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diff --git a/old/60844-0.txt b/old/60844-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3c117bd..0000000 --- a/old/60844-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14320 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Memory's Storehouse Unlocked, True Stories, by -John T. Bristow - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll -have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using -this ebook. - - - -Title: Memory's Storehouse Unlocked, True Stories - Pioneer Days In Wetmore and Northeast Kansas - -Author: John T. Bristow - -Release Date: December 4, 2019 [EBook #60844] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMORY'S STOREHOUSE *** - - - - -Produced by Allan Shumaker - - - - - -MEMORY’S STOREHOUSE UNLOCKED - -TRUE STORIES - -By John T. Bristow - -Pioneer Days In Wetmore And Northeast Kansas - -January — 1948 - -WETMORE, KANSAS and FRESNO, CALIFORNIA 1005 Ferger Avenue - -image2 - - -“The SPECTATOR FORCE”— In “GAY NINETIES” This book does not carry the -actual work of these pictured Associates—but it does bring them into the -writings. The Author owes much to them for helpful co-operation during -our newspaper regime—and maybe also, if the truth were known, they have -been, in a manner, quite helpful in the actual writing. - -The book is dedicated to the memory of them. - -INDEX “The SPECTATOR FORCE”—In “GAY NINETIES” - -INDEX - -SUNSHINE AND ROSES - -Wetmore - -The Mineral Spring - -Wetmore in 1869-70 - -Our New Temporary Home - -Roses The Girls Didn’t Get - -LITTLE FILLERS - -CONSIDERATE KID - -THE BOY OF YESTERYEAR - -CAREFUL PLANNING - -RED RIFLEMEN - -A TWOTIMER - -TEXAS CATTLE AND RATTLESNAKES - -WATCH YOUR LANGUAGE - -DONE IN CALIFORNIA - -THE OLD SWIMMING HOLE - -MISS INTERPRETED - -THE “CIRCUS” LAYOUT - -Honesty—The Better Policy - -INNOCENT FALSEHOOD - -FATHER AND SONS - -PLUGGING FOR HER DADDY - -THE STRANGE CASE OF MR. HENRY, et al. - -SMALLPOX PESTILENCE - -CORRECT VISION - -GRAPES—RIPENED ON FRIENDSHIP’S VINE - -LOCAL “BOARD OF TRADE” - -FAMILY AFFAIR - -COMPLIMENTARY TO THE “KIDS” - -ANOTHER BRIGHT LITTLE STAR - -LLEWELLYN CASTLE - -MORE ABOUT THE COLONY FOLK - -HAPPY DAZE - -ODD CHARACTERS—COLORFUL, PICTURESQUE - -MY BEST INVESTMENT - -THE VIGILANTES - -MOUNT ERICKSON - -TURNING BACK THE PAGES - -WANTS INFORMATION - -Fix me: MEMORY’S STOREHOUSE UNLOCKED - -DESERT CHIVALRY - -THE WIFE—AT GOODSPRINGS - -MONEY MUSK - -GONE WITH THE WIND - -WHITE CHRISTMAS - -UNCLE NICK’S BOOMERANG - -SHORT CHANGED - -SUNSHINE AND ROSES Because of World Unrest and conditions with the -Printing Fraternity what they are, this job has lain on the shelf for -over a year. Most of the articles are dated, and appear just as written -and published. Later unpublished articles remain as written at the time -of preparation. Except for 1 story, and a few “Notes” the issue bears -the date of January, 1948—and with situations running back into pioneer -times. - -THE AUTHOR. - -This foreword is being written in California—in the shadow of Campbell -mountain, a 1700-foot detachment from lofty Sierra Nevada range, -25 miles east of Fresno, on Christmas Day, 1947—six days before my -eighty-sixth birthday. - -I am writing on an envelope—and a used one, at that—out in the open, in -Anna’s and Virginia Anne’s rose garden, at the ranch home of my nephew, -Sam Bristow, from whose orchard came the choice oranges sampled by our -Wetmore friends at Christmastimes. - -I am writing in the rose garden for the same reason I Imagine Gray’s -Elegy was written in the Country Churchyard—for privacy. My nephew’s -home is filled with relatives, seventeen by actual count, waiting for -the call to a turkey dinner. - -Then, too, I want to get in a word about this most unusual Christmas -Day—something seldom seen in my cold climate home state. As a rule -you just don’t write on a tab out in the open, nor pluck roses in the -wintertime, back home. - -Though, on Christmas Day, 1937, I cut four lovely long-stemmed perfectly -developed Radiant Beauty (red) roses from a single unprotected plant, -the one blooming plant among hundreds, in my rose garden in Northeast -Kansas. And, to make it appear all the more unusual, Radiant Beauty -was brought out in 1934 as a hot-house rose. Also, I needed a little -data—and I got it from Sam in the rose garden. And this seemed the -opportune time to write a few lines. - -It will not, of course, be a “White Christmas” here as is likely back -home—never is in the San Joaquin valley. Sunshine and Roses enhance the -beauty of the day here. But farther up—up in the high Sierras, up toward -Mount Whitney, the highest point in the United States, only a few hours -away, there will be snow aplenty today, tomorrow—and forever. - -This book is not my memoirs. It is not a family tree. It is not a -complete history. But it is, sketchily, all of these things. The book is -not a connected narrative. The articles, each complete within timely as -of the date of the situation. Also, some of the characters depicted as -living at the time of the writings have since died—but the stories are -printed as originally written. And for clear understanding the articles -should be read consecutively, as they appear in the book. - -These feature articles, pertaining mostly to Wetmore and Northeast -Kansas, have all been written—some by request—for the home papers since -my retirement from the newspaper field, in 1903. The first one, “The Boy -of Yesteryear” was printed in W. F. Turrentine’s Wetmore Spectator, May -29, 1931. - -One or more of these articles have been printed in George and Dora -Adriance’s Seneca Courier-Tribune—and, later, in Jay Adriance’s -Courier-Tribune; General Charles H. Browne’s Horton Headlight; Will T. -Beck’s Holton Recorder: Ray T. Ingalls’ Goff Advance; Senator Arthur -Capper’s Topeka Daily Capital; and the Atchison Daily Globe. And all of -them, with twelve exceptions, have appeared in the Wetmore Spectator. -The twelve exceptions are recent writings—since the Spectator’s -demise—rounding out topics previously introduced. - -Pictured with the writer in the forepart of this book are two of the -principals of the old Spectator force during o ur newspaper regime -through the “Gay Nineties.” While referred to often in the articles they -had no part in the writing thereof. Regretfully, they were both dead -before e beginning of these writings. - -Besides these two capable assistants, our printing office had something -no other paper could boast. Our “itchyfoot” Devil—for a short time -only—was a personality of high adventure. Like Nellie Bly, of (National) -magazine fame, and Ed Howe of (Atchison) Daily Newspaper fame, Bert -Wilson, better known as “Spike” Wilson, went around the world. But -unlike Nellie, backed by a magazine in a race against time; and Ed, -teeming with newspaper dollars, our “Spike” bummed his way, with a -minimum of work—mostly dish-washing—all the twenty-five thousand miles -around the globe while still in his teens. “Spike” aspired to become a -printer for the advantage it would afford him in his desire to see the -world. A journeyman printer could always get a lift from any country -newspaper in those days. Old Busbee, Nationally known “tramp printer” -dropped in on us one time. He was given a day’s work—and a half-week’s -salary. He tried to discourage “Spike”—and maybe he did. But I think his -woe-begone looks was the greater influence. Busbee came this way three -times within my recollection. “Spike” Wilson was the stepson of “Mule” -Gibbons, who came here with his family from Corning in the early -90’s—and several years later moved to Holton. - -President Grant’s Congress — 1876 —memorialized the state legislatures -to have County Histories written for the benefit of posterity. Nemaha -County has had three—but not one of them touched on the subjects covered -in this volume. Usually local histories are compiled for profit — -colored, biased; boosting individuals who are willing to pay for a -write-up. - -There is no angling for profit in this work. - -These stories are now printed in book form to preserve them for their -historic value. The book is not for sale. It is my gift to the home -folks. - -The books are costing me about ten dollars a copy—and, naturally, I -won’t have enough of them to be passed out promiscuously. I shall place -them in the schools, and libraries, and with the newspapers in the -county—and with friends here and there, where all the home folks can -have the chance to read the book, should they so desire. I am sure that -I have more friends than I have copies of the book, and I trust that -those who do not receive a copy will not feel that, in my estimation, -they do not rate one. - -Wetmore It was not an excess of water, as one might suppose, that gave -Wetmore its name. Nor was it, as some have been led to believe, because -a certain Captain Wetmore, with a number of soldiers during the Civil -War chanced to camp over night at our ever-flowing mineral spring. Art -Taylor says his grandmother told him that such was the case. - -It has been generally understood all along that the town was named after -a New York official of the railroad which came through here in 1867. -Confirmed, this would seem to kill the Taylor version of it, by at least -two years. The matter, I believe, was settled for all time a couple of -summers back when a New York woman, returning by automobile from the -Pacific coast, called at the Wetmore post office to mail some letters. -She told Postmaster Jim Hanks that the town was named after her father, -who was an official of the railroad—and that she had driven a hundred -miles out of her way to have her letters bear the Wetmore postmark. - -I have seen Wetmore grow—and slip. Compact at the time of my entry -seventy-nine years ago, occupying less than a half block, the town -spread out through the years to a space of one-half mile by nearly one -mile—not quite solid. The town became a City in 1884, with Dr. J. -W. Graham as first Mayor—and at its peak had a population 687. The -population at this time—1948—is 373. - -There is not a person in this City today who was here when I came. -Gone, all gone now. And nearly all dead. Something more than a tinge of -sadness accompanies this thought. There is not a building of any kind -standing that was here when I came—not a tree but what has been planted -since that day. In truth, there is nothing, not a thing left, save the -eternal hills and the creek which flows through the south edge of the -City that antedates the time I came here. - -Yet, I do not feel old. And should any of my friends choose to wish me -anything, let them wish with me that I never do grow old. - -The Mineral Spring To enlarge a bit on our ever-flowing mineral spring! -It was—and is—near the creek in a natural grove of big trees at the -southwest limits of Wetmore. Nathaniel Morris, an early-day merchant, -had an analysis of the water made—and talked of developing the spring -into a health resort. The water was pronounced medicinally good — mostly -iron, I believe. But, beyond attracting large celebration crowds, his -dream was never realized. However, Morris induced the railroad to run -in an “excursion” train of flat-cars canopied with heavy-foliaged brush -against a blazing summer sun, on the occasion of one Fourth of July -celebration. Green leafed brush also covered some of the stands on the -south margin of the grove. Green brush was the standard picnic coverings -in those days. - -Then, later, Charley Locknane, Jay W. Powers, and Jim Liebig, undertook -to popularize the spring—and incidentally, make some money for -themselves. They invested considerable money in improvements. Locknane -was a budding promoter with considerable nerve—and a pull with the -railroad. He caused a special excursion train