Chapter VII: Preface (7)

J. J. Healy (now Captain Healy, the manager of the North American Transportation and Trading Company) was there. Healy had fought Indians and assisted in arresting some of the worst desperadoes in the Northwest, who were terrorizing the country about that time. But the mule was too much for him, as he was seen going for dear life over the bank into the river. It was the first time anyone ever saw Healy “take water.”

The same cannon is now owned in Great Falls and was used to celebrate the Fourth of July, 1898. The mule could not be found.

It was a common occurrence then at Fort Benton to see from six to eight steamers tied at the wharf at the same time and loaded for their return trips with robes, furs and pelts. The principal articles the traders had for traffic with the Indians were blankets, blue and scarlet cloth, calico, domestic goods, ticking, tobacco, knives, fire steel, arrow points, files, brass wire of different sizes, beads, brass tacks, wide leather belts, silver ornaments for the hair, shells, axes and hatchets. Many articles were smuggled and traded to the Indians which the law prohibited. The articles brought by the Indians for trade were elk, deer, antelope, bear, wolf, beaver, otter, fox, mink, marten, wild cat, skunk and badger skins, and principally buffalo robes. At the time when the country was literally covered with buffaloes, and before the traders were in the country to supply the Indians with guns or even steel arrow points, the Indians would move from place to place with two or three hundred lodges or tepees, with from five to seven people to the lodge. The tepees were made of tanned skins and a few small poles and so constructed that they could be taken down and put up in a few minutes.

With the poles, that were about fifteen feet long, they would make their travois by placing a number of poles on each side of a pony and tying one end of them to the girth of the saddle from which a strap reached across the breast of the animal. Then two cross-sticks, about four feet apart, were tied to each bunch of poles and close to the horse, and on these sticks a buffalo rawhide was stretched in a basket-like manner on which a stack of robes, pelts and furs was lashed. Each family had one or more of these simple conveyances, arranged as the one to the left in the illustration. In these they would carry their small trinkets, young pappooses, and the old people that were too old to ride a pony. In this way they would move from camp to camp with perfect ease and without delay, following the great herds of buffalo. When they needed meat the chief would give orders to make “a round.” Under the direction of the war chief several hundred would turn out, some on horses, others on foot, and would quietly surround a herd of the buffaloes, and, closing up the circle, the buffaloes would run round and round in a circle, and as the outside ones would go by the Indians killed them with their arrows. The buffalo, the same as sheep, would follow the leaders, and, after getting them started in one direction, they would all follow that way. I know a place near where I used to live on Sun river where the Indians a long time ago used to surround the buffalo and run them over a precipice, and at a point where there was but room for one at a time to go in safety. The Indians would get a few to start, then close up on the big herd and rush them over the cliffs pell-mell; hundreds would be killed and many crippled, and those they would kill with the bows and arrows. They called this manner of hunting “a run.”

There are now on this spot great quantities of decayed bones, and hundreds of flint arrow points have been picked up by settlers. Professor Mortson, of this city, has in his cabinet now several hundreds of these points which he found. There is another place of this kind near St. Peter’s Mission, where these runs were made.

Now the buffaloes are extinct. Where they used to roam, flocks of sheep and herds of cattle now graze. And the Indians’ mode of living, since they are on their reservation, is entirely different. “Now” they live in houses, and the old Indian tepees made of skins cannot be found.

Until but a few years ago, the “Old Town at the head of navigation” was a great Indian trading post; her stores and warehouses were filled with Indian goods and their trade was exclusively with Indians. Today Fort Benton is a modern city with brick blocks, has a fine courthouse, public schools and churches, and many attractive homes. She has a railway depot, water works and many other modern improvements.

At the entrance of one of the main avenues of the city a steel drawbridge spans the Missouri river. And now her business houses carry the same kind and as fine goods as Eastern firms; her warehouses are filled with miners’ tools, machinery, and all kinds of agricultural implements for the trade of hundreds of thrifty farmers, who are cultivating the land which was but a short time ago the red man’s hunting ground.

ROBERT VAUGHN.
July 11, 1898.

JOHN D. BROWN.

A NARRATIVE OF HIS EARLY EXPERIENCE IN THE WEST.

One day last December, when standing on the corner of Central avenue and Third street, Great Falls, I saw a lame old man coming towards me. Though his hair was white as snow, his cheeks were as rosy as those of a schoolboy, and, as he came to me and grasped me by the hand, he said: “Well, Mr. Vaughn, I came to town to pay my taxes, and as you have already asked me to come and stay at your house, I shall now accept the invitation and tell you the story of my early days in the West.” The old gentleman referred to was John D. Brown, one of the first pioneers in the part of the country which now comprises the state of Montana.

