, in 1853. Judge Chatfield presided mostly over the courts held on the west side of the Mississippi. I made my residence at Traverse des Sioux, in Nicollet county, which was within the territory purchased from the Sioux Indians by the treaty of 1851, proclaimed in 1853. The fifth article of this treaty kept in force, within the territory ceded, all the laws of the United States prohibiting the introduction and sale of spirituous liquors in the Indian country, commonly known as the trade and intercourse laws. Of course, this inhibition was intended to prevent liquor getting to the Indians, but as the country began to be inhabited by whites, many of the new comers regarded it as infringing upon their rights and privileges, and serious questions arose as to whether the treaty-making power had any jurisdiction of such questions after the country was opened to white settlement. The courts, however, held the exclusion valid, and indictments were occasionally found against the violators of these laws. Traverse des Sioux was a missionary center, and the feeling against the liquor traffic was very strong, but, as it always has been, and probably always will be, men were found ready to invade the sacred precincts for the expected profits, and a saloon or two were established in defiance of law and public sentiment.

The judges were empowered to appoint the terms of court where and when there was any probable necessity for them, and the sheriff would summon a grand or petit jury as the business seemed to require. The United States marshal was Colonel Irwin, and the United States district attorney was Colonel Dustin, both of whom lived in St. Paul, and, as a general thing, there were no county attorneys in the different counties. When a term of court was to be held in my county, or any of the adjacent ones, the marshal would send me a deputation to represent him, and a bag of gold to pay the jurors and witnesses; the United States attorney would empower me to appear for him, and on the opening of the court, the judge would enter an order appointing me prosecuting attorney for the county so the judge and I would constitute the entire force, federal and territorial, judicial and administrative. If I procured an indictment against a party at one term, in my capacity of prosecutor, and the regular attorney should appear at the next term, it was more than likely that I would be retained to defend; which would look a little irregular at the present time, but as there was no other attorney but me, as a usual thing, no questions were asked.

At a very early day, a party not having the fear of the law or public opinion before him opened a saloon at Traverse des Sioux, much to the dismay and indignation of the religious element of the community, and went to selling whisky to the other element. The next grand jury indicted him, but, before a court convened that could try him, a squad composed of the temperance people headed by the sheriff, attacked his place, and demolished his contraband stores. Being determined to test the question of his rights, he sued the attacking party, and I was retained to defend them. I devised the plea that the country was full of savage Indians, whose passions became inflamed by whisky, which made them dangerous to the lives of the whites, and that saloons were consequently a nuisance which anyone had a right to abate. The case was tried before Judge Chatfield, and my clients were vindicated. Of course, the suit created a great sensation, not only on account of the feeling engendered, but because of the novel questions involved, and in due course of time the temperance ladies of the county sent to New York and purchased a handsome combination gold pen and pencil, with a jewelled head, and had it inscribed, "Charles E. Flandrau: Defender of the Right." They also procured a handsome family Bible for the sheriff. When all was ready, they held a public meeting, and made the presentations, which were accompanied by the usual speeches. These ceremonies occurred in the latter part of the year 1854, or early in 1855, and in the meantime a small newspaper, called the _St. Peter Courier_, had been established to boom the city, which contained an elaborate account of the proceedings, together with all the speeches, and diligently circulated them throughout the East, where they were caught up by Horace Greely, in his _Tribune_, and many other papers, and repeated under the head of "Moral Suasion in Minnesota," and came back to us enlarged and improved.

Should I end the story here, it would leave me in the possession and enjoyment of virtues which I cannot conscientiously claim as my own, and would deprive the tale of its best and only amusing point; so as a faithful narrator, I feel in duty bound to tell the other side of it.

In due course of events the trial of the indictment against the saloonkeeper came on to be heard, and I was acting as prosecuting attorney. Of course, I had to prove that the prisoner had introduced liquor into the Indian country, and, to do so, I called a French half-breed who I knew frequented the place, and after the preliminary questions, this examination followed:

"Q. Joe, were you ever in this saloon?

"A. Yes, many a time.

"Q. Did you ever buy and drink any liquor in there?

"A. Yes, many a time.

"Q. Did you see anyone else buy and drink liquor in there?

"A. Yes, many a time.

"Q. Who was it?

"A. I have seen you do it lots of times."

Of course, the laugh was heavily against me, but I sat, as stoical as an Indian, and quietly asked him: "Anyone else, Joe?"

I have forgotten whether the suit terminated in conviction or acquittal, but I never think of it without a good laugh at the way the witness turned the tables on me, and am also reminded of what my old friend, Van Lowry, from the Winnebago country, once said of me: "That Flandrau is one of the most singular men I ever knew. He invariably makes a temperance speech over his whisky."

The gold pen with the jewelled head reposes among my frontier treasures, carefully wrapped up in several editorials cut from eastern papers, extolling my virtues as an apostle of temperance.

Moral: Don't believe everything you read in the papers.

WIN-NE-MUC-CA'S GOLD MINE.

Every one who has lived in a mining country in its early periods, before its resources had been prospected and pretty well defined, will recall the fact that stories and rumors of a mysterious mine of great richness, which exists somewhere, are always in circulation. The discoverer of this mine is either dead, without having revealed its exact location, or it is known only to the Indians, who are compelled to secrecy by awful oaths, or fear of death from their chief or members of their band. At any rate, there is always a profound mystery connected with the hidden treasure, that envelops it with a tinge of romance and a spice of danger to those who seek to break the spell and lift the veil. There is also just enough known about it, which has leaked out through some obscure channel, to lend some slight probability to the story, and many have been the attempts to discover the bonanza by credulous and adventurous miners, but ever without success.

