Chapter XII: Part 12

We revelled in our repose, seasoned with the exaltation of hope and the demijohn, until about four days had glided away, when even such delights began to pall, and became a little monotonous, and still no Rose and no Win-ne-muc-ca. The fifth, and even the sixth day passed, and yet they came not, and we were driven to the conclusion that either Rose had been victimized by the Piutes, or we had been victimized by Rose. So nothing was left for us but to pull up stakes and wend our weary way back to Carson. Here we found Rose, with the excuse that Win-ne-muc-ca had told him that he dared not give up the secret of the mine for fear his band would kill both Rose and himself, and that he had not dared to return to the camp for fear the Indians would follow him and destroy us all. And so ended our venture.

We came out of the enterprise wiser and poorer men, to the amount of about one thousand dollars. As we had left town at midnight, and returned at the same quiet hour, we were able to keep our adventure to ourselves, and escape the ridicule of more experienced miners, many of whom, however, had passed through similar experiences under varying circumstances.

I have never been able fully to satisfy myself whether Rose acted in good faith or not, but as he had no hope of gain outside of the mine I am inclined to believe his story.

My next mining experience resulted much the same way. Rich finds were reported in the Walker river country, and a small syndicate of us outfitted a party of old and experienced miners to visit the locality and see what they could pick up. They started in the usual mysterious manner, at the dead of night, and in about two weeks returned, and brought to my office a gunny bag full of ore, which they left, and we appointed a meeting the next night at one o'clock, when the town was supposed to be asleep, to examine the bag and pass upon the contents. One of the prospectors tapped the sack affectionately, and, winking at me in the most significant manner, said: "Judge, we've got the world by the tail. It's all pure silver, and there are a million tons of it lying on the top of the ground." Of course, my curiosity and expectations were aroused to the highest pitch, and I awaited the appointed hour with impatience. Before the party arrived, all the windows were darkened with sheets and blankets, refreshments were prepared, and they dropped in one at a time to avoid notice. The bag was opened and its contents displayed upon the table. It was a pure white and brilliant metal, about the weight of silver, and with the assistance of the refreshments we had convinced ourselves before daylight that it was all pure silver.

I took a chunk of it about the size of an orange, and, with one of the miners, went down to the Mexican mill, to have it assayed. The assayer took it, looked it over, and asked if we wanted it assayed for iron. My companion immediately answered, "I'll bet you a thousand dollars there's no iron in it." The assayer replied: "We don't bet on such things, but I will soon tell you all about it," and, after putting it to the test, he reported: "Magnetic iron, ninety-five per cent; no trace of gold or silver."

We let the world's tail go, put our own between our legs, and went home, two of the worst disappointed men in all Nevada, and that was the last of my mining efforts.

A UNIQUE POLITICAL CAREER.

Gen. James Shields had a most extraordinary career. I remember no man in the history of our country who equals him in the diversity and extent of his public services and office-holding. He was a general in the Mexican War, and for a long time enjoyed the unique reputation of being the only man who was ever shot through the lungs and survived. This, however, was not true. Many others, no doubt, underwent the same experience, and I remember a young Chippewa Indian who, while on a war party into the Sioux country, was wounded in exactly the same manner, and lived to a good old age as a very robust savage.

When the general returned from the Mexican War to Illinois, he was exceedingly popular. He was made commissioner of the general land office of the United States and judge of the supreme court of the State of Illinois, and was subsequently elected to the senate of the United States; but when he was about to take his seat he ran up against the snag that is found in section 3 of article I of the constitution of the United States, which provides that a senator must have been a citizen of the United States for nine years before election, and it appeared that the general fell short of the requisite period. The consequence was that he was rejected, and he had to return to his state. But the citizens of Illinois wanted him to represent them in the senate, and as soon as he attained the proper citizenship they returned him, and he was admitted and served his full term. The general found out that his chances for reelection were not flattering, and as Minnesota was about applying for admission as a state in the Union, he decided to emigrate to that territory. What his motives were I, of course, cannot say, but as I was watching closely political events, I concluded that he had in view an election to the senate from the new State of Minnesota, and I kept my eye on his movements.

It was soon announced that the general had located the land warrant awarded to him for his services in the Mexican War, on a quarter section of land in the neighborhood of Faribault, in Rice county, in this territory, and that he intended to settle upon it. There was a little buncombe added to this announcement, to the effect that this was the first case in the history of America where a general officer had settled in person upon the land donated to him as a reward for the services he had rendered and the blood he had shed for his adopted country. We always called the general's home "The blood-bought farm."