That evening Mr. Brown related to me the following experiences:

I left St. Paul, Minnesota, in September, 1858, in company with George Wakefield, William Fairweather and others. We had decided to go to Colville, Washington territory, crossing the Rocky mountains through the Kootenai pass in the British possessions. At Sauk Rapids we met several Frenchmen, among them being the three Mauchoirs boys, the two Besoits, Shirlepeau and Felix Odell, all Canadian Frenchmen. On the eighth of October we crossed the Mississippi river at Crow Wing among floating ice, then we made a big campfire, and slept with our feet to the fire. Bill Fairweather was my bedfellow. We awoke in the morning to find a foot of snow on top of us. After breakfast we traveled through the deep snow and were overtaken by Tom McDonald, a Scotchman, an old fur trader, and with whom we camped at Otter Tail for a few days in order to rest our animals. There were but very few settlers at Otter Tail at that time. The Frenchmen had ox teams and we had horses. We had with us a year’s supply of provisions.

The first night we camped after leaving Otter Tail the Chippewa Indians stole everything we had; then we were, of course, unable to proceed on our journey, and so we returned to McDonald’s place and remained there a week. There was a government surveying party making their headquarters there then. McDonald and the surveyors explained to the Indians that we were on our way to the Pacific coast, and the consequence was that we recovered our property; also the Indians gave us the right of way to cross their country the same as the Hudson Bay people had. Starting out again, one day we met an old half-breed carrying mail, who misdirected us as to the way we should go and, when it was time to camp, there was neither water nor fuel to be had, and a foot of snow was on the ground, and it was several degrees below zero. It was twelve o’clock at night before we found a place to camp where there was wood and water. We turned our animals out to eat rushes, which were plentiful. At daybreak the next morning, the oxen came running madly out of the timber with three moose after them, evidently the moose thinking that the oxen were of their own species. The oxen stampeded and the moose were right behind them, keeping them going through the deep snow, until all were out of sight. Two of the Frenchmen followed and were gone the entire day without having first had their breakfast, and it was about midnight when they returned with the oxen, after having followed them and the moose for at least thirty miles, and when they caught up with the outfit the moose were still with the oxen. On account of this chase it became necessary for us to stay in camp for a couple of days to allow the men and the oxen to rest themselves. Finally we arrived at Pembina, where Joe Rolette kept a trading post. He was pretty well fixed financially. After staying at Rolette’s place for a few days, we crossed the Red river on the ice, destined for Fort Geary (now Winnipeg), which was supposed to be about sixty miles from Pembina, and which place we reached about Christmas. At Fort Geary everybody spoke French, with the exception of some English soldiers stationed there.

As by that time winter had set in and the snow was getting deep, we concluded to stay there until spring. Bill Fairweather and I went to work cutting logs for a man named McDonald. We hewed the logs on four sides, for which we received fifty cents for every ten feet, running measure. We worked there until spring (1859) and made considerable money.

Early that spring Bill Sweeney, Henry Edgar, Bill Fairweather, George White, Tom Healy, and others of the party, started on their western journey by the Kootenai pass. Larry Campbell (who used to keep a store at Diamond City, in Meagher county), Jack Brash, Sandy Gibson, Jim Wandel, Bill Smith and I decided to take the Milk river route, and thence down the Blackfoot river on the Pacific side of the Rocky mountains. After arriving on the Assiniboine river, we camped there for a few days. Here we met one of the Catholic fathers, with whom we signed an agreement to raft logs down the Assiniboine river and deliver them by the middle of May. As we were all good river men, we did very well. The logs were to be used to build the Palestine Mission. At that time there was an American named John Morgan who was a trader for the American Fur company at Fort Union, and who was married to a daughter of Chief Firewind of the Assiniboine tribe. Morgan had started another trading post on the Canada side, he being an American, having come from the state of Ohio. We bought what goods we needed from him. His mother-in-law came over frequently on a visit, and, as we stopped at Morgan’s place during most of the winter, she got to know us very well, and, owing to the further fact that we were the very best of friends with Morgan, she naturally took a liking to us.

About the first of April I came to Morgan’s trading post to get a stock of provisions to use on the rafting trips. Morgan had gone to Fort Geary and the old lady was left in charge of the goods. Morgan had told her to let the American boys have anything they wanted. I remained there until Morgan returned, and during this time the old woman treated me kindly. Shortly after his return, he said to me, “Now, Mr. Brown, the old lady is going back home in a couple of days and, as you will be going that way, she might be of some service to you. It would be a good idea for you to make her a small present.” I was pretty flush with money, so I bought her a couple of dresses and a Cree war blanket for her to give to the chief, and a lot of beads and trinkets, amounting probably to twenty-five dollars for the whole outfit. In a few days she left for her home camp on the American side.