When I was living in Nevada, in 1864, I became closely associated with an old Mormon by the name of Rose. He had been a settler in the Washoe valley long before the discovery of the rich silver mines at Virginia City, known as the Comstock lode, and necessarily at a time when no one inhabited the country but Mormons and Indians. The principal tribe of Indians were the Piutes, whose head chief was Win-ne-muc-ca. These Indians inhabited the country around Pyramid lake, about a hundred miles to the northeast of Carson City, where I resided. Rose was known to have been an intimate friend of Win-ne-muc-ca in times past, and to have performed some important service for him, which had placed the chief under lasting obligations to him, and rumor said that in compensation he had disclosed to Rose the whereabouts of the most valuable gold mine on all the Pacific Coast, and that Rose was the only white man who knew anything about it. The truth of these rumors was fortified by the existence of three old and abandoned arrastras and a twenty-five foot overshot waterwheel, which had evidently been erected to drive the arrastras, that stood on one of the back streets of Carson City, and were known to have been constructed by Rose, and as there was no stream in the neighborhood to propel the arrastras, it was generally believed that, when Rose built these works, he had a mine, the ore of which was so rich that he could bring it on pack animals, crush it with these machines, and divert a stream to propel them. As quite a large sum had been expended on these works, it was evident that they were intended to carry out some such purpose, which had been interrupted for sufficient reasons. At any rate, I caught the mine fever, and after many conferences with Rose, I and my associates, William S. Chapman and Judge Atwater, got far enough into his confidence to obtain an admission from him that he knew the exact location of the mysterious mine, the secret of which he had learned from Win-ne-muc-ca, and dare not disclose without the consent of that chieftain, but he assured us that it was fabulously rich. It was then learned that the mine was within the limits of the Piute reservation, and even if we had the consent of the Indians to work it, we would not be allowed to do so by the United States government. Here were presented two formidable obstacles, but we were so well satisfied that we had a fortune within call that we determined to remove them both.

Our first operations were upon Win-ne-muc-ca, whom we proposed to conquer by presents and flattery, and succeeded to the extent of eliciting from him a promise that, if we could obtain permission from the United States government to enter upon the reservation and work the mine, he would disclose its whereabouts. All I can say about this branch of the case is, that with a great deal of delicate and masterly diplomacy, in which the interests of the Indians formed the principal argument used, we secured the desired permission, and prepared for an expedition to the mine.

It is as well here to say, for the benefit of the uninitiated, that all such operations are conducted with the greatest secrecy and mystery, because should it be discovered that any such enterprise was on foot its projectors would be watched day and night, and followed to their destination by half the community.

The government sent out a representative to see that the interests of the Indians were properly protected, and we got ready to start. The agent of the government was also charged to look up and report upon the progress of a mill for the Piutes, for which large appropriations had been made, and which was supposed to be situated on the rapids of the Truckey river, which is the outlet of Lake Tahoe, and runs about northeast in the direction of the Piute reservation, along the course to be followed by us. I mention this fact only in order to bring into the story the terse and witty report of the agent, said to have been made about his discoveries regarding the mill. He said: "He found a dam by a mill site, but he didn't find any mill by a damn sight."

Our outfit consisted of a light farm wagon with a four mule team, which we procured from two Mormon brothers, who lived in the Washoe valley, and were skilled guides all over Nevada, both of whom we took along as guides, cooks, and to drive and care for the team. Rose took along a pony, which we led, and the government agent, old Rose and myself formed the passenger list. We were supplied with eatables and drinkables for a long campaign, but as it rains but once a year in that country, we never encumbered ourselves on a march with tents, except in the rainy season. In fact, the ground between the sage bushes and grease-wood trees is so dry and clean that you don't need even blankets or robes to sleep on, but they are usually carried.

Our course lay down the valley of the Truckey river to its big bend, where Rose was to leave us and go to Pyramid lake for Win-ne-muc-ca. We accomplished this part of the journey, a distance of about one hundred miles, in three days, without any special incident, except on one occasion, when we were rounding a projecting point in the river, on a ledge of rocks, some driftwood got entangled with the legs of our leading mules, and came very near dumping us all into the boiling and rushing current, which would inevitably have drowned the whole party; but we reached our destination safely. At the big bend, which is now one of the principal stations on the Central Pacific Railroad, we found a spacious piece of bottom land, well supplied with grass for our animals, and a clump of six tall stately cottonwood trees, presenting an inviting place to camp, which we accepted as our resting place.

The next morning Rose mounted his pony and started for the lake, saying he would return in a couple of days with the chief, who would guide us to the mine--and fortune. The government agent was an old friend of mine, a California forty-niner, and a most companionable fellow. The Mormons were excellent cooks, and most efficient camp men. We had abundant camp supplies, supplemented with fine fish brought to us by the Indians, so we settled down for a delightful rest. Every night the men would make a cheerful crackling fire of dry driftwood from the river, hobble the mules, and fall asleep for the night, leaving us to enjoy the soft summer air and brilliant moonlight, while discussing our future plans when possessed of the boundless wealth that only awaited the coming of Rose and the chief. Before retiring for the night, which only meant lying down on a blanket, we usually reclined each against a tree, with a demijohn between us, and by the time sleep overcame us the fortunes of Croesus, Astor and Vanderbilt combined were mere trifles compared with our anticipated wealth, for were we not to be soon endowed with the magic touch of Midas!