to be run out from Kansas -City, $1.50 fare for the round trip. Also, Charley organized a Girl Band -of twenty pieces, which furnished music for the opening picnic—and many -occasion thereafter. The Girl Band gained national acclaim. Locknane was -State Deputy for the Modern Woodmen of America—and took his Girl Band to -the Head Camp at Colorado Springs in 1901, and to Minneapolis in 1902. -The members were: Dora Geyer, Mollie Neely, Nora Shuemaker, Mabel Geyer, -Phoena Liebig, Iva Hudson, Daisy Terry, Blanche Eley, Kate Searles, -Truda Berridge, Edith Lapham, Pearl Nance, Maude Cole, Jennie Scott, -Belle Searles, Grace Maxwell, Ruby Nance, Myrtle Graham, Mrs. Ella Rice -and Mrs. Carrie Glynn, of McLouth, Kansas, were numbers five and six -in the line-up as written on the back of an enlarged photograph now in -possession of Mrs. P. G. Worthy—formerly Myrtle Graham. - -The dance pavilion was well patronized between celebrations—and the -town populace turned out of evenings for a stroll to the spring. It was -really popular. Then a flood, an unusually big flood, swept the park -clean of all improvements. The large frame dance-hall came to anchor on -a projection of land on the present Bill Winkler farm nearly a mile down -the creek. The town jester said that as the pavilion floated away the -piano was automatically playing “Over the Ocean Waves.” - -The mineral spring is still here—but that’s all. - -At one of the big celebrations about the turn of the century a farmer -brought his family to town in a spring wagon. He tied his team on the -town-side of the picnic grounds, leaving a three-year-old child asleep -in the wagon. When the parents returned after taking in the picnic, -the child was gone. Then the picnickers began a search which lasted -throughout the night. All roads were covered for four or five miles -out. One searching party went four miles west on the railroad track—then -turned back, believing a small child could not travel that far. The -section men out Wetmore found the mangled body of the child in a small -wash by the side of the railroad about a half-mile beyond the point -abandoned by the searchers. An early morning freight train had bumped -it off a low bridge. Then there was much speculation as to how a small -child could have traveled that far—even hints, unwarranted suspicion, of -foul help. Then there was a story afloat about the conductor whose train -had struck the child. When told of the killing, it was claimed, he cried -and said had he known a child was lost along the track he would have -walked ahead the train. - -Wetmore in 1869-70 There were only eleven buildings and thirty-four -people Wetmore when I came here with my parents from our Wolfley Creek -farm home in the fall of 1869. - -There was one general store owned by Morris Brothers. Uliam Morris, with -his wife Eliza and daughter Nannie, and his brother Nathaniel, lived -over the store. Kirk Wood had a blacksmith shop, a small home, his wife -Euphemia and two children, Riley and Jay. Kirk’s brother Jay lived with -the family. M. P. M. Cassity, lawyer, owned his home and rental house, -had a wife—off and on—and a son, George. Martin Peter Moses Cassity’s -second marriage with his Griselle (Wheeler), the birth of Eddie, and the -final parting, were after we came. - -James Neville, section foreman, had a residence, his wife Sarah, and -five children—William, George, Mary Ann, Jo Ann, and Mahlen. Dominic -Norton, section hand, had six motherless children — Anna, Kate, Bridget, -Ellen, Mollie, and Michael. Mike Smith, a plasterer, lived with the -Nortons in the section house. Ursula Maxwell, a widow, with her son -Granville and daughter Lizzie, lived in her own home. Ursula’s daughter -Maggie, married to Jim Cardwell, was also temporarily in her home at -this time. Samuel Slossen was building a hotel. He had a wife and a son, -George. And there was a railroad station, and an agent named Catlin. -Also a school house, and a teacher—John Burr. - -The family of Peter Isaacson, deceased, in a farm home separated from -the town by a street, were considered as town folk. Here lived the -mother (married to A. Anderson) and four of her children—Andy, Edward, -Irving, and Matilda. Anderson had two children, Oscar and Emily, living -in the home. William and Alma were born later. - -Matilda Isaacson, a very pretty girl, later, married Alfred Hazeltine. -By reason of his living in a farm home on the opposite side of town, -Alfred was also considered as belonging. Well, in fact, Alfred did live -in town several years prior to his marriage. We roomed together at the -Overland Hotel when he was engaged in business, partner in the Buzan, -Hazeltine & Hough Lumber Company, and I was clerking in Than -Morris’ store. Our family was then — ten years after first coming to -Wetmore—doing a three-year stretch on a portion of the Charley Hazeltine -farm west of Alfred’s place, beyond the timber on the south side of the -creek. And I was working out a store bill. Father still worked at his -trade in town, but he could go home before dark; and, anyway, he wasn’t -afraid of Erickson’s ghost—nor panthers. More about Erickson’s ghost and -the panthers, later. My work kept me in the store until 10 o’clock, at -night. After marrying, Alfred Hazeltine built a home in town, the house -now owned by Adam Ingalls. And later he bought the Charley Hazeltine -120-acres adjoining his farm, and moved back to the country. His brother -Charley and family went to Payette, Idaho. Alfred Hazeltine was a fine -man. He was deacon in the Baptist Church. One time when a protracted -meeting was in progress, he said to me, “By-damn, You, you ought to join -the Church.” - -Andrew J. Maxwell, with his wife Lizzie and two children, Demmy and -May, and, at this time, the estranged wife of Elisha Maxwell, lived on -a homestead adjoining town-and, like the Isaacsons and Andersons and -Alfred Hazeltine, were regarded as town folk. Elisha Maxwell, brother -of Andy, lived part time with his mother in town, as did also his -wife. Elisha’s wife was the daughter of Matt Randall, then living near -Ontario, seven miles south-west of Wetmore. There was much in common -between the town folk and those borderites. Let it be a picnic or a -dog-fight they were all on hand. Altogether they made one big-shall I -say—happy family. This, however, strictly speaking, would not be quite -right. Gus Mayer built the first residence in Wetmore—the Neville -dwelling on the corner where the First National Bank now stands. His -daughter Lillie (Mrs. Peter Cassity) was the first child born in the -town—though Irving Isaacson was born earlier in a temporary shack near -the present depot before the town was established. - - -There was a one-room school house on the site of the present City hall, -with one teacher, John Burr—in 1869. I was nearly eight years old -then, and my brother Charley was a little over nine. This was to be our -first—and last — school. Charley died at the age of eighteen; and I was -out of school—not graduated, not expelled, but out—before the shift to -the present location on the hilltop. - - -While our home was being built in Wetmore on the lot where Hart’s locker -is now, the family found shelter in a one-room, up-and-down rough -pine board shanty in hollow west of the graveyard, on the Andy Maxwell -homestead—the farm now owned and occupied by Orville Bryant. This little -“cubbyhole” was originally built to house Andy ’ s brother Elisha—known -here as “The Little Man” — and his bride. - -Charley and I followed a cow-path through all prairie grass all the way -from the shack — about a half mile — to the school house. And during -that first winter, after the path had been obliterated by a big snow -which drifted and packed solidly over the board fence enclosing the -school grounds, bearing up pupils — even horses and sleighs zoomed over -the drifted in fence—we skimmed over the white in a direct air line to -the school, with not a thing in the way. - -Our parents were from the deep South, and on the farm Charley and I had -no playmates other than our younger brothers, Sam, Dave, and Nick—even -the hired hand on the Wolfley Creek farm, Ben Summers, was a Tennessean -— hence we brought into a school already seven-ways-to-the-bad, in -language, just one more type of bad English. - -Many of the other pupils were children of immigrants — from Germany, -England, Ireland, Wales, and the three Scandinavian countries — whose -picked-up English was maybe not so good as our own. In those days -we learned from our associates rather than from books—that is, -unconsciously became imitators—and the result, in most cases, was not -promising. My mentor was a Swede girl several years my senior. “Tilda” -Isaacson was neat, sweet, and sincerity compounded. She would tell -me, “You youst don’t say it that way here, my leetle Yonnie.” This, of -course, was the first runoff. In time, our Wetmore school was to rank -with the best. And for all I know maybe it did then. - -The old Wetmore school made history — history of a kind. An incident of -those eventful years having decidedly bad-English flavor occurred after -John Burr had been succeeded by D. B. Mercer, who came to us from a -homestead up in the Abbey neighborhood between here and Seneca. Mercer -gave one of his pupils a well-earned whipping one forenoon. At the -noon hour, the boy’s older brother danced up and down the aisle in -the school-room, singing, “Goodie, goodie, popper’s goin’ to lick the -teacher.” - -That dancing boy was Clifford Ashton. - -Soon after school had taken up in the afternoon, Mr. Ashton, late of -London, walked in unannounced. He was moderately docile in presenting -his grievance and the teacher, not to be outdone by this green -Englishman, treated his caller civilly. The trouble seemed to be -amicably settled. But the teacher’s mild manner had emboldened the -Englishman. As a parting stab, in an acrimonious monotone without -stopping for breath or punctuation, Ashton delivered the ultimatum: “But -if you ever w’ip one of my children again sir I shall surely ’ ave to -w’ip you.” - -This was a mistake — a real “John Bull” blunder, Mercer was a large, -muscular man. With a single pass he knocked the Englishman cold right -there in the school room. Ashton fell almost at my feet. When he -had come up out o f his stupor, still blinking and grimacing, Ashton -bellowed, “I shall see a solicitor about this!” - -“See him and bedamned,” bawled Mercer. “Now get out!” - -After he had become seasoned, Ashton was really a fine fellow, rather -above the average of his countrymen in intelligence. And he reared a -fine family of boys and girls — Clifford, Anna, Eva, Stanley, Horace, -and Vincent. Ashton was a carpenter. - -At another time, James Neville rushed unceremoniously into the -schoolroom and hurled a big rock at Mercer’s head, barely missing. The -rock tore a big hole in the blackboard back of the teacher. Neville was -a powerful man. Just what the grievance was, and how a lively fight was -averted, has slipped my memory—though I rather suspect Neville did not -tarry long after he had failed to make a hit with the rock. - -These two infractions, and many more, passed as being only by-plays -incidental to a good school, as interpreted by those pristine patrons. - -Andy Maxwell’s home was on the hill west of the shack. But Andy did not -live there long after we came—in fact, he was off the place for keeps -even before our house in town was ready for occupancy. Mary Massey, -unmarried sister of Mrs. Maxwell, as well as the estranged wife of -Elisha Maxwell, was at this time in the home—altogether too many Women -to be in one man’s home. Mary, a close observer, had said she’d see a -man of her’s and that other woman both in h — l before she’d play second -fiddle in her own home. - -“Second fiddle” in this sense