About the first of May we got through rafting and started westward. Some days we would travel but ten miles. Buffalo were plenty and we killed fat ones and dried the meat to use on our journey. On the 25th of May we espied an Assiniboine Indian coming towards us; he was on horseback. Presently we saw another, by and by another, and they kept on increasing. We had plenty of ammunition, but they were ten to our one. Well, they captured us, took us to their camp as prisoners and held a war dance over us and threatened to kill us. They stripped us of everything we had, clothing and all. Just then it happened that the old squaw to whom I made those presents was in the Indian camp, and when she saw me she ran and placed her hands upon my neck and kissed me and conducted us to the chief’s tent, which was also her own, and she cooked dinner for us. Then she brought out the articles that I had given her at Morgan’s trading post, and she held in her hand the Cree war blanket and the pipe that I gave her to hand to the chief, while at the same time she was pointing to me and telling him that I was the man that gave them. After that I was at liberty to go around the camp and out hunting, and so forth, but my companions were put in a tepee and a guard kept over them night and day. At that time we did not know whether we were in the British possessions or on the American side. We were captured close to what is known as the Widow mountain. We were kept prisoners for six weeks and shamefully treated during this time. The poor old squaw worried a great deal on account of the condition we were in. She could talk a few words of English, and she did all she could to console us by telling us that we would not be killed, and so on. I am satisfied that she was the cause of our not being murdered at the time they stripped us.

When Major Schoonover, who was Indian agent at Fort Union, heard of our being captured, he sent out his interpreter to tell Firewind and Antelope, both Assiniboine chiefs, to bring in the white prisoners to him, and that unless they did so they would get no annuities for that year. We were about two weeks getting in; we reached Fort Union on the morning of the 4th of July. We related to Major Schoonover all the facts in relation to our having been taken prisoners, and where we were from and where we were going. He took us up-stairs to his room and said, “Well, boys, this is the 4th of July.” We had lost track of the day of the month, and did not know that it was the 4th of July until then. He treated each of us to a good drink of brandy. He asked me where my home was, and I told him that my parents lived in the city of Providence, Rhode Island. He asked the others the same question. Well, Bill Smith was from Baltimore, Jim Wendall from Piclo, Nova Scotia (he was killed in 1863 by Slade, a desperado, when on a freighting trip from Cow Island; Slade was afterwards hanged in Virginia City by the vigilantes). All the others were from Canada. The only true American in the lot was Bill Smith. I was born in Ireland, being three years old when my parents came to Providence.

The major sent for all the chiefs and had a council with them, at which we were present. He told them that we were going across into Washington territory, and that he wanted them to give us the right to cross the country and not detain us again; and he further told them to bring everything that they took from us or he would have to give us goods out of their annuities. The Indians returned to us all of our property and promised not to trouble us any more. The old squaw, when we were leaving, came and shook hands with all of us and expressed gratification at our being safe. We came up the Milk river valley. At the big bend, near what is now Fort Browning, I first saw a grizzly bear. From there we came to Fort Benton and remained there until the spring of 1860.

Captain Mullan was then constructing the Mullan road from Walla Walla to Fort Benton. He wanted men to build bridges, and, as we were all good ax men, we hired out to him. Major Blake had command of several companies of recruits that came up the river to Fort Benton. They were on their way to Colville, Washington territory. The only houses I saw then between Fort Benton and Missoula were those of Johnny Grant, a half-breed who lived at Deer Lodge, and Bob Dempsey, an old discharged soldier, who lived between Gold Creek and what is now Radersburg. He had an Indian woman for a wife. That summer we built a bridge over the Blackfoot river and another over the Big Blackfoot. There were but few white people living there then. I remember Captain Higgins, Baron O’Keefe and old man Moues, who was running a kind of mill and grinding meal for the Indians, and Lou Brown, a Hudson Bay trader, who took charge of a ferry that Mullan built. There were few other white men who lived there then. We went clear through to the Coeur d’Alene; we got there in the month of September. From there we went to Wolf Lodge and crossed the St. Joe river and went down by where the city of Spokane now is; thence to Walla Walla, where we arrived on the 8th of October, 1860. There we separated, John Peterson, who was with me, working for Mullan, and I went to the Dalles in Oregon.

From there I went to the Cascade Falls on the Columbia river. That fall I voted for Stephen A. Douglas for president. When at the Cascades, I worked for the Oregon Navigation company, hewing timber for ship building, for which I received twenty-five cents per foot. At this place myself and two other men hewed a remarkable stick of timber, it being one hundred and thirty feet in length and four feet square. After the hewing was done, we sawed it lengthways into two pieces. The sawing was done by hand (whipsawing), there being no sawmills in the country at that time.

Those two huge timbers were used in the building of a steamboat that was to be operated on the upper Columbia river. I worked here until late in the spring of 1861. The following summer I went prospecting on John Day’s river. Finding nothing that would pay, I went to Walla Walla, and remained there during the winter of 1861-2. That winter there was four feet of snow on the level. It was the worst and deepest snow I ever saw in my life. Mr. Gerald, a gentleman with whom I was well acquainted, had twenty-three hundred head of beef steers near Walla Walla; he was furnishing beef for the miners in the Salmon river and the Kootenay country. At that time you could buy five and six-year-old steers in Walla Walla for seven dollars per head. Gerald had several hundred tons of hay put up to feed during the winter; hay and grass were plentiful everywhere, but, for all that, most of the live stock in that country perished from cold and deep snows. You would see those big wild steers coming up the street and eating the cards that had been thrown out of the gambling houses. Gerald told me that out of the 2,300 cattle, and after feeding all the hay, he had but sixty-three cattle in the spring. Wood went up to $80 a cord in Walla Walla, and flour $30 per hundred pounds. Steamboats could not get up and there were no animals to haul the freight. Men used to go thirty miles to Walula to get a sack of flour and packed it on their backs.