There was an election in our territory in 1856 or 1857, I forget which, for delegate to Congress. Henry M. Rice had received the nomination of the regular Democratic convention for the position, and General Gorman (then territorial governor), Henry H. Sibley and many other leading Democrats had deliberately bolted the judgment of the convention, and nominated David Olmsted for delegate. The fight was on hot. I, of course, was for Rice, the regular nominee. I then lived well up in the Minnesota valley, at Traverse des Sioux, and we were becoming a power in the territory in a political sense, and I looked forward to the arrival of such a prominent Democrat as General Shields in our midst as an event of major political importance. He soon landed at Hastings, on the Mississippi, with a complete outfit for a permanent settlement. A good story is told of his advent at Hastings. In those days of steamboating, all the belongings of an immigrant would be landed on the levee and his freight bill would be presented to him by what we called the mud clerk, and he would take an account of his stock and pay the freight. Legend reports that the general had five barrels of whisky among his paraphernalia, and when the first one was rolled ashore he seated himself upon it to watch the debarkation, and when the bill was presented he refused to pay it because he could see only four barrels, and demanded the fifth. The clerks got on to the joke, and pretended to search for the missing barrel until the last whistle blew, when they suggested to the general that he was occupying the disturbing element. Whether the contents of the barrel ever caused any other misunderstandings history fails to record.

As soon as the general was comfortably settled on the blood-bought farm I dispatched a courier across the country to him, informing him of the political situation, and imploring him to come out for the regular Democratic ticket; but he replied in a very diplomatic way that he was too new a comer to take any active part in the election, and declined. Tom Cowan, George Magruder and I, a trio which composed the leadership of the Democracy of the Minnesota valley, decided that the general should never go to the senate if we could prevent it, and it so happened that when the first legislature of the state assembled Tom Cowan was in the senate, but all our efforts to beat him failed, and Henry M. Rice and the general were elected to the United States Senate. It was hard to beat a man in those days who was a Democrat, an Irishman and a wounded soldier.

The only unlucky thing that the general ever encountered was the fact that he drew the short term when the lots were cast for the positions the new senators were to assume.

The general served out his term in the senate just about the time the Civil War broke out, and he tendered his services to the country, and became a general of volunteers. He was wounded in some battle, and I remember reading a general order announcing that he had sufficiently recovered to ride at the head of his brigade in a buggy. I took advantage of this singular position for a military commander, and impressed into the service of the state a splendid $2,000 team of trotters belonging to Harry Lamberton, with his buggy, and himself as driver, and rode comfortably in it until the end of the Indian war, at the head of my brigade.

The general was not long in discovering that the political wind had taken a Republican direction in Minnesota, which boded him no good. So he pulled up stakes and emigrated to Texas. There he felt the public pulse, and not finding any immediate indications that he would be chosen senator, and not having any pressing business in any other line, he emigrated to California. There he found a more favorable outlook, and almost as soon as he gained a residence in the state he was nominated for the United States Senate by the Democrats, and came within one or two votes of an election.

The general had always been a bachelor before going to California, but he surrendered to the charms of a lady of that state, and married. Not being willing to remain until the next senatorial election, he migrated to the State of Missouri, where he was very soon elected to congress by a substantial majority of about 3,000; but, it being in the reconstruction period, and he being a Democrat, the state board found no difficulty in counting him out, after which event very little was heard of the general for some years, when he appeared on the lecture platform, discoursing on Mexico. This venture was not much of a success, and the general was reputed to be quite broken up financially.

His next appearance was at Washington as a candidate for doorkeeper of the senate, which office, I believe, is one of both dignity and profit; but he did not succeed in getting it, and returned to Missouri, broken in fortune and spirit. It was just at this critical period in his career that his luck returned, and he became famous in a direction that no other man in the United States has ever reached. A vacancy occurred in the office of United States senator from Missouri, either by death or some other reason, and the governor bestowed the position upon the general, thus making him a member of the body of which he had so recently sought to become the doorkeeper, and conferring upon him the peculiar and conspicuous distinction of being the only man in the republic who ever represented three states in the senate of the United States.

The general died some years ago, and the state of his original adoption, Illinois, conferred the additional immortal honor upon his memory by placing his full-length statue in bronze in the old house of representatives at the capitol in Washington, which has become the American Pantheon, in which each state is permitted to commemorate in this way two of its most honored sons.

Truly a most extraordinary and enviable career.

LA CROSSE.

There is nothing remarkable in the fact that places should be named for something that has happened in or about their locality, and nothing is more natural than that places on the upper Mississippi river should be named after Indians and Indian occurrences. For instance, we have Prairie du Chien, which is the French for the Dog prairie. In early days an Indian chief, who sailed under the dignified name of "The Dog," had his headquarters at this prairie, and thus the name. It will be observed that it has maintained its name in full, "Prairie du Chien," and was, in days past, a military post, called Fort Crawford, and is now quite an important town in Wisconsin.