was of course a figurative term having -dire implications. Then, too, Lou Hazeltine, a sister-in-law by reason -of a first marriage with a brother of the Massey sisters, had her say. -It was critical. - -It occurs to me that I have seen in print a recent version of an old -quotation or saying, often expressed then, which, in line with Mary’s -blow-off, defined the situation admirably. It read: “Hell hath no -music like a woman playing second fiddle.” For the text of the original -quotation, ask any oldtimer—or you may substitute “fury” for music, and -“scorned” for playing second fiddle, and you will have it. - -These facts were gleaned while spending the day with my mother in Lou -Hazeltine’s home. Lou had said to my mother, as was customary at the -time, “Bring the children and stay all day.” So we were duly scrubbed -and dressed up for the occasion. I think Lou wanted to unburden herself. -But how she could have thought the children would be interested in such -topic of conversation is beyond me. True, there was her daughter Lizzie -Massey, about my age, for company—but Lizzie behaved as though she -thought she might miss something, and paid no attention to her mother’s -frequent admonitions, “You children run along outside and play.” I think -Lou was unduly worked-up over the matter. She would look at us children, -and then put her hand up to the side of her mouth, come down momentarily -off her “high-horse” almost to a whisper, and channel the choice bits to -mother. I think my mother would have been satisfied with less than was -said—and certainly, as a newcomer in town, she did not want to be -the one to spread gossip. However, she repeated it all, with apparent -relish, to my father, adopting Lou’s adept manner of, shielding it from -the children with her hand. - -The Massey women decided that Andy’s sympathies for his estranged -sister-in-law were simply “outlandish”—and Mrs. Andy invoked the law on -him. - -Constable Lon Huff started to take him to Seneca, but when they came -to the creek crossing, a ford, in my Uncle Nick Bristow’s timber, Andy -slipped off his shackled boots, jumped out of the buggy and made his -getaway, barefooted, over the snow-covered ground. My cousin, Burrel -Bristow, followed Andy’s barefoot tracks through the woods and counted -the trees barked by the constable’s gun. - -That Alonzo—he was the shrewd one. Shot up the trees, he did—and brought -home Andy’s shackled boots. - -I liked Andy—and, though I was never to see him again, as glad that he -had gotten away from the constable. I think that nearly all the other -people here were glad it, too. And, moreover, I’ll bet Andy did not -travel far without foot-protection. - -You may be sure Andy did not come home to his wife. Lou Hazeltine told -my mother that the arrest was big mistake. Charley Hazeltine, Lou’s -Swede husband, said “The vimens was yust yumpin at collusions.” Elisha’s -wife and Andy’s daughter May left Wetmore soon thereafter. Demmy -remained here with his grandmother for several years—then went to -his father at Spearfish, South Dakota, from which place Andy was then -operating a stage line to Deadwood. - -With Ursula Maxwell and Charley Hazeltine as long-range intermediaries, -Andy Maxwell waived claim to farm equipment, livestock, and all other -belongings, in favor of Lizzie Maxwell. All Andy asked—and received—were -his children, and the promise of no contest in two divorces, Lizzie -Massey Maxwell remained here. She sold the farm improvements to Dr. W. -F. Troughton for $50. Troughton filed on the homestead in 1872. - -In the meantime Andy, with his daughter May and Mrs. Elisha, traveling -out of Miles City, Montana, in covered wagons, with four other men, -were attacked by Sioux and Nez Perce Indians—the siege lasting for three -days. The newspapers said at the time, it was the hardest-fought Indian -battle of all times. - -A three-column account of that Indian attack, written reminiscently by -a correspondent of the Chicago Times seventeen years after it had taken -place, found its way by mere chance into the Wetmore Spectator—right -back to the old home of the defenders — through the medium of the -Western Newspaper Union, Kansas City, Mo., from which auxiliary the -Spectator then got its inside pages ready-printed. It was a hair-raising -story—one that could be read with interest again and again. - -Incidentally, Andy Maxwell had Indian blood in his own veins. His mother -told me she was a quarter-breed. She had Indian features. - -Then there was another Indian story having Wetmore connections. I have -in my newspaper files Catherine German-Swerdfeger’s own story — nearly -a full page written for the Spectator — of the slaying by the Indians -of her father and mother, a brother and two sisters; and the capture of -herself and three sisters—Sophie, Julia, and Addie. John German, from -Blue Ridge, Georgia, with his family, was traveling by ox-team and -covered wagon, through Kansas on the way to Colorado at the time of the -attack. - -Catherine’s description of the abandonment of her two little sisters, -aged five and six, after two weeks on the move by the roving band of -Indians, on the then uninhabited plains somewhere between southwestern -Kansas and the main Cheyenne camp in Texas, in the midst of a big herd -of buffalo, where, after following on foot until well nigh exhausted, -as mounted Indians forced the two older girls on ponies away from the -scene, the little girls lived—no, existed—for six weeks, in October -and November weather, with no shelter other than a clay bank, on the -leavings of soldiers, (cracker crumbs, scattered grains of corn, and -hackberries), in a deserted camp, by a creek, would wring your heart. - -Catherine’s personal explanation to me was that the little girls, when -down to the last morsel of edible scrapings, had difficulty in deciding -which one should eat it. The little one thought the older one should -have it—that it might enable her to live to get away. It would appear -that the little one had already resigned herself to her fate. The older -one decided it rightly belonged to the baby. And neither of them ate it. -It was only a dirty kernel of corn, Catherine said in her article: “God -had a hand in that work, and I believe you will agree with me when I say -He wrought a miracle.” - -And I, for one, certainly do agree. - -Several inaccurate accounts of the fate of this unfortunate family have -been written—one by a professor, who evidently did not have the full -facts, as text for the Wichita schools. And another one, as told to -a reporter for the Kansas City Journal by “Uncle” Jimmy Cannon, an -interpreter on Government pay-rolls, stationed in Kansas (the rider of -“Little Gray Johnny”) in which he himself, in a daring dash on a band of -Indians, rescued one of the little girls — which, in fact, he didn’t do -at all, according to Catherine. - -Actually, it was this story of “Uncle” Jimmy’s that caused Catherine -to write the true story of the massacre and of their captivity, for my -paper. Catherine said it was soldiers under Lieutenant Baldwin of the -Fifth Infantry who found her little sisters, sick, emaciated, on the -verge of starvation, in that same deserted camp, which was really -no camp at all—only an overnight camp site. And though soldiers were -constantly on the trail of the Indians, there was no spectacular dash -by the military in the rescue the two older girls. When first taken into -the main Cheyenne camp, in Texas, Chief Stonecalf told Catherine, who -was then nearly eighteen years old, that he was grieved know that his -people would do such a deed; that he would, Soon as possible, deliver -them to the Cheyenne and Arapahoe Agency—and that he did. Catherine -had much praise for Chief Stonecalf, and General Nelson A. Miles, their -efforts in liberating them. Under Indian custom, girls were regarded as -loot, and had to be bought from their captors. - -Jim Smith, now living in the west part of Wetmore, went to school — at -the Porter school house on Wolfley-creek—with the two younger German -girls. Pat Corney, living on a farm adjacent to the J. P. Smith farm, -was guardian of the girls. - -Addie—Mrs. Frank Andrews—is still living, or was a few years ago, at -Berwick in Nemaha county. A few years back, Mrs. Andrews was invited to -appear on a radio program in New York, with all expenses paid—but -she did not go. Amos Swerdfeger, husband of Catherine—and son of Adam -Swerdfeger, who was among the first settlers here—died at Atascadero, -California, Nov. 12, 1921, age 73. Catherine died in 1932, age 75. - -These two Indian stories would make good reading now—and while they are -in line with my endeavor to give a true picture of the old days, they -are not included in this volume. Nothing but my own writings, since -my retirement from the newspaper field appears in this book. However, -slight reference to those two Indian attacks were made in my more -recently published stories, which are reproduced in this book—just as -they were written at the time. Many changes have taken place in the -meantime. - -After it became generally known here that the defenders of that fiercely -fought Indian battle in Montana were former Wetmore citizens, many of -our people came in from time to time to read the story. That page of the -old files is pretty well thumbed. - -About fifty years ago, a family by the name of Cummings came here and -lived for a short while in the northwest part of town. Mrs. Cummings -said she was the daughter of Andy Maxwell. I did not learn her given -name, but supposed she was May. She called at the Spectator office, and -read the story. - -Then, in February, 1939, Mrs. Nettie E. Rachford, Westwood, California, -wrote the Spectator asking for a copy of the story, saying she was the -daughter of Andy Maxwell. I then copied the story from my files, and W. -F. Turrentine printed it again in the Spectator, February 1939. - -This reprint of the Maxwell story caused Dr. LeVere Anderson, born and -reared on a farm five miles southwest of Wetmore—now established in -Miles City, Montana—to bring the matter of that Indian fight to the -attention of the Miles City Chamber of Commerce. The Chamber was at -that very time sponsoring a homecoming jubilee—and after an exchange -of letters between Miles City and Wetmore, Andy Maxwell, then living in -Santa Ana, California, was invited to be the Chamber’s honored guest—but -he was unable to make the trip. Andy Maxwell died at Santa Ana in 1941, -at the age of ninety-nine. - -Our New Temporary Home Earlier in this writing I mentioned the fact -that our family had three years on the Hazeltine farm. My older brother, -Charley, contracted “quick consumption.” There was a prevailing notion -that the scent of new pine lumber and fresh country air would be helpful -in effecting a cure. So my father made a contract with Charley Hazeltine -for the erection of a new house under the cottonwoods on the hill near -the old log-house which had been the home of father of the Hazeltine -brothers—with a three-year lease on 40 acres of farm land. - - -The new house had plenty of exposed pine lumber and fresh air all right. -It was a box-house made of barn-boards, unplastered, with sleeping -quarters in the loft, comparable to the hay-mow in a barn, reached by -a ladder from one corner of the ground-floor room. On occasions, snow -sifted through the cracks in the loft, covering my bed completely. The -lower room was more closely built, which was living room, kitchen, and -sleeping quarters for my parents—and the babies. There was a standard -sized bed, and a trundle bed—the latter shoved under the regular bed in -the daytime, and pulled out to the middle of the room at night. It was -a replica of many another home of that day, only the others could have -added protection of plastered walls. Then