In the early part of the winter I furnished a man named Fox with six months’ provisions to go prospecting with John Peeterson on the North fork of the John Day river. In the spring of 1862 I received news from Peeterson stating that they had struck good diggings on Granite creek and for me to come at once. I went from Walla Walla to where Peeterson was. We mined there until fall and did very well, when we sold out for $1,500 to Eph Day, who at one time was the treasurer of the Oregon Navigation company. I suggested to Peeterson that we had better go next to the Fort Benton country, and we decided to do so and started on our journey. Finally we got to Gold Creek. Jack Dunn was there, keeping a store. Jim and Granville Stuart were there. I remember giving Granville the Sacramento Union and he was very glad to get it, for newspapers were very scarce in the camp. They were the men that first found gold in paying quantities in Gold creek, and, for that matter, in the state of Montana, although “Gold Tom,” an old trapper, had found a fair prospect in Gold creek before the Stuarts did. And there I met my old friend, Bill Fairweather, whom I had not seen since we parted at Fort Geary over three years before. A few weeks later I met Bill Sweeney at Bannock.

As I desired to go prospecting east of the Rocky mountain range, I left Bannock about the latter part of October, 1862, in company with John Peeterson and Thomas Thomas. On top of the main range, and where the Mullan road crosses, we met the old frontiersman, John Jacobs. He told us that Captain Fisk, in company with a lot of immigrants from Minnesota, were in camp in the Prickly Pear valley. I went to their camp, which was near to what is now called Montana Bar. James King and W. C. Gillette were there with a lot of flour; from them I bought a sack to go prospecting. With the same outfit came Jesse Cox, Jim Wiley, Albert Agnel, Jim Norton, Charles Cary, Alvin H. Wilcox, A. McNeal, James Fergus, Bob Ells, old man Olan and old man Dalton. They and others were in camp and had not decided where to go next. John Peeterson, Thomas Thomas, Jim and Bill Buchanan, Dick Merrill and I did some prospecting there that fall and got considerable gold.

Late in the fall, myself, a man named Thebeau, Nickolos Bird, and a fellow by the name of Gervais, who could talk the Flathead language, went off with the Flatheads and Pend d’Oreilles Indians to prospect the country they were going to travel through that winter. The Indians were on the way to the Musselshell country to hunt buffaloes. At this time the Flatheads and Piegans were at war with each other.

All the Indians, who numbered from eight to twelve hundred, went through what is now called Confederate gulch. We found good prospects there, but the Indians would not let us stay. It appeared that they had some kind of an understanding with the Crow Indians to go and hunt in that part of the country, but not to encourage any whites to go there, consequently we had to move whenever the Indians would move, and, by this time, they would not let us go back. We camped for several days on the little prairie at the head of Smith river, near where White Sulphur Springs, the county seat of Meagher county, now is. There the Indians had a buffalo hunt and killed many. After that we went down Shields’ river and made three camps there. During all this time the Indians were killing buffalo and drying the meat. At the mouth of Shields’ river we saw a large war party of Crows trying to capture some of the Flatheads and Pend d’Oreilles who were out hunting, and who belonged to the Indians we were with. We camped near where there was a lot of willows. Moise, the head chief of the Flatheads, came and asked me if I would fight; I said yes, and he said, “That is good.” I had a good rifle and two revolvers. Soon our Indians got together and prepared for a battle, but the Crows did not follow, and it was good for them, for the Flatheads and Pend d’Oreilles were well armed and mounted on good horses and were eager for a fight. That night they placed their horses inside the camp and put pickets out in as good way as I ever saw in my life, but the enemy did not make an attack. From there we went east of the Little Snowys. There we met a war party of Piegans coming around what is called Wolfe mountain; there were about thirty of them. They came to our camp to stop all night, and were received as friends, and they played games during the evening with the Pend d’Oreilles. About midnight the Piegans sneaked out and stampeded many of the best horses belonging to the Flatheads and Pend d’Oreilles and started away with them. Chief Moise at once blew a horn and his son beat a kind of drum; this aroused the whole camp. The Pend d’Oreilles and Flathead warriors were in an instant on their best horses and went after the Piegans and captured them all and recovered the stolen horses and brought them to camp. The Pend d’Oreilles wanted to kill the Piegan thieves, but Chief Moise said, “No, we will not kill them, though they are dogs. They came to our tepees as friends, but at the time they were deceiving us. They are dogs; they came to our camp and we treated them as friends, but they got up in the dark of the night and stole our horses. No, we will not kill them, but we will mark them.” Then he ordered his warriors to bring the Piegans to the front of his tepee. After this was done, he ordered them to take the younger bucks and cut their hair short, and to cut a piece off each ear of all the others. During the time this was being done, the Flatheads and Pend d’Oreilles stood with their bows strung, and others with rifles in their hands, ready to shoot if anyone made a move to get away. After the marking was done, the Piegans were taken outside of the camp and were told to go home as dogs and never return or they would be killed as dogs. I witnessed all this.