A little way up the river, and we have "Prairie La Crosse," but the first part of the name is generally dropped now, and it is known as La Crosse simply. No old settler, however, who dates back of the fifties, ever calls it anything but "Prairie La Crosse." This place got its name from the fact that the Indians selected it as a favorite point at which to play their game, known to them as "Ta-kap-si-ka-pi," but called by the French, "La Crosse." Anyone who has been there, and is familiar with the prairie on which the city of La Crosse is built, will recognize at once its superior advantages for a game of ball of any kind. It is long, wide and level. This game has always been a great favorite with the Sioux Indians. It originated with them, and became what might be called their national game. From its spirited character, it was very much liked by the Canadian-French, and they adopted it to such an extent that it is called their national game, but under an entirely different name. They called it "La Crosse," and are still devoted to it. In fact, it is played very generally throughout the northern half of North America. In playing the game, the Indians used a stick made of ash about the length of a walking cane with a circular bend at the end most distant from the hand, in which curve was a network of buckskin strings, forming a pocket, about four inches in diameter and two inches deep. With this stick, which is called a "Ta-ki-cap-si-cha," the ball is manipulated. The ball is of wood, round, and about the size of a hen's egg, and in the game must never be touched by the hand. The Canadians have changed the form of stick used by them, by making it longer, and forming the end that takes the ball something like half of a tennis racquette.

The site of La Crosse was in early years the favorite ball ground of the Indians, and from this circumstance acquired its present name. The game is too well known to need a description. Suffice it to say that the main object is to get the ball to certain goals by two contending parties struggling in different directions. In its main features it resembles hockey, polo, football, and similar games; but with the Indians differs in point of the numbers who play, the whites being limited to eleven or twelve on a side, while with the Indians a whole band may play on each side.

When the Sioux were moved west of the Mississippi they selected the beautiful prairie on which now stands St. Peter, in this state, as one of their most favored ball grounds, and many a time I have enjoyed witnessing the game at that locality, and a most brilliant and exciting scene it presented. The Sioux, like most savages, are great gamblers, and the first thing in the game is to put up the stakes, which is done in this way: A committee is appointed by each contesting party as stakeholders. They assemble at a designated point on the prairie, and await results. Presently up will come an Indian, and put up a pony. He will soon be followed by a competitor, who will cover his pony with another, decided to be of the same value. Then up will come another, and put up a rifle, or a feather head-dress or a knife, all which will be matched from the other side, until all the bets are made. If the players are numerous, the stakes will accumulate until almost everything known as property in Indian life will be ventured. It sometimes takes several days to arrange these preliminaries. A pleasant afternoon is selected, and the contestants appear. They are usually very nearly naked, having on only moccasins, a breech-clout and a head-dress; the two latter articles, being susceptible of ornamentation, are usually adorned with eagle feathers, foxtails, or a string of sleigh-bells about the player's waist. The men are painted in the most grotesque and fantastic manner. It is not unusual to see some of them painted blue or yellow all over their persons, and before the paint has dried it is streaked with their fingers in zig-zag fashion from head to foot, sometimes up and down and sometimes zebra fashion. A yellow face with the imprint of a black or blue open hand diagonally upon it is much affected; in fact, the greater the ingenuity displayed in savage design and glaring colors, the more satisfied the subject seems to be with himself and the more admired by others.

When the players are all lined up they present a striking appearance. About six on each side take the center from which the ball is to be started, and the rest scatter themselves over the prairie for half a mile in each direction, to speed the ball, should it come their way.

All ready: one, two, three, and up goes the ball into the air, and as it falls, up goes each Ta-ki-cap-si-cha in an endeavor to catch it, and so skillful are the men that it is very often caught in the little pocket while in the air, which is a great advantage, as the party catching it has the right if he can to throw it in the direction of his friends, and, with a free chance, it is like throwing a ball out of a sling. I have seen one sent nearly a quarter of a mile. If the game opens in this way, there is, of course, a great rush by the partisans to capture the ball and keep it moving one way or the other; but if at the first toss up it falls to the ground, there is a tussle of all the middle men to see which one shall get it with his stick that puts civilized football in the shade. Shins are whacked, men are tripped and piled onto each other in the utmost confusion, until some lucky fellow extricates the ball from the mass, and sends it flying towards a group of his friends. The Sioux are splendid runners, and sometimes when twenty or thirty of them will be in full chase of the ball, a leading man will tumble, and the whole line will pile over him; but no matter how rough or boisterous the sport may be, I have never known a quarrel to grow out of it. There must be rules to this effect governing the game, such as they have in a Japanese wrestling match, where the parties, before tackling each other, sprinkle salt between them, which is a pledge that even a broken neck will not interrupt friendship. I think I have seen more feats of wonderful skill in running, jumping and catching in a game of this kind than in any play of a similar nature I have ever witnessed.

No one who has seen the Indians play a good game of Ta-kap-si-ka-pi has ever forgotten it. Major Eastman of the old army, who was quite an artist, attempted to depict the scene on canvas, and while he made an excellent picture which would please the eye of anyone who had not seen the real thing, he found it impossible to convey an adequate idea of its best points. The picture, I think, is now either in the rooms of the Wisconsin Historical Society, or in the Cochran gallery of Washington.