too, it was Dr. Thomas Milam’s -belief that Charley would show improvement in the new home with the -coming of spring. But, come time for the swelling of the buds of those -old cottonwoods in the spring of 1879, the “Grim Reaper” beat the -carpenters to the finish. Charley had died before the new house was -ready for occupancy. And that made long lonesome hours for me on the -farm. Charley had an enviable record as an exemplary boy—and, try as I -might, I have not been able to follow wholly in his foot-steps. But I am -sure that my memory of him has helped to make me what I am. - -Roses The Girls Didn’t Get Reference has been made to my Rose Garden. -I have grown them, you might say, as a hobby—and for the pleasure of -giving the flowers to my friends. Bushels of them have gone in the -past to the Cemetery on Memorial Day, and not a few to sick rooms, to -churches, and to local society functions. - -The fame of my Rose Garden has traveled far—to California and to -Florida. Proof: The two little girls of Shady Mitchell, a Tennessean, -who conducted a general store in Wetmore some years back and lived -across the street west from the school grounds in the house now owned -and occupied by Prof. Howard V. Bixby—in their school work at their new -home in Orlando, Florida, wrote in collaboration a theme, beginning: -“There was a man living in our town in Kansas who grew roses just to -give them away to his friends—” This is the extent of the essay which -has been relayed to me—but I’ve no doubt that Verda Bess and Marjorie -Lou acknowledged having been the recipient of roses from my garden. I -don’t think I ever permitted a little girl—nor a big one either, for -that matter—who stopped by to admire my roses, to go away without a -bouquet. - - -And particularly have I been pleased to supply the girl graduates of our -splendid Wetmore High School at Commencement time. Last year—spring of -1947—the garden did not show promise of early bloom of quality flowers, -and I got the girl graduates some beautiful long-stemmed “Better Times” -red roses, ($7.85 per doz.), from Rock’s in Kansas City. I planned to -make this an annual contribution, whether at home or away, as a sort of -commemoration of the fine Rose Garden I once owned. The garden is now -owned by Raymond and Marjorie McDaniel. - -Before leaving in the fall for California, I told the girls I would send -them roses by air mail—but, through an oversight of someone, I was not -apprised of the date of the 1948 Commencement. And this was one time -when the girls, through no fault of their own, (except possibly trusting -another than a member of the class to do the notifying), missed getting -some really high-class graduation roses—roses grow to perfection in -California—which I think was more of a disappointment to me than -perhaps to anyone else, unless it should have been my niece, Alice -Bristow-Tavares, who was to have supplied two dozen extremely beautiful -long-stemmed Etoile de Hollande red roses from her climbers. A Fresno -florist had been engaged to pack them for mailing. - -LITTLE FILLERS In this volume will be found several “Little -Fillers”—sayings of children, which have no connection with the various -articles. They have been prepared to fill out the pages where the ending -of a story leaves unused space—so that all articles may have a top-page -heading. - -CONSIDERATE KID Having bought little three-year-old Karen McDaniel a -5-cent cone, and also one for her to take home to her little brother -Harry, I laid a couple of nickels on the counter at the restaurant; and -then put down a dime, and picked up the two nickels—this twenty-cents -representing the sum total of my cash as of the moment. Karen said, -“What you do that for?” I told her that I was going to purchase a 5-cent -lead-pencil from Charley Shaffer at the drug store, and that I wanted -to keep the nickels, as it would save time of waiting to get back the -nickel in change, were I to keep the dime. She said, brightly, “He might -not have a nickel.” I said, “That’s just it.” Not realizing the risk -which I myself was cooking up at the moment, I said, “It’s never wise -to take a risk when it can just as easily be avoided.” Placing the two -nickels beside the little dime, I told her the dime was worth as much -as the two bigger nickels. Thinking to see if she had caught on, I -said, (rather badly stated), “Now, what you think—which would you rather -have?” She smiled, almost saucily grinned, and reaching for the dime, -said, “I’ll take the little one—you want to keep the big ones.” - -THE BOY OF YESTERYEAR Published in Wetmore Spectator - -May 29, 1931 - -By John T. Bristow - -It was a lazy October afternoon. The woods were still in full leaf and -the tops of the trees, touched by early frost, had turned to reddish -brown and golden yellow. It was a fine day for squirrel hunting. But -this is not strictly a hunting story. - -There were six in the party—three men of widely varying ages and, as the -college youth would say, three skirts — but, for convenience, all wore -trousers that afternoon. It was a sort of boarding-house party out for -recreation and game. They were: Mrs. Edna Weaver, Miss Genevieve Weaver, -Miss Thelma Sullivan, Milton Mayer, Raymond Weaver and the writer. - -Our wanderings carried us into the heavily wooded section near the head -of Wolfley creek. I had no hunter’s license and, being a law-loving -citizen, carried no gun. The hunters, alert for game, went deep into -the woods. And I trailed along, not noticing, not caring, where we were -going. Having passed the stage of life when one normally gives a whoop -where he is or what he does, to me, one place was as good as another. - -And then, of a sudden, I became tremendously alert. We were now -coming near to my father’s old farm—the home he had blazed out of the -wilderness, so to speak, on first coming to Kansas—oh, so many years -ago. That farm is now owned by Mrs. Worley. - -A few of the many letters commenting on my published stories are printed -in this volume—in all cases, blocked in the story to which the letter -refers. They help to attest the authenticity and worthiness of the -article. It’s most stimulating to have one’s friends write in and say, -“I know that to be true.” It’s like the “Amen” to a fervent prayer. - -The regret is that so few of the old ones are left. - -For sentimental reasons I wanted to hunt that old place — to live, -briefly, again the days of my youth. As we came to the line fence -between the Worley farm and the Brock pasture lands on the east, my -companions balked at wire—wanted to turn back. My suggestion that we go -on was regarded as “idiotic.” The Worley timber was un-inviting. There -were lots of weeds over on that side, and probably snakes, too. I know -rattlesnakes infested that place when I lived there as a boy. - -I climbed over the fence, anyway, and was soon racing toward a mammoth -elm tree—a tree that had budded and leaves more than sixty times since -the day I last saw that place. The hunters came over on the bound. “It -went up this tree,” I lied. There was no squirrel. I was in truth a boy -again—a very small boy—resorting to childish subterfuges. - -E D WOODBURN - -Lawyer - -HOLTON, KANSAS - -October 19, 1931 - -Mr. John Bristow, Wetmore, Kansas - -Dear John:-- - -I want to express to you my appreciation for the opportunity of reading -your article, “The Boy of Yesteryear” published in the Wetmore Spectator -May 29, 1931. - -I have never understood and have always regretted the fact that you quit -the newspaper field. It has always seemed to me that with your ability -to write, you could have been useful as a newspaper man. You have the -happy faculty of getting and holding one’s attention from beginning to -end. - -Yours very truly, - -E D WOODBURN - -But my “idiotic” idea wasn’t so bad. The hunters a got a nice bag of -squirrels on that side of the fence and in passing the spot again an -hour later one of party thought she saw my mythical squirrel go into a -hole in one of the top-most branches of that old monarch of the woods. -So that was that. Kindly forget the ethics involved. We hunted the -timber the full length of that place Dad’s old farm. Now there were big -trees—and some tall trees. As I remember, there were big tall trees on -that place when we lived there more than a half century ago. My father -split rails from that timber to fence the farm, And as ex-woodsman -he was he was inordinately proud of that rail fence, of his excellent -craftsmanship. In his native state, with the straight-splitting -birch and poplars, it would have been a simple matter. Here it was an -accomplishment. - -In that day there were two kinds of rail fences in general use. The -“leaner” fence was constructed with posts set on top the ground in a -leaning position and supported by stakes on the under side, with the -rails nailed onto the posts. The “stake and rider” fence, also sometimes -called the “worm” fence, was made by laying the end of one rail on top -of another, in zigzag fashion, at an angle of about twenty-five degrees, -so that the ends would lap, with a ground chunk under each section, -and when built up to the desired height — usually seven rails—two -cross-stakes were set in the ground at the junction of the panels, with -another rail on top the cross-stake. My father’s fence was of the latter -type. It took a lot of rails. - -Also I recall seeing my father shoot a squirrel out of the top of a very -tall tree with his Colt’s revolver. That six-shooter was presented to -him by Federal officers during the Civil War for protecting himself -against a band of guerrillas. More about the guerrillas later. - -And on this October day I saw the spot where the old house stood on the -south flank of that woodland—the house around which I played with my -brothers as a care-free child, and where my mother almost cried her -heart out because of loneliness. Also, it was here where my mother told -me a story one day—a story of my father, of herself, of why we had left -our home in the Southland. Our tears mingled over the telling of that -story then. And there was sadness in my heart that October afternoon as -I paused, reverently, for a moment in passing. - -Although I was born in the sunny South where magnolias bloom and -mockingbirds sing all winter long, my first vivid recollection of life -was upon this bleak Kansas farm, hot and wind-swept in summer, cold and -desolate in winter. The rigid climate of this new plains country home -was in such marked contrast to the mild and even temperature of my -mother’s native heavily timbered state as to her long to go back to her -old home. - -It was eight wilderness miles to Powhattan, the post-office; five miles -to Granada, the trading post; and one mile to the nearest neighbors—Rube -and Anne Wolfley. - -The mill that made our sorghum molasses—nearly every farmer grew a patch -of cane for making molasses to go with corn-bread, the staple diet—one -mile off from Powhattan, was owned by Charley Smith, the same Charley -Smith who had in earlier days, been keeper of a station (his home ) on -the old John Brown “underground railroad,” where runaway Negro slaves, -being transported to Canada, were in hiding through the day. I know it -was the Charley Smith place, for Ben Summers, our hired man, said it -still smelled of “niggers.” But of course it didn’t. That was Ben ’ -s way of opening a sizeable tale about Mr. Brown and his underground -railroad. - -And I wouldn’t know how far it was to the mill that ground our -corn-meal, but I do know there was one—for we had no bread other than -cornbread for months on end. Only on rare occasions would we have -“lightbread”—made of wheat flower, of course. The cornbread my mother -usually made was not the cornpone customary in the South. Cracklin ’ -bread and seasoned