On Christmas eve, 1862, we were in camp at Wolfe mountain. Chief Moise invited us to his tent to eat a Christmas dinner with him. He knew that it was Christmas day and respected it as such, for he had been taught what the meaning of it was by Father De Smet. His wife cooked dinner for us. She had fried doughnuts as good as any I ever ate, and excellent yeast powder bread; we had buffalo tongue and all kinds of meats. In all my life I never enjoyed a Christmas dinner better than I did that Christmas eve of 1862 in the tepee of the Flathead chief near Wolfe mountain.

Christmas morning I went on the top of what the Indians called Heart mountain. My object was to try and look in the direction of Fort Benton, for I knew we were not far from there, as I could see the Bear Paw mountains plainly. We decided to leave the Indians and go to Fort Benton. The Flathead chief sent six Indians to escort us through. It took us two days and part of a night. The second day out we traveled on a trail where the sage hens were as thick as I ever saw turkeys in a barnyard, but the Indians would not allow us to shoot, fearing that it might draw the attention of other Indians who were hostile to all of us.

Before the Indians started back we gave them tobacco and some matches, and a fancy pipe for them to take to the chief. It was the 18th of January, 1863, when we crossed the Missouri river at Fort Benton, and the river at that time was perfectly free from ice. There were only a few days of cold weather and but little snow that winter.

About the first of March, 1863, Thebeau and I started for the upper country and got as far as Sun river the first day. Vail had charge of the government farm, which was near where we crossed the stream. After going over the hill in the Prickly Pear canyon, and while we were in camp at a little spring W. C. Gillette came along with a cayuse pack train on his way to Fort Benton to get goods for Bannock. Tom Clarey and Jim Gourley were with him. Gillette had his sacks filled with gold dust, and as the road agents were very troublesome at that time, he mistook us for desperadoes; he went by and would not stop to talk with us. From there we went to Montana Bar. By this time the immigrants had nearly all left. Albert Agnel, Alvin H. Wilcox and John Peeterson were there yet, besides a few others. John Peeterson and I sunk a shaft twenty-five feet deep on the bar and found fifty cents to the pan on bed rock. After that Peeterson and I went and surveyed a ditch (it is the same big ditch that now conveys the water from the Prickly Pear creek onto the bench land.) Our surveying apparatus was a triangle and a plumb bob which we made ourselves.

Alvin H. Wilcox, Jesse Crooks, Albert Agnel, and Jim Marston were also interested in the ditch. About the last of May I received word from Bill Sweeny of the discovery of Alder gulch and that he had staked a claim for me, and for me to come as quickly as possible, but it was pretty late in June before I could leave to go to Alder, and when I got there some one had taken possession of my claim, according to miners’ rules, and those were if the owner was not there to represent his claim it could not be held only so many days; consequently I went to work for Bill Sweeny for $14 per day. After working for Sweeny for several weeks, I decided to go back to the bar and do more prospecting. Early in the summer of 1863, I found twenty-five cents to the pan on a bar where the city of Helena is now. I filled the hole up again and built a fire on the fresh dirt to conceal the place, with the intention of going back; that was an old trick which was practiced by the prospectors. As I was interested with John Peeterson in the ditch and the mines on the bar (American bar), and as it was necessary for us to have more sluice boxes, one day I went to cut logs to make lumber. I was on the side of a mountain, when a log rolled and caught my leg between it and a stump. It was some time before I could release myself, and when I did so I found that my leg was broken, and that is why I am lame now. There was no doctor to be had. I squeezed the broken place together the best I could and wrapped it up in some bandages I made out of a pair of overalls I had. That winter (1863-4) I stopped in a little cabin. I hired a man named Talbot, who was a Baptist preacher, to cook and stay with me; I paid him twenty dollars a week for his services and companionship. All this time my leg was troubling me terribly. Knowing Father Ravalli, in whose honor Ravalli county is named (he is now dead, and peace be to his memory, for he was a good man), and hearing that he was at the Mission, near where the Ulm station on the Montana Central railroad is located, I decided to go and see him, for I knew that he was a good physician. I gave a man named Merrill all my interest in the mines to take me as far as Malcolm Clarke’s place at the head of Prickly Pear canyon; from there a man named Morgan, from Fort Benton, took me to the Mission, a distance of fifty-five miles, and he charged me two hundred and fifty dollars, which was all the money I had. Father Ravalli was not at the Mission, but Father Jurada was, he also being a good surgeon. He told me that he could break the leg over again, but it would be shorter. He operated on my leg, and by the summer of 1865 I was able to work.