One of the noticeable results of a game of this kind, played on a virgin prairie, was the great number of huge snakes the players would kill. I have seen as many as would load a wagon piled up after a game, some of them ten or twelve feet long. They were called in those days bull snakes, and were considered of the constrictor species, but not venomous.

MAKING A POST OFFICE.

I had settled on the frontier, where Traverse des Sioux and Mankato were the extreme border towns in southwestern Minnesota. About the year 1854 or 1855 a German settlement was commenced at New Ulm. It originated in Cincinnati, with an association which sent out parties to find a site for a town, and they selected the present site of New Ulm. The lands had not been surveyed by the general government, but our delegate in congress, Henry M. Rice, had anticipated that by obtaining the passage of the law allowing settlement and preëmption on unsurveyed lands. Under the law a town site could only embrace 320 acres, but the projectors of New Ulm laid out an immense tract, comprising thousands of acres. Many of the settlers had not taken any steps toward becoming American citizens, which was a necessary preliminary to preëmption, and everything among them was held in a kind of common interest, the Cincinnati society furnishing the funds.

It was not long before they discovered that they needed legal advice in their venture, and called on me to regulate their matters for them. I was deputy clerk of the court, and always carried the seal and naturalization papers with me, so that I could take the declaration of intention of anyone who desired to become an American citizen anywhere I happened to find him, on the prairie or elsewhere. In this way I qualified many of the Germans for preëmption, and took them by the steamboat load down to Winona to enter their lands. I would be furnished with a large bag of gold to pay for the lands, and sometimes, with the special conveniences furnished by the land office, I would work off forty or fifty preëmptions in a day. I became such a necessary factor in the building of the town that, if any difficulty occurred, even in the running of a mill which they erected and ran by the accumulated water of many large springs, I was immediately sent for to remedy the evil.

The nearest postoffice was at Fort Ridgely, about sixteen miles away, and it soon became apparent that one ought to be established in the town. I was, of course, sent for to see if it could be accomplished. It was a very easy thing to do with the very efficient and influential delegate we had in congress, Hon. Henry M. Rice. Having agreed upon a Mr. Anton Kouse as postmaster, I at once wrote to Mr. Rice to give the new settlement a postoffice. It was not long before I received an answer, which contained the postmaster's commission, his bond for execution, a key for the mail bags, and all the requisites for a going postoffice.

The New Ulm people were a very social lot, and my visits to the town always included a good deal of fun, so I concluded to make a special event of the establishment of the new postoffice, and, as the weather was fine, I invited half a dozen friends to accompany me in a drive to New Ulm, to participate in the opening ceremonies.

One of the earliest settlers in the town was Francis Baasen, who became Minnesota's first secretary of state, and was a gallant officer in the First Minnesota Regiment, so celebrated in the War of the Rebellion, and has recently been appointed by Governor Lind as assistant adjutant general of the state. He had a claim about two miles below the town, just where the ferry crossed the Minnesota river, at Red Stone, and had erected a log shanty there, in which he lived. Of course, we always called on Baasen on our way up, and also on our way back, when we visited New Ulm. Baasen was a charming gentleman, and while his shack was destitute of any of the luxuries or elegancies of life, there was a door, or hatchway, in the middle of the floor, which led to a kind of cellar, the contents of which supplied all the deficiencies of the house, and, flavored with the generous hospitality of the proprietor, made everybody happy.

On this occasion we stopped to take Baasen into the party, and while discussing the great event which brought us up, I decided to add some new features to the inauguration of the new postmaster. Baasen had been appointed a notary public, and was provided with large business-like envelopes and formidable red seals, so I wrote a letter to Mr. Kouse in about the following language:

"EXECUTIVE MANSION, WASHINGTON, D. C.,

"July 20, 1855.

"_Hon. Anton Kouse, Postmaster at New Ulm, Territory of
Minnesota_,

"SIR: We have been informed that a flourishing settlement has
been founded on the waters of the upper Minnesota river, in
Minnesota Territory, which has been named New Ulm, and that the
inhabitants are sufficiently numerous and intelligent to need a
postoffice. It has also been represented to us that you are a
good and true Democrat, and the choice of the people for the
office of postmaster. It is therefore our duty and pleasure to
appoint you to that office. It is our desire that you locate the
office in a part of the town which will accommodate its
inhabitants, and see to it that they always vote the Democratic
ticket at all elections. I am,

"Yours very truly,
(Seal) "FRANKLIN PIERCE,
"_President of the United States of America._"

I inclosed this letter in one of Baasen's large envelopes, and we all drove up to the house of Mr. Kouse, and called him out. I stood up in the wagon, and made him a speech, informing him of the creation of the office, and that I had his bond and commission and a letter to him from the president of the United States, which I was instructed to deliver to him in person, and I added that it was customary on such important occasions for the newly appointed postmaster to propose the health of the postmaster general.