cornbread was much better—that is, for most palates. -I wish I could have some of it now. But there was one traveling -salesman, Hugh Graham, who preferred the cornpone. He would wire the -hotel here of his expected arrival, which meant that for breakfast, -dinner, or supper, he wanted cornpone. I think the cornpone was made of -cornmeal, salt, and water. - -I recall that Ben Summers had gone “acourtin” Betsy Porter that evening, -when my parents were shelling corn, by candle-light, on a sheet spread -upon the kitchen floor, to take to the mill—probably the Reiderer mill -east of Holton — when a big bullsnake which had crept in through a -displaced chink in the log house, slithered across the sheet, -gliding over the corn, and out an open door. The matter was debated, -seriously—then it was decided the hogs should have that corn. - -My father and mother, with their three small children, came to Kansas -from Nashville, Tennessee, in 1865. They came by steamboat on the -Cumberland, the Mississippi and Missouri rivers to Atchison. The family -was met there by my uncle Nick, father’s only brother, with an ox-team, -taking most of two days to drive us to his home on Wolfley creek. That -farm is now owned by William Mast. - -On the way out from Atchison, as we were nearing home, we ran into one -of those fierce prairie fires that so often menaced life and property of -the early settlers. I was very young then and cannot say positively that -what I am about to relate here is from actual memory, although I have -always believed that I retained a mental picture of that prairie fire. -Details are now a bit hazy—and, you know, with the very young there is -always a borderland not any too well defined between what you may have -actually seen and what you may have heard others recount. - -Anyway, there was a prairie fire. And its sinister red flames—a long -snake-like line of crackling, blazing hell — overhung with an ominous -pall of thick black smoke, sent a spasm of fear surging through my uncle -and my parents. - -That prairie fire was on one of the big creek bottoms — probably on the -old Overland Trail — somewhere between Granada and Wetmore, only there -was no Wetmore then. We had just forded a stream and were well out in a -big bottom where the slough grass was as tall as the oxen, when the fire -was sighted coming over the hills towards us, and fanned by a brisk wind -it was traveling at terrific speed. - -My uncle, who was driving, ran up along side his oxen and yelled, -“Whoa-haw-Buck! Jerry!” The oxen seemed to sense danger and the wagon -was turned around in no time. Just then a man on horseback came running -up. Without stopping to say a word the man jumped off his horse and -touched a lighted match to the tall dead grass in front of the outfit. -An effort was made by the man to beat out the fire on the windward side. -The man then excitedly commanded my uncle to drive across the thin line -of back-fire into the newly burned space. It looked like the rider had -come out of that blazing inferno especially to warn us. And as the wagon -moved away he yelled loudly so as to be heard above the roar of the -encroaching flames from behind, “For God’s sake, man, follow it up as -fast as you can.” - -That young man was Fred Liebig. - -Boyhood impressions stick like the bark on a tree, while later events -are submerged in the whirlpool of life and are forgotten. One of the -outstanding incidents of my young life took place upon this Wolfley -creek farm. I remember it as distinctly as if it occurred only -yesterday. It was my first—and last—alcoholic debauch. - -I have already told you that rattlesnakes infested that place way back -in the distant past. One of them—a fat, seven-button specimen—took a -whack at me one summer day, its fangs loaded with deadly green fluid -sinking deep the top of my right foot. It was August — dogdays — and of -course I was barefoot. The children of pioneer settlers didn ’ t wear -shoes, except in cold weather, even when their fathers were excellent -shoemakers, a distinction my father enjoyed at that time. - -My father was over at Granada. A neighbor was sent after him — and for -whiskey, the then universal remedy for snakebite. Finding no whiskey at -Granada, the courier, on horseback, came on to Wetmore, which town was -just starting then, and failing again, pushed on the Seneca, stopping on -the way long enough to change horses. The round trip approximately sixty -miles and eight hours had elapsed when the rider returned with whiskey. -He brought a generous supply. - - -In the meantime my mother had dumped a package of baking soda into a -basin of warm water. She bade me put my foot in it — and two little -fountains of green came oozing up through the soda-whitened water. And -she gave me tea made from yard plantain—why, I wouldn’t know. - -Also my Uncle Nick had arrived by the time the rider returned with the -whisky. I didn’t like the taste of the nasty stuff and, boy-like, set -up a howl about having to drink it. And my Uncle, desirous of helping in -every possible way, said, soothingly, “Johnny, take a little, and Uncle -take a little.” We both passed out about the same time. - -I don’t mean to infer by this that my Uncle was a drunkard. He was not. -And, mind you, he grew up in a country at a time when you could buy good -old Bourbon at any crossroads grocery store as you would buy a jug of -vinegar—and almost as cheaply. - -My Uncle Nick was a soldier in the Mexican war of 1848. And he was -a soldier in the Civil war—an adventurer, and in a way a “soldier of -fortune.” He prospected for gold, and hunted mountain lions—with the -long rifle—in the Rockies, just as he and my father had hunted panthers -in Tennessee. - -This ferocious beast, if you don’t know, is the big cat with four names. -In the South and East—extinct in most sections now—he is the dreaded -panther. In the Rockies he is the mountain lion. Farther west, in -Arizona and the Sierras, he is the cougar. Somewhere he is called the -puma. And everywhere he is “the killer.” - -Two strangers stopped at our home just after I had passed out—that -is, after I had become limp, unable to stand, unable to talk, from the -effects of the whisky. But I could understand as well as ever what was -said. One of the men suggested that if they could find the snake and cut -it open and bind the parts to my foot that it would draw the poison -out. I knew that Jim Barnes had killed that snake, and the stranger’s -suggestion gave me a mental spasm. I could not speak out and tell’ them -that I had had about all of that snake that I could stand. - -The earthquake of 1868 — or thereabout — greatly frightened my mother. -It was her first experience with quakes. And, woman-like, with a -perpetual grudge against the erratic Kansas weather changes, she laid -this shakeup in climate, which, it seemed, she never could become -accustomed to. And when the house trembled and the dishes cupboard -began to rattle, she rushed out into the yard, where my father and the -children were, and said, “If we must all go to the devil I would just as -soon walk as ride.” - -Also Indians from the Kickapoo reservation, while harmless enough at the -time, had a habit of prowling about over the country, and a band of them -nearly scared the wits out of my mother one hot summer day. She saw -the blanketed red skins, on ponies, coming down the road, single-file. -Gathering her youngsters, much as a hen gathers her brood the approach -of danger—and much as my mother had once before taken her children -under her protecting arms and saved their lives, as you shall see -presently—she hid in the cornfield until the rovers had left our farm. - -And now another prairie fire. If there could be any question about the -youngster having retained with photographic accuracy the horrors of -the one earlier mentioned, there can be no doubt about this later one, -which, whipped by the ever-present wind, stole in upon us in the night, -My father’s much prized rail fence was laid low, and only by heroic -efforts was the house saved. These dreaded prairie fires and other -subjected frights incident to the new country seemed to place a mark -upon my mother. - -“William,” she said one day to my father, “we might as well have -remained in Tennessee and taken our chances on being killed by guerillas -as to come all the way out to this God-for-saken country only to be -burned to death by prairie fires, or shaken to pieces by earthquakes, or -frightened to death by Indians.” And I am sure that if the Kansas -cyclone had then enjoyed the widespread reputation that it does in this -year of grace, my mother would have included that also. - -In Tennessee, my father was a shoemaker and tanner by trade. And, by the -grace of a kind Providence—and some quick shooting—he was a live Union -“sympathizer” in a Rebel stronghold. The great conflict—the Civil -War—between the North and the South was then on. My father had not, at -this time, joined the fighting forces on either side. He was content -to ply his trade, make leather and shoes, both of which were very much -needed at the time. But my father made the almost fatal mistake of -“exercising his rights as a free-born citizen,” in having his say. - -The South was not quite solid for Confederacy. Sometimes even families -were divided. In my mother’s family two of her brothers favored the -North and two were for the South—”rank rebels,” my mother said. None of -them went to war. They worked in a powder mill—more dangerous, by far. -Twice the mill blew up, and each time one of my Uncles was blown into -fragments. Also one of my mother’s acquired relatives hid in a cave for -the duration of the war. - -The guerilla element was composed of Southerners, not in colors — and -they made life miserable for any o ne who dared to express an opinion, -on the aspects of the war, contrary to their views. - -The hush of a November night lay upon the forest, in the thick of which -was located my father’s home, his tan-yard, his shoeshop. The night’s -stillness was broken by a volley of bullets from the guerilla guns -crashing through the windows and doors of the log house. - -My mother—herself only a girl in her teens—took her two babies and crept -under the bed, which, luckily, had been moved to another part of the -house that very day. And that shift of the bed saved the family from the -death-dealing bullets poured into the house with that first onslaught. - -My father had only a muzzle-loading, double-barrel shotgun, with two -charges in the gun—and no more ammunition — with which to defend himself -and his little family against that mob of armed men. The main body of -guerillas, on horseback, were in the front yard. The house stood upon -the bank of a deep gully, with little or no backyard. A wide plank -served as a walk across the gully. Beyond that was heavy timber. - -Believing that his family would be safer with him out of the house, my -father, only partly dressed, grabbed his shotgun and flung open the back -door. He quickly emptied both barrels of his gun into the two men who -were guarding the back door. The revolver in the hands of the first man -in line, standing on the plank, was being brought down on him when the -charge from father’s shotgun cut off the crook of the man’s arm at the -elbow and entered his body, killing him instantly. The bullet from the -guerilla’s revolver plowed through my father’s hat. And that was the -revolver my father shot squirrels with in Kansas. It was retrieved by -Federal soldiers and presented to him. - -The other man was mortally wounded and lay there in yard, at the far end -of the plank walk, until morning, Things had happened so quickly, and -so disastrously to their ranks, that the mob believed the house was -occupied by armed men. And, after firing another volley into the home, -many