In 1867 I located the ranch where I am now, and have been ever since. It is like a dream to me when I think of the old trails I traveled over, forty years ago, and, on the other hand, it is a revelation to listen to the rumbling of the heavy trains that pass to and fro on the Montana Central railroad only a few miles from my door; while, looking in another direction, I see clouds of smoke arising and hear the whistle of the locomotives of the Great Falls and Canada railroad, and looking in still another direction I see the city of Great Falls and the towering smokestacks of its great smelters. Where once were the lone trails I helped to blaze through a wilderness inhabited only by wild beasts and savage men, I now see a flourishing city, and the country around me dotted with fine homes and prosperous towns.

While looking back, my imaginary view is tinged with sadness as I realize that the old days are gone forever; nevertheless my declining years are made contented and happy by the knowledge that I have done all that I could to convert this one-time wilderness into an empire, I now lay down the rifle of the pioneer and the pick and shovel of the prospector to pass the remainder of my days in the peace and content that comes from the consciousness of having done my best to help develop this western country that it might become the abiding place of an intelligent and prosperous people. And now, in the sunset of life, as I realize that before many years I shall strike the trail that leads “over the great divide,” I rejoice that I can leave to my children a name honored by being enrolled on the scroll of Montana’s pioneers.”

Now Mr. Brown is past seventy-five years of age and lives with his family on a farm. Sun River is his postoffice. He is a well-preserved man for his age and has a remarkably good memory. What I have written here is but a fraction of that which he told me that evening of what the West was forty-two years ago. The only way to get a true early history of a country is to get such a narrative from its pioneers, and surely John D. Brown should be counted as one of the early historians of the state of Montana.

ROBERT VAUGHN.
January 4, 1900.

A PIONEER MINISTER.

As the following was written for this book by “Brother Van,” it needs no introduction. The writer tells of the first services that he held in Montana--when he fought the Nez Perces as well as sin and the whole host of hell. He said:

“We reached Fort Benton by the steamer “Far West” on Sabbath morning, June 30, 1872, at 7 a. m. It was in the midst of a heavy rain. In making inquiries, we were told that we could have the court house in which to hold service. However, on examination, we found it to have a roof composed of native soil, in which there were some places where the water came through in great quantities. We were then told that a room had been prepared in which Father Van Gorp was to hold service that morning. In asking him for the use of the same room in the evening, he replied most courteously that he would use it in the morning, then we were welcome to use it as often as we might desire, so our first service in Montana was held that evening.

“There was a large congregation, composed of the business men, freighters and river men. There was only one lady in the congregation--Mrs. George Baker--now of St. Louis.

“Here I first met, and they were my first acquaintances in Montana, W. G. Conrad and C. E. Conrad, young men then full of business and energy. They, with others, gave us a most hearty welcome. The greater part of the freight for Montana then came by the Missouri river, and freighting was a great business from Fort Benton to other points in the territory.

“Leaving Fort Benton, after a journey of fifty-two miles over bleak prairie without habitation, except one lonely stage station, I came to Sun river valley. The first settler I met there was Mr. Robert Vaughn, a much respected and honored citizen. He was one of the earliest settlers of this great valley, which, at that time, was a part of Choteau county. I was indeed a stranger in a strange land, but I can never forget the hearty welcome accorded me by him. Though a bachelor, he knew how to give a welcome and make home pleasant to the young itinerant who had but very little money and whose best mode of travel was to go afoot.

“No person but he who has experienced it can appreciate what it is to come from a long journey after being exposed to the elements and hostile Indians, and then to receive such kind treatment. Among others who welcomed me at that time to Sun River, were the Largents, Strongs, Fords, Burchers and Browns--in fact all who resided in the little settlement treated me with kindness.

“At that time there roamed over those prairies great herds of buffaloes, antelopes and deer. The Indians were hostile, and great risks had to be taken to protect life and property. It is said that more of the early settlers were killed in what was then Choteau county, than in any other part of the state.

“The first religious service held at Sun River was conducted in the house of Mr. Charles Bull, who kindly threw open his door and invited the neighbors in. As we sang the old hymns and preached the gospel, there were many eyes dimmed with tears as recollections of the old home and the old home church came to memory. Without any solicitation on the part of the preacher, the people took up a very liberal offering and presented the same to him.

“It was at this time a visit was made to the Blackfeet and Piegan agency on the Teton river, and near where is now located the town of Choteau. Major Jesse Armitage was agent, and Mr. B. W. Sanders teacher. A hearty welcome was given and a very interesting service was held at that time with the employes and Indians.

“I made my first visit to Butte in May, 1874. All but ten of the population of Butte attended the service; the congregation numbered about forty. Rev. Hugh Duncan (now of sainted memory), one of the first pioneer preachers, who came to Alder gulch in 1863, was then pastor of that large circuit, and met me there. Mr. and Mrs. Reese Wampler entertained the preachers. A striking contrast between past and present--then about fifty, now about that many thousand.