Kouse rushed into his house, and appeared with a brown jug and a tin cup, from which we all drank a bumper to the health and prosperity of the postmaster general, the town of New Ulm, and its postmaster. I then handed him his credentials, including the letter from the president, and the postoffice at New Ulm was a reality.

I have never learned whether my friend Kouse caught on to the joke, or whether he has cherished the executive letter as an heirloom for his posterity.

THE COURAGE OF CONVICTION.

In 1864-65 I was living in Carson City, in the State of Nevada, where, from the abnormal condition of the inhabitants, it was nothing remarkable that some event should happen almost daily that otherwise would have been startling. Many such events did take place, but, from their frequency, were soon forgotten. There was one, however, that impressed itself upon my memory because of the cool daring that characterized it, and it must be understood that bravery was not an uncommon trait in the inhabitants of Carson. Men carried their lives in their hands, and quite frequently lost them.

In order to appreciate the situation fully, you must know that the population of Carson City was composed of about the roughest and most disorderly agglomeration of the refuse of California that was ever assembled at any one time or place,--gamblers, murderers, road agents, and all sorts of unclassified toughs. They were about evenly divided between the North and the South,--the only politics being pronounced Unionism on one side and outspoken rebellion on the other; but, as any discussion between representatives of such views during the hottest period of the war was generally concluded with six-shooters, all parties kept pretty quiet on the subject, and politics was about the least exciting cause of murder, there being others sufficiently numerous to give us a "man for breakfast" nearly every morning.

Like all Pacific Coast mining towns, Carson had an immense saloon, with all the sporting attachments, such as billiards, roulette, faro, poker, etc., and at all times of the day and night it was frequented by hundreds of men, who amused themselves talking, drinking, gambling and reading their letters, as most of them received their correspondence at these headquarters. It was called the "Magnolia," and was kept by Pete Hopkins, who, I believe, still flourishes in San Francisco.

The telegraph had reached us in 1862, and we kept pretty well posted on what was going on in the States. On the 14th of April, 1865, it was flashed over the wires that President Lincoln had been assassinated, and the excitement was intense. Men studiously avoided the subject, for fear of being misunderstood and being drawn into deadly conflict. The news was not credited at first, but soon became confirmed, and generally accepted as true. The Union men determined that some public demonstration should be made to recognize the event. A meeting was held, and a committee appointed to formulate a program. It was decided to put the town in mourning, have a procession and mock funeral, an oration and appropriate resolutions,--all of which was the correct thing. An evening or two before the ceremony was to take place the committee came down to the Magnolia, to announce publicly what it had decided upon. The chairman mounted the bar and made his proclamation, adding that anyone who failed to hang out some emblem of mourning on his house or place of business might expect to be roughly handled.

The room was crowded, and with the most inflammable material. Had a bomb been exploded on one of the billiard tables the effect would not have stirred the rebels to greater depths. Among them was an old Virginian, whom we will call Captain Jones. He almost immediately accepted the challenge, and speaking up loudly, he said: "I am damned glad Lincoln was killed, and if any man attempts to put mourning on my house, or interfere with me for not doing so, there will be a good many more killed."

Everybody knew that the old man meant just what he said, and was always equipped to make good his promises. The effect was remarkable. Instead of precipitating a fight, it seemed to paralyze the crowd, and nothing came of it that night; the captain was wise enough quietly to disappear.

Captain Jones had a small brick building on the main street of the town, a block or two from the Magnolia, where he had his office, and lived in a back room.

At the proper time the procession formed on the plaza. Bands of music were interspersed through the line. The orator and distinguished citizens were in carriages, every vehicle in town being brought into requisition. There was a large cavalcade of horsemen. I rode in a handsome buggy, with the principal gambler of the town, and many hundred footmen followed, the Chinamen bringing up the rear. It was a beautiful day, the sun shining brightly. The procession moved off majestically down a back street, off the main thoroughfare, and then turned into the principal street. Every house on the line of march displayed signs of mourning on both sides of the street. Soon appeared in the distance Captain Jones, sitting just outside the line of the sidewalk, in the street, exactly in front of his house. His head was bare, and his long white hair glistened in the sunshine. He sat in an arm-chair, with an immense double-barrelled shotgun poised quietly across his knees. He was carelessly reading a newspaper, and not a semblance of mourning was to be seen anywhere on his premises. As the head of the procession reached him hundreds of hands involuntarily sought their revolvers, and every man held his breath; even the music ceased, and the expectation was intense. There were many in the line who would have shot him if they had dared, but they knew he had hosts of friends in the line who would have resented it instantly, and to the death, and they also knew the captain's eye was coursing down the line and the first shot would be answered by the contents of both barrels of his big gun. So no one fired; no one spoke; hardly anyone looked. The captain never moved a muscle, and the column passed.

I remember once of reading an incident in connection with the French army. While marching in Africa it encountered a splendid African lion, lying in the road, who did not seem disposed to give the right of way. The army halted. The circumstance was reported to the commanding officer and instructions asked whether they should kill the royal beast or march round him. The orders were to march round him. I have never thought of the incident here related without recalling the cool bravery of the king of beasts; but I always award the superiority to my friend, Captain Jones.