of the bullets this time penetrating the bed under which my mother, -with her babies, lay flat on the floor, the mob withdrew to a safe -distance—but sentinels were kept posted in the nearby woods until -morning. All told, more than one hundred shots were fired into the -house. - -And now a man from the outside dashed in at the back -the door by which -father had made his exit. Hurriedly he bolted the door from within. - -My mother, peering out from her hiding place under bed, exclaimed in -surprise, “You here, Sandy! What does this mean?” And before he could -explain, she cried, “Oh, I smell smoke. Is the house on fire, Sandy?” - -“Yes,” he said—”it was. And the tanyard buildings and shoeshop are now -burning.” - -Sandy Fouse, a Southern boy, had worked for my father in his tobacco -fields, and lived at our home. My father grew tobacco on the side. I was -told Sandy took a marked interest in me—a baby. God only knows why -it was so, but it seems I was destined to become the favorite of the -family. I had an older brother, too. But it seems I was the favorite of -my Aunt Harriet who helped my mother, and the pet of Sandy who “wormed” -the tobacco. - -And as with the prairie fire—only with positive conviction this time—I -must again rely on what has been told me. Reaching under the bed and -hauling me out, Sandy said, “Why, I’d risk my life any time for this -here boy Johnny—or any of you-all.” And that was just what he was doing -that night. - -When the mob had withdrawn after starting a fire against the house, -Sandy ran back and kicked the blazing sticks away from the building—and -then made a dash for the door. He was now afraid of the mob and did not -leave the house again that night. Good old boy — Sandy, Pal, Protector. -Just why you were out with those guerillas that night has never been -explained to me. - -My father did not come back into the house, and my mother believed that -he had been killed, or mortally wounded, as she could plainly hear the -groans of the dying man outside. And she was, of course, frantic with -grief. After hours of agony, when she could stand it no longer, she took -a lighted candle and went outside to investigate. - -My mother’s name was Martha. The wounded man kept groaning, “Oh, Lordy.” -And my mother thought it was my father calling her name. It took some -tension off when she discovered the dying man was not my father — but -she was horrified to find he was the son of a close neighbor. The young -man asked for a drink of water, and wanted someone to pray for his soul. -She gave him water. And she prayed for him. At daybreak the young man’s -companions took him to his father’s home where he died a few hours -later. He told his people that he got what he deserved, that he had no -business in permitting the mob to persuade him to go out with them that -night. - -Still my mother did not know the fate of my father — and of course her -mind and nerves were harassed to the point of breaking all through the -long hours of the night. In this story I can only give the facts and -trust that some power of understanding in every human heart may lead the -reader to some appreciation of the tense situation—the web of destiny -seemingly inextricably entangled, in which my parents had been caught. - -After shooting his way out, my father had kept on going, and under -protection of the night and the dense woods surrounding the house, -eluded the mob. And after fifteen miles of weary tramping over the hills -and through woods, after hours of worry for the safety of his family, he -reached the Union lines, at daybreak. In the afternoon of that same day -the family was moved to Clarksville, by solders sent out from the army. - -The guerillas had burned my father’s tanyard and shoeshop, and his -tobacco barn. They had stolen his horses — four fine grays which were -kept on the plantation for plowing the tobacco fields and for hauling -tanbark. And in the end, someone stole his farm. The trusted agent -forgot to remit. - -My father then went as a scout with detachments the Union army. He -served under Major E. N. Morrill, who was later Governor of Kansas, -and a resident of Hiawatha for a number of years. The guerilla band was -broken up. But hostilities did not stop altogether with the surrender of -Lee. And bushwhacking” became a pastime with the embittered few. - -My mother, with her sister, Nan Porter, went back to Tennessee some -years later for a visit. And about the first thing they did was to -attend church—a new church in the old neighborhood. My resident aunt — -Aunt Harriet Lovell—had said to her sisters, “You-all will meet lots of -friends after church.” - -The two Kansas women, with their handsome and deeply religious young -escort, marched into church a trifle late, and my mother was smiling -and nodding to close seated old acquaintances, and properly attuned, all -were living in the happy anticipation of a real love feast when church -would be out. Then suddenly, abruptly, as if she had received some -deadly stroke, the smile faded from her face. She looked at her sister, -in crestfallen dejection, and whispered, “Let’s get out of here, Nan, -just as soon as the services are over.” That pained look did not belong -on my my mother’s sweet face. Some highly disturbing thing had happened. - -Quickly, my mother revised her plans. She could consistently have -waited for the preacher to come down from the pulpit and address her as -“sister” with more significance than ordinarily accrues to the church -going woman. But no, thank you—not my mother. Not in that spot. She had -recognized in that coarse-voiced preacher the leader of that guerilla -mob. He was my non-consanguineous uncle — father’s own brother-in-law. -And the accommodating young man who had been so kind as to “carry” them -over in his shiny new buggy could not understand what made them in such -a hurry to get away. - -That meeting house was set in a small clearing in the dense woods on top -of a high ridge. It was called “Sentinary.” The worshippers came in from -the lower settlements from every direction. It was their custom to tarry -after services for a visit — and especially^ if there were strangers in -the congregation they must be wholeheartedly welcomed, Southern style, -as I was to learn. - -Some years later it was my pleasure to attend that same church. And -Walter Cox “carried” me over in his buggy—the same rig in which my -mother and my aunt had ridden with him—though the buggy was now, of -course, somewhat the worse for wear, as the roads down there are rocky. -Fully half that four-mile trip was in the bed of a creek which flowed, -clear as crystal, over a rock bottom, between high hills. And when not -in the middle of the creek that road crossed and recrossed the stream -many times. - -But the guerilla-preacher—he of the “foghorn” voice — who had so -disturbed my mother’s tranquility, was not at the Church to greet me. It -was my uncle, one of my mother’s rank rebel” brothers, who stepped down -from the pulpit to meet the stranger. - -And when Walter Cox introduced us—after effusive greetings and some -emotional tears from the older man — uncle, with fine Southern accent, -said, “I’m powerful proud that Walter here didn’t introduce you before -the services. If I had known one of sister Martha’s boys was the -congregation I believe I would have forgotten my text.” He stroked his -whiskers. “Yes, suh, it would have frustrated me a heap.” - - -Having registered at the Maxwell House—the one that presumably made a -certain brand of coffee famous—I attended the Nashville Centennial for -three days before looking up any of my relatives. My Uncle Thomas Cullom -lived Nashville — but my Aunt Nancy Cullom-Porter had written from -Wetmore to my Aunt Harriet Cullom-Lovell at Newsome Station, twelve -miles out, of my expected visit—and I went there first, by train. I -inquired at the Newsome store for a way to get out to John Lovell’s, -five miles up Buffalo creek. Mr. Newsome said, “Just go right down -to the mill, the boy there will carry you over plum to his door—you a -Cullom?” The boy led out two horses, and I was “carried” over astride a -horse to my Aunt’s home, arriving at about four o’clock. And here I -met, for the first time, Uncle John Lovell, his two daughters, Emma and -Margaret; and of course my Aunt Harriet—not however, for the first time. -My mother had told me that we had been pretty good friends in my baby -days. - -Also, I met here the renowned spirit medium Jim Spain, of whom I had -heard my mother and my Aunt Nancy tell some tall stories—but Jim got on -a horse, rode away, and I did not see him again that day. Jim Spain at -this me was about thirty-five years old. He had come to the Lovell home -when a young man—and just stayed. I don’t know if he had any relatives; -though undoubtedly there was a time when he might have been blessed—or -plagued—with kin. - -At eventide—maybe it would define the hour better to say as dusk settled -on the hills and hollows surrounding my Aunt’s home, making the hollows -thick with semi-darkness—girls, in twos and threes, began coming in—in -all about a baker’s dozen. That spirit medium had made the rounds -spreading the news of my arrival. The girls were too nearly the same -age—sweet sixteen—to be of one family. They were my relatives — or maybe -just relatives of my relatives. They were all cousins. I asked one of -the girls where had they all come from? She said, “Just over the east -hill—apiece.” It was a steep hill. - -The Lovell home, a double structure with the usual open spacious gallery -separating the apartments—a typical Southern home—was near the junction -of Buffalo creek on the north and a deep gulch between high wooded -hills, flowing in from the south. The building spot, about the size of -an ordinary town lot, had been leveled off some fifteen feet above the -wash, with the west end of the dwelling resting on piles reaching down -almost to the water level. To the east, the hill above the flattened -space, was so steep and high that the sun did not» shine on the house -until after ten o’clock. A cook-house stood in the yard about thirty -feet south of the dwelling where family meals were prepared—presumedly -by a colored cook. - -Here, I must explain. - -After I had returned home, I learned that my Aunt Nancy had written my -Aunt Harriet advising her to get rid of her Negro cook for the duration -of my visit. Whatever possessed her to do this, I wouldn’t know—there -was, in fact, no justification for it. I had no reason to be prejudice -of Negroes. On the contrary, I may say I “owe my life” to a Negro — -my mother said he was the blackest Negro she had ever seen—for having -rescued me from the river after I had fallen off the deck of the boat, -when coming to Kansas from Tennessee. I was about four years old—and -still wearing dresses, in the fashion of the times. I was told that the -Negro said he had saved my mother’s little darling girl. I didn’t like -to be called a “little girl”—either with or without the “darling”—but -this was no cause for me to forever dislike the colored folk. - -Might say I was nearly six years old before I got my first pants—and -even then I didn’t wear them regularly. They were knee pants—in style, -which style endured for a long time. I knew one young fellow in Wetmore -who wore his knee-pants right up to his wedding day. When I first began -howling for pants, my mother said I was lucky she hadn ’ t dressed me -in a flour sack, with holes cut out for head and arms, like Preacher -Wamyer’s kids had been clothed, in our neighborhood. But the joke was, -she did not happen to have a flour sack, and she said that in this -God-for-saken country she was not likely to have one for ages. My mother -made me shirts with long tails — and when around home out there in the -sticks, in hot weather, I