“In 1876 the population of the territory was very much decreased, the Black Hills and Leadville excitements, then at their height, drew away many of the miners; others went East to see friends and attend the Centennial, which was held that year. In June of the same year the Custer massacre took place on the Little Big Horn.

“Those who remember attending Fourth of July celebrations that year can well call to mind the sorrow that overshadowed the homes of the Montana frontiersmen, for the war cloud commenced to gather over all the small and isolated settlements in this then new territory.

“Early in the summer of 1877, after some hard fought battles in Idaho, Chief Joseph and Looking Glass, with their band of Nez Perces Indians came over the mountains on the Lo Lo trail passing up the Bitter Root valley, and were encamped for a few days on the Big Hole river, when General Gibbon, with his soldiers from Fort Shaw and some citizen volunteers from the Bitter Root, met them in battle on the Big Hole, August 9th.

“On the next Sabbath we were at Bannock, where we held service that evening. Some of the men and nearly all of the women from the surrounding country were there for safety and others came in that night. One young man was wounded in the arm; others had escaped almost miraculously. That night fifteen of us volunteered to go out to Horse Prairie. Melvin Trask was selected as captain, and before sunrise we were on the move. We had information that some men were killed and others severely wounded at the ranches over in that beautiful valley, especially at the ranches of Montague, Winters and Mr. Hamilton’s. Mrs. Winters was in town. She said she was going with us; we said no, and persuaded her to remain, but when we were about twelve miles out she overtook us. She was a woman of fine form, her long, black hair hanging down her back, mounted on a very fine horse, and a revolver buckled on, and she knew how and was not afraid to use it.

“When we arrived at the ranch, about sixteen miles from Bannock, it was plain to be seen that there had been trouble there. One of their fine cows was shot in front of the house, feather and straw ticks cut open and their contents emptied in the front yard. I was selected to go with Mrs. Winters into the house. Just as we went into the kitchen there lay a man who had been shot four times. On first sight he had the appearance of her husband. Some thought at this juncture she would faint, but she said she could stand it as well as any of us; that she loved her husband and her home, and the sooner she knew the facts in the case the more reconciled she would be. From there we passed into another room where we found the dead form of Mr. Montague, the partner of Mr. Winters. Everything in the house was upset and broken. The question then came as to where her husband was, and that was the particular object of the search just then. A short distance from the house we found the body of Mr. Smith, pierced with five bullets. He left a widow and eight children. In another direction from the house was the body of Mr. Farnsworth, who was killed just before our arrival. We patched up the harness with some leather and ropes and hitched to a light wagon that had been left near the ranch, and started to Bannock with the four bodies, where they were all buried the next day, two of them by the Masonic order, of which they were worthy members.

“During the time that we were at the ranch, just across the creek (which was heavily skirted with willows and brush), there was a war party of Indians, from thirty to forty in number, yet they hesitated to cross and meet us, for our party had now increased to eighteen men, well armed. Mr. Winters had a very narrow escape from the Indians, having reached Bannock just before our party came in, much to the relief of Mrs. Winters. At the next ranch--Mr. Hamilton’s--he, with some others, also made narrow escapes. Mr. Cooper was killed close to his house. The next day General O. O. Howard and his command came into the prairie and camped at Mr. Martin Barrett’s ranch. W. A. Clark was captain of the Butte company of volunteers. He, with his company did good service for Montana at this perilous time.

“I first met the Rev. T. C. Ilif and the Rev. Mr. Riggin at Sheridan in August, 1873, at the funeral services of Charles Bateman, the only son of R. C. Bateman, who, at that time, lived at Sheridan. They, in company with Revs. J. A. Van Anda and Hugh Duncan, had just come by private conveyance from conference, which was held at Salt Lake City. The appointments that year were: J. A. Van Anda, presiding elder; W. C. Shippin, Helena; T. C. Ilif, Bozeman; Hugh Duncan, Missoula and Deer Lodge; Virginia City and Bannock, F. A. Riggin and the writer.

“At that first meeting we had a typical old-fashioned quarterly conference. The first conference of the Methodist church held in Montana was a district conference held in Helena in February, 1874. Two of the preachers attending this meeting came 150 miles on horseback.

“Some of the popular airs that were used at that time were: ‘Oh, the Prospect; It Is so Inviting;’ another: ‘The Gospel Train Is Coming, I Hear It Just At Hand.’

“There were no railroads in Montana at that time. The nearest was at Ogden, Utah. Many of the people were anxious to see a railroad, and that made this hymn particularly popular.”