HOW THE CAPITAL WAS SAVED.

The ancestors of Joe Rolette, the leading character in the story which I am about to relate, emigrated at a very early day from Normandy, in France, to Canada. It is believed that the celebrated Montcalm was one of this party. Many of these emigrants became disheartened by the hardships they encountered, and returned to France; but not so the Rolettes. Jean Joseph Rolette, the father of our Joseph, was born in Quebec, on Sept. 24, 1781. He was originally designed for the priesthood, but fortunately for that holy order his inclinations led him in another direction, and he became an Indian trader. His first venture in business was at Montreal, next at Windsor opposite Detroit, finally winding up at Prairie du Chien, about the year 1801 or 1802.

In the war of 1812, with Great Britain, the Americans captured Prairie du Chien in 1814, and built a stockade there, which was called Fort Shelby. The British, under Colonel McKay, besieged it, Rolette having some rank in the attacking party. He was offered a captaincy in the British army for his good behavior in this affair, but declined it. He continued his Indian trade successfully up to 1820, when John Jacob Astor offered him a leading position in the American Fur Company, which he accepted, and held until 1836, when he was succeeded by Hercules L. Dousman. He died at Prairie du Chien, Dec. 1, 1842, leaving a widow and two children, a son and daughter. His daughter married Captain Hood of the United States army, and was a very superior woman. His son was the hero of this story. Rolette senior was called by the Indians, "Sheyo" ("The Prairie Chicken"), from the rapidity with which he travelled. Joe was called "Sheyo chehint Ku" ("The Prairie Chicken's Son").

Joe Rolette was born on Oct. 23, 1820, at Prairie du Chien. He received a commercial education in New York, but having inherited the free and easy, half-savage characteristics of his father, he soon gravitated to the border, and settled at Pembina, on the Red River of the North, near the dividing line between the United States and Canada. At this point an extensive trade in furs had sprung up, in opposition to the Hudson Bay people, who had monopolized the trade for British interests for many long years. The catch of furs was brought down to the Mississippi every year by brigades of carts, constructed entirely of wood and rawhide, which were drawn by a single horse or ox, and carried a load of from 800 to 1,000 pounds. These vehicles were admirably adapted to the country, which was in a perfectly natural state, without roads of any kind, except the trail worn by the carts. They could easily pass over a slough that would obstruct any other forms of wheeled carriage, and one man could drive four or five of them, each being hitched behind the other. They were readily constructed on the border, by the unskilled half-breeds, where iron was unobtainable. This trade, with an occasional arrival of dog trains in the winter, was the only connecting link between far away Pembina and St. Paul.

When the Territory of Minnesota was organized, in 1849, St. Paul was designated as the capital, and a plain but suitable building was erected by the United States for the purpose of the local government, and when finished the territorial legislature convened there annually.

Joe Rolette, being the leading citizen of Pembina, and naturally desirous of spending his winters at the capital, had himself elected to the legislature, first to the house of representatives in 1853, and again in 1854 and 1855. In 1856 and 1857 he was returned to the council, which was the upper house, corresponding to the senate as the legislature is now composed. This body consisted of fifteen members. The sessions were limited by the organic act to sixty days.

That the capital should be located and remain at St. Paul had been determined by the leading citizens of this region, as far as they could decide this question, before the organization of the territory, but there were from the beginning manifestations of a desire to remove it exhibited in several localities. Wm. R. Marshall resided at St. Anthony, and at the first session in 1849 worked hard to have it removed to that point, but failed, and no serious attempt was again made until 1857, when, on February 6th, a bill was introduced by a councillor from St. Cloud, to remove it to St. Peter, a town on the Minnesota river, which had grown into considerable importance. General Gorman was the governor, and largely interested in St. Peter. He gave the scheme the weight of his influence. Winona, through its councillor, St. A. D. Balcombe, was a warm advocate of the change, and enough influence was secured to carry the bill in both houses. It, however, only passed the council by one majority, eight voting in its favor, and seven against it.

It was at this point in the fight that Rolette proved himself a bold and successful strategist. He was a friend of St. Paul, and was determined that the plan should not succeed if it was possible for him to prevent it. He never calculated chances or hesitated at responsibilities, but would undertake any desperate measure to carry a point with the same unreflecting dash and heedlessness of danger that he would plunge his horse into a herd of buffalo, shooting right and left, trusting to luck to extricate him. It happened that Joe was chairman of the committee on enrolled bills of the council, and all bills had to pass through his hands for enrollment and comparison. On the 27th of February the removal bill reached him, and he instantly decided that the legislature should never see it again, so he put it in his pocket and disappeared. He had, however, foresight enough carefully to deposit the bill in the vault of Truman M. Smith's bank, in the Fuller House, on the corner of Seventh and Jackson streets, before his vanishment.