would not bother with the britches. I recall -the time mother took me with her to a quilting at the home of one of the -Porter women—it might have been at the home of Kate Evans, wife of Bill -Evans, the famous old stage-driver; but more likely it was the home of -Amanda Ann Watson, widow, who later married Brown Ellet. Johnny Bill -Watson, a red headed, freckled face boy about my age, played rough, -making it plenty hot for me. I pulled off my pants, went into the house, -and threw my britches onto the quilting frame—greatly humiliating my -mother, and creating uproarous laughter from the women. - -Well, you know, I didn’t see a “Nigger” or even hear one mentioned -during my visit at my Aunt Harriet’s home, That cook house was the one -place not exploited. But somehow the meals got cooked—tempting meals -just like my mother used to cook—and I suspect by Auntie Lovell’s -regular colored woman, after the Cullom technique. - -The smoked ham, produced and cured on the place, was the best I -have ever eaten. Uncle and Auntie’s 200-acre farm lay in irregular -boundaries—likely described by chains and links zig-zagging between -blazed trees—for two miles up and down Buffalo creek. Uncle John showed -me the limestone ledge protruding over the north bank of the creek, -which sheltered his hogs at such times as they would come home to spend -the night—and feed on perhaps the first “bar’l” of corn produced on a -near-by clearing. The hogs came home only at such times as the “mast” -was insufficient. This combination made for cheap pork—and delicious -hams. - -I had recently been in Texas—and because of that trip to the Lone Star -state, I had a message from a relative to a relative to be delivered -in Nashville. Here again I should explain. On learning that I planned a -trip to Galveston ten days hence, my Aunt Nancy Porter asked me to stop -off at Dallas and call on a relative—a Cullom of the Tennessee tribe. -I believe his name was Jerry. But if he were not Jerry, he was a close -relative. When I called at Mr. Cullom’s real estate office in Dallas, I -was told he had gone to Galveston. I went on to Galveston, and dismissed -all thought of seeing my relative. I went out to the beach, and -while strolling on the sands—on the gulf side of the sea-wall — among -hundreds, perhaps thousands of other strollers, fell in with a friendly -man. He told me he was from Dallas, and I told him that I was from -Wetmore,„Kansas. He said, quickly, “Did you say Wetmore? Reckon you -might know my cousin Nan Porter, there.” And I said, “Then, I reckon -you know that my Aunt Nancy asked me to stop off at Dallas, and call on -you.” He grabbed my hand, saying with real Tennessee accent, “Mr. John -Bristow, I’m powerful proud to meet you.” Again, I may be wrong. It -could have been the Texas accent. In the course of our conversation -I told Cousin Cullom that I would be going to Nashville for the -Centennial, and he said likely he would go, too. The message from him -was for my Aunt Tennessee Cullom-Clark, mother’s sister, living in North -Nashville. - -I may say I’m “powerful proud” that my meddlesome letter-writing Aunt -Nancy took it upon herself to notify our Texas cousin of my intended -visit. That rather unusual chance meeting is paralleled by another -chance meeting — which opens the way for bringing into this writing my -distinguished Kansas cousin. I had an engagement to meet J.L.Bristow at -the Eldridge Hotel in Lawrence, when he was Fourth Assistant Postmaster -General — later, U. S. senator from Kansas. He was of my father’s branch -of the Virginia and Tennessee Bristows, a third cousin to me, and up -to this time we had never met. He was billed as principal speaker at -a Republican rally in the Bowersock Opera House that night. Upon my -arrival in Lawrence about noon, I discovered he was registered at -the Eldridge House—but I could not locate him. I went out to the -Kansas-Nebraska football game, and got a seat by a man who seemed to be -deeply interested in the game. We conversed in an off-hand way when -he was not up on his toes rooting for the Kansas team. From the -conversation I inferred that he was a newspaper man, like myself. But, -unlike myself, he was a college man. Not being a college man, I could -not get interested in the game. It was brutal. When we had fetched up -at the Eldridge House, this football enthusiast—now surrounded by -politicians—said to me. “I am told by the clerk here that you were -looking for me, and it seems you failed recognize a relative when you -had found him.” He was my man. - -Might say I first learned of my Kansas cousin when he was owner and -publisher of the Salina Daily Republican, and I was publishing the -Wetmore Spectator. A Kansas City printing firm addressed a letter to -J. L. Bristow, Wet-more, Kansas—one initial off from my own. It was -delivered to me. The contents of the letter showed that it should have -been sent to the other newspaper man in Salina. I mailed it to him. He -came back promptly wanting to know from whom did I get my name? One more -exchange letters told us both exactly who we were. We both claimed kin -to old Ben — of Virginia, Kentucky, and New York fame—though I do -not now recall his specialty. But it’s a safe bet it had to do with -politics. My father was a first cousin of J. L.’s father, a Methodist -minister, living in Baldwin, Kansas. My illustrious cousin Joseph has -climbed high up the ladder of political fame — and who knows his limit? -I shall not lose track of him. - -After I would have returned from Pensacola, Florida, and spent a day -in Nashville with Uncle Tom and Aunt Irene Cullom, and their three -daughters, cousins Lora, Clevie, and Myrtle, it was planned to give a -party for me at Aunt Harriet’s country home, the day set for one week -hence — when they “allowed” they really would show me some Tennessee -girls. Here, I think my Wetmore Auntie had been meddling in my behalf -once again. Well, no matter. If it was meant that the girls at the -coming party would grade upwards in looks from the first showing, -it surely would be worth coming back for. Cousin Maggie Lovell, a -fifteen-year-old beauty, told me the girls would turn themselves loose -at the party—and, she said, “The woods are full of ‘em.” The girls of -the advance showing had been rather on the reserved order—I might say -very lady-like. Still, I imagine there were missies in that group who -would have been pleased to start something. Also, I imagine they were -the flower of the flock. - -All Southern girls at that time were supposed to be pretty. The climate, -and the care in which the girls were taught to shield their faces from -the sun was believed to make for superior beauty. My mother said that in -her day no girl would ever think of going out without her sun-bonnet. - -Admittedly, the South is blessed with some extremely beautiful girls. -But, after extensive searching, may I say that—exempting cousins of -course—I did not find it overwhelmingly so. I am convinced that it takes -something more than climate and ribbed sun-bonnets to turn the trick; -and that the South has no monopoly on this something. Also, I further -find that the strikingly beautiful girl is, like -prospector’s gold, -where you find her. And for my money give me the sun-kissed girl from -the wide-open Kansas range. - -Unfortunately, I was called home, and did not have the pleasure of -attending the party—and was compelled to send regrets, from Nashville, -by mail. Also, I missed the chance to see Jim Spain call up the spirits. -But then it was only a half promise. When I asked Jim if he would hold -a seance for me, he said, “Reckon I might—but generally I aim to do it -only for the hill folks.” - -“But,” I said, “you fooled my mother and my Aunt Nancy when they were -down here not so long ago.” He said “Yes—I did. But you know they grew -up here in the South where most everybody believes in ghosts. - -“My mother used to tell us kids that there was no such thing as a -ghost—but she said it in such a dispirited way as to cause me, as young -as I was, to doubt if she fully believed her own words. - -I grew up in a generation which talked freely, pro and con, about -ghosts. And, believe it or not, I have actually seen Erickson’s -ghost—that is, until the apparition faded away into something tangible, -as “ghosts” always do if given time. There was a time here when I — and -other youngsters of like caliber—looked for Erickson’s ghost in every -dark corner. And I think that if I should even now go through the woods -on the old Hazeltine farm adjoining town, at night, as I often did in -the early days, I would involuntarily keep an eye peeled for the ghost -of Jim Erickson, a murderer and suicide, of May 10, 1873—buried, without -benefit of clergy, mourners, or even regulation coffin — on top a high -hill just south of town. To mention only one of the several proclaimed -haunted houses—which always go hand in hand with ghosts—Jim Erickson’s -ghost cut up a good many capers here in the early days, particularly -where “it” was often “seen” on the margin of the big swamp lying between -town and the high hill. Let there come a foggy night someone was sure -to say: “Erickson’s ghost will stalk tonight.” A party of three young -couples—boys and girls — set out one night to trap old Jim, or whatever -it was that haunted a vacant house of many rooms, which sat on a high -hill near the swamp—but, would you believe it, they were disturbed by -another couple who had preceded them—and all fled the scene in a rout. -Actually, some brave people — grown-up’s—positively refused to venture -south of the creek on foggy nights. It’s not a promise—but I may, at -some future date, write the Erickson story for the Spectator readers. - -And I can well believe Jim Spain had the situation as to ghosts stalking -among the oldsters of his generation in the South sized up correctly. -However, the bright kids of today should never be troubled with any such -hallucinations. - -No, kids—truly, there is no such thing as a ghost. My mother told me so. - -NOTE—Cousin Bill Porter recently visited Nashville, and was told -that Jim Spain (having died in cousin Margaret Lovell-Ezell’s home in -Nashville in 1948, aged 84) is only a memory down there now. - -And what a memory! - -CAREFUL PLANNING When still very young, Donna Cole—in our home—had eaten -an apple and was nibbling the core. My wife said to her niece, “Oh, -oh—child, you must not eat that core.” Donna smiled, and taking another -bite, said, “Ain’t goin’ be no core.” - -At another time, the wife and I were visiting in the Locknane home in -Topeka—and Myrtle had taken Donna along with us, at the suggestion of -Coral, who said they would try to get her pictured in the Sunday Daily -Capital. Well, they did that easily. Donna was deservedly given a top -position—a standout picture—among other youngsters. Myrtle and Coral -were very proud of this—and Donna “rode high” during our stay. - -The Locknanes had a fine home, neatly, though not lavishly furnished—and -a “hired girl”; a Cadillac car, and a colored chauffeur. - -Along with all her gayety, Donna did a little sound thinking. She -whispered. “How can they beford all this, Aunt Myrtle?” - -RED RIFLEMEN Published in Wetmore Spectator, - -Feb. 7, 1936—and in - -Seneca Courier-Tribune’s Historical Edition. - -By John T. Bristow - -It was early autumn far back in the pioneer days. The wood which this -story opens was one of the largest stands big trees in Northeast Kansas. -It was bordered on the high slopes with sumac, hazelbrush, and tall -grass. The trees had not yet fully shed their leaves. - -An Indian, blanketed, with a long rifle swung across withers of his -buckskin pony, detached himself from the band of rovers and rode -straight to the place where my father and I stood, under a great oak -tree, frozen to