At that time “Brother Van” was Rev. W. W. Van Orsdel of Pennsylvania, a young man full of faith and heroism. As soon as he landed in the ‘then’ ‘Wild and Woolly West,’ without hesitation he began his faithful mission by preaching his first sermon at Fort Benton, and this was the first protestant sermon in that town. He was now a stranger in a strange country, but he felt, ‘truly the Lord is in this.’ And, as he journeyed southward to the older settlements, through rude mining camps and among rough frontiersmen, the people everywhere gave him a cordial welcome, and every place he went, he was prompt in attending to his “Master’s business.”

In 1890 he was appointed presiding elder of the new Great Falls district; in 1892 superintendent of the North Montana Mission; and “now” (1898) he is presiding elder of the Western district, Montana conference, with headquarters at Helena.

ROBERT VAUGHN.
Jan. 4, 1898.

AN OLD LETTER.

Those who settled in a new country, and located in a new settlement, will agree with me, as a rule, that every one was ready to assist another when in his power to do so; no class nor any of the faction element existed; all were happy and attended to their own affairs. Whenever a dance or a church social was given, all were invited to attend, and, invariably, their presence was a proof of their acceptance.

The early settlements in Montana were of this character, and the small settlement in the valley of the Sun river was no exception. I remember when the Benton Record and the River Press, both published at Fort Benton, made their first appearance. Every family and bachelor in the settlement subscribed for those papers. Your humble servant, who then lived in the extreme outskirts of the settlement, was a correspondent for those journals.

When writing about matters of interest I was always careful to get the facts and sign my name to the article written.

But for the amusement of myself and the people of the little settlement (who were one and all my friends), sometimes a story of the following nature would appear in one or the other of those papers, with a fictitious name attached to it. At the request of an old settler, who has one of those stories referred to in his scrap-book, I here give a copy of the same. It was written in the cold winter of 1880, when the snow was very deep and many cattle starving:

A STRANGER IN THE LAND.

Being a stranger in the valley and anxious to become acquainted with the people, I saddled my horse to go to the crossing. It was one day last month, and, not being accustomed to Montana winters, I soon discovered that I was not wrapped sufficiently to stand such polar storms. Coming to a house where lived a German family, I asked if I could borrow a scarf or something to cover my ears; with the heart of a liberal soul the German told me to come in, and handed me a shawl.

“Rather cold day,” said I.

“Fery cold; it is durty-dree pelow zero, and I have no beer to give a stranger; des am awful country,” said he.

I made a new start, feeling very comfortable, and determined to speak to every one I met, and I did not expect to meet many but strangers, for Mr. H. and family were the only ones I knew in the neighborhood. As I was passing the next house, near the road there was a man repairing a gate, with a fur cap pulled over his ears.

“Good morning,” said I, and he nodded. Stopping my horse, I asked:

“Do you think that it is going to storm?”

“Hey,” said the man at the gate.

“Do you think this cold weather is going to last much longer?”

“What you say?” asked he.

I was getting discouraged, but as a last resort I asked in a loud tone:

“Do you think I had better go?”

“I go tomorrow,” he answered.

Giving my horse the spur, I caught up with an old freighter; he said that he was making regular trips between Sun River and Fort Benton. I remarked that it was rather cold weather for freighting.

“Oh, this is nothing,” he exclaimed; “in ’63 I wintered on Snake river, and when I unyoked the cattle I had to drive a wedge between the two oxen to get them apart, and at the camp fire I had a long stick holding my coffeepot in the flames to boil, and it turned cold so sudden that I had to let go of the stick and rub my nose, being afraid I was going to freeze it. I ran in the wagon and went to bed without any supper, and when I got up the next morning the smoke stood like the trunk of an old dead tree, and the coffeepot was still in the flames, frozen stiff to the ground; breathing the cold blast that very night it froze all my teeth, and as I was getting up that morning they dropped out of my mouth like corn from a patent corn sheller.”

When he told of freezing his teeth I believed him, for he had not a tooth in his head. I thought I would not say a word to anyone about cold weather again, and I gave my horse the rein.

Arriving near a large white house to the left of the road, I noticed smoke coming from the chimney, as if there was a good fire. Tying my horse to the fence, I went to the door and knocked; a man opened it, and asked me to come in and get warm. He went out to split some wood, and, while rubbing my hands before the red hot stove, I noticed milk pans, churn, etc., and this convinced me that it was a milk ranch. Soon he came in with some dry wood, and his wife came in from the pantry.

“Can I get a glass of milk to drink,” I asked him.

“I don’t know, ask the old woman,” said he.

“Yes,” said she, “of course you can.”

While drinking it, I asked him again:

“Do you think we are going to have another snow storm?”

“Well, I really don’t know. Ask the old woman, she can tell.”

“I think we are going to get one right away,” said she.

“Are you going to the debate tonight?”

“Well, I really don’t know. Ask the old woman, she can tell you.”

“I don’t think we shall,” said she.

Again I asked: “How many of your cattle have died this winter?”

“Well, I really don’t know. Ask the old woman, she knows.”

“About half of what we had,” she replied.

Just then a troop of boys came running into the room. “Are these your boys?” said I.

“Don’t know. Ask the old woman, she knows.”