On the 28th Joe did not appear in his seat, and no one seemed to know anything of his whereabouts. As his absence was prolonged, some of the advocates of the removal became uneasy, and sent to the enrollment committee for the bill, but none of them knew anything about it. At this point Mr. Balcombe offered a resolution, calling on Rolette to report the bill forthwith, and on his failure to do so, that the next member of the committee, Mr. Wales, procure another enrolled copy and report it. He then moved the previous question on his resolution. At this point, Mr. Setzer, a friend of St. Paul, moved a call of the council, and Mr. Rolette, being reported absent, the sergeant-at-arms was sent out to find him, and bring him in.

To comprehend the full bearings of the situation, it should be known that, under the rules, no business could be transacted while the council was under a call, and that it required a two-thirds vote to dispense with the call. As I have said before, the bill was passed in the council by a vote of eight for and seven against, which was the full vote of the body; but in the absence of Rolette there were only fourteen present. Luckily for St. Paul, it takes as many to make two-thirds of fourteen as it does to make two-thirds of fifteen, and the friends of the bill could only muster nine on the motion to dispense with the call. Mr. John B. Brisbin was president of the council, and a strong friend of St. Paul, so no relaxation of the rules could be hoped for from him. In this dilemma, the friends of removal were forced to desperate extremes, and Mr. Balcombe actually made an extended argument to prove to the chair that nine was two-thirds of fourteen. Both gentlemen were graduates of Yale, and, on the completion of his argument, Mr. Brisbin said, "Balcombe, we never figured that way at Yale; the motion is lost," and the council found itself at a deadlock, with the call pending, and no hope of transacting any business, unless some member of the five yielded. They were all steadfast, however, and there was nothing to do but to receive the daily report of the sergeant-at-arms that Mr. Rolette could not be found. Sometimes he would report a rumor that Rolette had been seen at some town up the river, making for Pembina with a dog train, at the rate of fifteen miles an hour; again, that he had been assassinated,--in fact, everything but the truth, which was that he was luxuriously quartered in the upper story of the Fuller House, having the jolliest time of his life, surrounded by friends, male and female, and supplied with the best the town afforded, including buckets of champagne.

The 5th of March was the last day of the session, and the council camped in its chamber, theoretically handcuffed and hobbled, until midnight of that day, when President Brisbin took the chair, and pronounced the council adjourned _sine die_.

The sergeant-at-arms was John Lamb, well known to all old settlers. He was a resident of St. Paul, and true to her interests, as his conduct proved. I don't suppose any man ever spent five days and nights trying harder how not to find his man than he did on this occasion. Whether his fidelity was ever rewarded I am unable to say.

During the deadlock the friends of removal got a copy of the bill through, but neither the speaker of the house nor the president of the council would sign it. The governor, however, did approve it, but the first time it was tested in court it was pronounced invalid, and set aside. Other attempts at capital removal were made, but none of them proved successful.

Rolette and I were close friends. We had served together in the council at its preceding session, and afterwards in the constitutional convention, and always roomed together when in St. Paul. I lived at Traverse des Sioux, which is next door to St. Peter, at the time of this attempt to remove the capital there, but vigorously opposed the measure. Rolette's life was threatened by the friends of removal, and many is the night I have played the part of bodyguard to him, armed to the teeth; but fortunately he was not assailed.

As I rather admired the plucky manner in which my friend had stood by St. Paul in this, the hour of her danger, I conceived the idea of preserving the event to history by presenting his portrait to the Historical Society of the state, which I did, in April, 1890, and also hung one in the Minnesota Club. It is a capital likeness, representing him, full life size, in the wild and picturesque costume of the border. A brass tablet on the frame is inscribed with the following legend: "The Hon. Joe Rolette, who saved the capital to St. Paul, by running away with the bill removing it to St. Peter, in 1857."

Joe died at Pembina, and is buried in the graveyard of the old Catholic church of Belencourt, under a cross of oak, which once bore the words:

"Here reposes Joseph Rolette.
"Born Oct. 23, 1820.
"Died May 16, 1871."

The simple chronicle is long since effaced.

"_Requiescat in pace!_" is the wish and hope of his historian and friend.

AN EDITOR INCOG.

In the years 1864 and 1865 I lived in Carson City, the capital of Nevada, which recently became famous as the place where the great prize fight between Bob Fitzsimmons and Gentleman Jim Corbett occurred. The racecourse which became the arena on that occasion was during all the time of my residence there used by me daily as a gymnasium for exercise. I had very little to do with the actual politics of the country, because I was, and had always been, a Democrat of the most uncompromising character, and the party divisions out in that country were between the Republicans and men from the Southern States, who were generally outspoken rebels; and as it was in the midst of the Civil War, the feeling was intense between them. I was a warm supporter of the war for the Union, and found myself in the position of a man without a party. The situation did not incommode me, however, as I was fully occupied outside the realm of politics.

There were two daily newspapers published in the town,--one Republican, which was called the _Carson Daily Appeal_, and the other Democratic, called the _Evening Post_. There were no associated press dispatches, although the telegraph had reached the Pacific Coast and the San Francisco papers had the benefit of that great purveyor of news.

The proprietor of the plant of the Republican paper was an old Minnesota man, and a friend of mine, with whom I frequently came in contact, both in a business and social way. Under this condition of things, you may imagine my surprise and consternation when I tell you that one day he rushed into my office in a great state of excitement, and told me that his editor had left him and gone to San Francisco, and that he could not keep his paper going unless I would run it until he could arrange for another editor, adding that a failure to publish it for a single day would ruin him. At first I looked upon the proposition as utterly out of the question, and said: "How can I edit a Republican newspaper, when I am at swords' points with everything they believe and advocate?" It was with him, however, "a groundhog case," as we used to call such imperative occasions. He _had_ to get him, as he was out of meat. He was persistent in his demands, and as the negotiations progressed, I began to look upon the matter as a good joke, and finally promised that I would undertake to keep the paper going if he would swear that he would never disclose my identity, which condition he promised faithfully to observe.

It was a matter that admitted of no delay. I had to prepare a column and a half of editorial that night for the next morning's issue. What I wrote about, I don't pretend to remember, but it was well received, and its Republican orthodoxy was never questioned, and I repeated the dose daily for some time with the same success, growing more and more violent in my attacks on the Democracy in each successive issue. Carson was a small town, and, as the old editor was missed by his friends, public curiosity increased as to who had succeeded him, and I enrolled myself among the guessers, and improved every occasion to criticise publicly the editorials. It soon became very tiresome and difficult to maintain my ground, with politics as the sole text for my editorials, and as news was very scarce, I sought relief in any channel that opened a way. A great race took place in San Francisco between Charley Brian's ever victorious horse, Lodi, and a colt of the celebrated stallion Lexington, named Norfolk, for which Joe Winters of Carson had paid fifteen thousand and _one_ dollars to the owner of Lexington,--Lord Bob Alexander of Kentucky,--especially to make the race with Lodi. The $15,001 was exacted by the owner of Lexington, because he had been laughed at for paying $15,000 for Lexington when he was old and blind, and had said he would sell his colts for more than he had paid for their sire. This race, of course, created an immense excitement. At least twenty thousand people went to see it, and everybody on the Pacific Coast from the forty-ninth parallel to the Mexican line had a bet on the result. Lodi was beaten, and as Nevada was the victor, and I knew all about Lexington, I wrote several essays on race horses in general and Norfolk in particular.

The office of sheriff of our county was a very hazardous one, every incumbent of it prior to the then holder having "died with his boots on." Tim Smith, who filled the office when I was there, and had shown desperate courage on several occasions in the performance of his duties, had gained my admiration and friendship, and afforded me a good text, and I wrote him up.

There was an ex-governor of California residing in Carson with whom I became intimate, and on one occasion I wrote him up; and last, but not least, I made the acquaintance of a beautiful and accomplished lady living in the town, and as such a person was a phenomenon in that rude land, I was inspired to write her up, and did so in the following poem:

"This descriptive epigram is dedicated to the most beautiful
woman in Carson City, by the editor:

"Gorgeous tresses, exquisitely arrayed;
Noble brow where intellect's displayed;
Liquid eyes that penetrate the heart;
Teeth of pearl, whose brilliancy impart
To the whole expression of the face
A ray of love, a fascinating sense of grace.
A bust--but here presumptuous mortal stay:
Let artist gods this beauteous bust portray;
Splendor, royalty, magnificence combined,
A Venus in Diana's arms entwined.
The tiny hand, so soft, so pure, so white,
Robs its emerald gem of half its light.
The secret charms beneath her robe-folds hidden,
Like heavens' joys to mortal eyes forbidden,
Are dimly outlined to our rapturous gaze,
Like veiled statues through a marble haze.
Her fairy foot, as in the graceful waltz it glides,
Our admiration equally divides.
And proves, that of her many charms of form and voice,
If one you had to choose, you could not make the choice.
Their perfect harmony is like the arch's span;
Displace one stone, you destroy the noble plan."

My political attacks did not seem to make much impression on my Democratic contemporary, and he paid very little attention to what I said, feeling, no doubt, indifferent in the overwhelming majority of the Republican party, but when I branched out in the line I have indicated, he opened on me savagely in several editorials. He said the _Appeal_ had discovered a soft-soap mine, and had used it lavishly to lather governors, sheriffs, ladies, and a great many other people, for the purpose of gaining their support and patronage, all of which afforded me a fine opportunity of getting back at him in a humorous, and at the same time effective manner, so I shot at him in verse, which I will repeat; but to a full understanding of it, I will explain that all mining claims are measured by the number of feet the claimant owns on the ledge, and the word "feet" became synonymous with the mine itself. This was my answer:

"SOAP."