the spot. A foreboding stillness pervaded the oak grove. -I was terribly frightened. Somehow the idea had formed in my young head -that the Indians would not kill children; that they carried them off -alive, along with the scalps of adult whites. - -About that time frequent accounts of Indian depredations had filtered in -from the west — gruesome, hellish, blood-curdling stories they were. - -A tribe of Indians lived then, as now, on a reservation only eight -miles away. The fact that those Kickapoos were considered civilized and -peaceable did not register in this all boy’s mind—nor even in some adult -minds. - -My father, William Bristow, was reared in the heavily wooded sections of -Kentucky and Tennessee, where, in his day, the gun and the “hound-dog” -were man’s dearest possessions. I knew that he was a crack rifle-shot; -that he could, without doubt, hold his own with the advancing redman—but -not against that band of savages lurking in the background. Wrapped in -flaming blood-red blankets, those Indians, silent and sinister, with the -long barrels of their rifles sticking up like telegraph poles, looked as -if they might be making ready to go on the warpath. - -Closer and closer came the Indian. And why the devil didn’t my father -shoot? Was he going to let that redskin take his scalp? In a fit of -panic I dodged behind the big oak tree; and then just as suddenly I -popped out again and backed up my father by clutching his trousers legs -from behind. It is surprising what amount of terror can flit through a -small boy’s mind in so short a time. - -In a flash I reviewed again the fate of the German girls, orphaned and -stolen by the Indians. All oldtimers here will recall that the German -girls—Kate, Sophia, Addie, and Julia—after being rescued from the -Indians, became wards of the Government and were placed in the home of -Pat Corney, who lived for many years on Wolfley creek. Their ages ranged -from six to seventeen years when rescued. They were filthy dirty—grimy, -without clothes. When the two younger girls were brought to the Corney -home—the other two were recovered later—the old Irishman exclaimed: “For -God’s sake, Louisa, get a tub of water and a bar of soap!” - -Also, about this time—probably a few years earlier — our townsman, Andy -Maxwell, after leaving Wetmore to take up his home in the West, was -besieged for three days by Sioux and Nez Perce Indians. With Andy were -Mrs. Maxwell — his sister-in-law — his daughter May, and four men. They -were traveling out of Miles City, Montana, in covered wagons. The -story of this Indian encounter had filtered back to Wetmore where Andy -Maxwell’s mother, a brother, and two sisters still lived. According -to the report, Maxwell and his men took their stand in a small timber -tract, on three sides of which were deep gullies. Owing to this -advantageous position the Indians could not follow their customary -tactics of circling the whites. They skulked. And whenever an Indian -would get near enough, he would be picked off by the white man’s bullet. -Maxwell and his men killed eight Indians. Two of the white men were -severely wounded. May got an arrow through her foot; Andy lost a lock of -his hair and had his face grazed by a bullet. Mrs. Maxwell was shot in -the arm. The party lost twenty-six oxen. Andy Maxwell now lives at Santa -Ana, California. - -I have mentioned these two Indian incidents briefly, merely to give the -reader some idea as to what was, and might have been, flashing through -my mind at that tense moment—and for their historic value. Also other -Indian pictures assailed me. That awful moment will stand out in my -memory while life lasts. - -My father said not a word, and to be sure I could not read his -reactions. I knew only that he had been harboring a fine mess of mixed -emotions at the moment when the Indians appeared. - -Mark this well. - -“How!” greeted the Indian as he drew rein. He slid off his pony and -surveyed the surroundings quickly. At edge of the clearing his redskin -companions, departing from their single-file formation, sitting on their -ponies, went into a huddle not unlike modern collegiate intelligentsia -on a gridiron. - -Though it may be said that the Indian’s mission was of rather urgent -nature, let us leave him standing here by the side of his pony while I -tell you how my father and I happened to be caught in this embarrassing -predicament. - -For some reason, undoubtedly well grounded, the owner of that timber -forbade hunting on his premises. Nevertheless, on one occasion, that ban -was lifted in promise, if not in reality—and therein lies the nucleus of -this tale. - -One day while on a friendly call at the shoeshop in Wetmore, John -Wolfley granted permission to my father to shoot squirrels in his -timber, though he made it plain that this was to be considered a special -favor, because of old friendship. My father and John Wolfley, the senior -John, were among the first settlers in this country. They came before -the railroads, before the towns in this section—in the log cabin days. -The towns then were strung along the old land or military road passing -five miles north of here. As compared with highways of the present -day, it was not a road. It was but a rut, a serpentine streak of dust -spanning the great plains, crossing the mountains—and on to California. -Yet, it carried immense traffic—stage, pony express, commerce — and was -a celebrated thoroughfare. Many notables passed this way. U. S. Grant, -Horace Greeley, Mark Twain. And although of no particular moment here, I -might add that I, myself, came into this country over the Old Trail at a -time when traffic was near its peak. - -It was, therefore, in considerable blitheness of spirit that on one fine -October day my father and I “hoofed it” five miles up Spring creek to -the Wolfley timber. We were going to a choice and restricted hunting -grounds, on invitation of the owner—a favor granted no one else. - -My father shot a squirrel. The report of his gun, heard by the owner of -the place who was in the timber gathering down-wood—sometimes in the old -days called squaw wood — brought a vigorous protest from a half-hidden -spot across the creek. - -“Get out!” the angry voice shouted. - -My father was not disturbed. Not then. He even laughed a little. And -I fear his voice was charged with rather too much mirth when he called -back across the stream, “Why, John, don’t you know me?” - -Like a flash of lightning came back the ultimatum, “I don’t care if -you are General Grant, you can’t hunt in my timber!” So that was that—a -sorry situation for two old friends to impose upon themselves. - -My father told me we would leave the Wolfley timber by the shortest -route. Leaving the dead squirrel on the ground where it had fallen, he -started off at once with the stride of one bent upon urgent enterprise, -muttering incoherent but indubitably uncomplimentary things about his -late friend. It is such breaches of friendship, as this seemed to be, -that cause men to talk to themselves. - -Sometimes, however, what we consider a calamity proves to be a blessing -in disguise. That was true in this case. And the breach, which loomed -so menacingly on the horizon at the moment, instead of impairing a fine -friendship was the indirect cause of making it everlasting. - - -Even as my father hastened away, the Invisible Hand was working in his -favor. Had there been no interruption, he would have continued on his -course as mapped out, up the creek, and the providential thing which was -very soon to take place would have miscarried. Here I want to interpose -a paragraph—maybe two, or more—to show how welcome this providential -thing that was now about to enter my father ’ s life. - -A shoemaker with a family rather too large to support in comfort even -in normal times, was my father—a slaving man who, like so many others -in those pioneer days, had nearly reached the limit of his endurance. -In this new country everyone was directly, or indirectly, dependent upon -the products of the soil. Those were the days of Texas long-horn cattle -and ten cent corn—when there was corn. Those were the days when snows -driven by winter’s howling blasts across the open prairies piled high -in the streets and country lanes and cut off all communications with the -outside world for weeks at a time. At such times we would burn corn for -fuel. Well do I remember the superior warmth of those corn-fed fires. -They were life-savers for those who were compelled to live in the open, -wind-blown homes of that day. - -There was land to be had for the taking, but my father thought he could -not afford to take it. Without capital to stock the free grass range, -the pioneer farmer could not hope to make more than a bare living. And -when crops failed for lack of moisture, as they too often did in the -early days before the country became seasonable for the production of -grain, all suffered. - -That was pioneer Kansas! That was “Droughty Kansas! ” That was “Bleeding -Kansas!” It was not the Kansas of today—barring, of course, the year -1934, and maybe with apologies for 1935. - -Then, before that providential find was to bear fruit, two outstanding -reverses visited appalling hardships upon an already discouraged -peoples. The lingering effects of the great money panic of 1873 was the -cause of much distress. There was no such thing as Federal aid then, -and everyone here was on his own. However, the East did contribute -some bacon and a quantity of cast-off clothing, including plug hats and -Prince Albert coats—useful in some cases, but generally scorned by the -needy people. - -That money panic was brought on by the collapse of the Jay Cooke -brokerage houses in three eastern cities. Cooke, a nationally known -promoter, was financing the building of the Northern Pacific railroad, -and had made too many advances. - -It may be of interest here, especially in Nemaha and Jackson counties -and possibly throughout all Northeast Kansas, to know that, later, -through an unprotected brokerage partnership in the National Capitol -with that wizard of finance, a former resident of Wetmore township, -Green Campbell, who had come into local and national prominence by -reason of his sensational rise to affluence as principal owner of the -famous Horn Silver mine at Frisco, Utah, dropped a cool million of his -mine-made dollars in the aftermath of that failure. - -After he had failed, Jay Cooke, still the promoter par-excellence, -secured a railroad for Green Campbell’s mine. Later, after he had sold -his mine, Campbell went to Washington as delegate to Congress from Utah. -Still later Campbell joined Cooke there in the brokerage business. With -new money in the firm, Cooke’s old creditors swooped down upon Campbell -like a swarm of bees. And they stung him hard. His first check was drawn -for nine hundred thousand dollars! However, there was no time after -selling the Horn Silver mine that Green Campbell was not a rich man. -Green Campbell endowed a college at Holton, Kansas, bearing his name. His -old homestead was in the southwest part of Wetmore township. It is now -owned and occupied by August Krotzinger. - -Then there was the year 1874—a blank year with its train of blighted -hopes that socked the whole populace still deeper down into the slough -of despond. Following a season of scanty production, the crops that -year, in the spring and up to mid-summer, showed signs of fulfillment. -Then came the usual anxious period—dry, windy, scorching days, And hope, -that had sprung in the tired hearts of the farmers commenced to die as -they looked with anxiety on the drooping crops. The people prayed for -rain. They watched for clouds. Then, out of the northwest there came a -cloud—a black cloud, a menacing cloud, that was to blot out all renaming -hope. - -It was a rain of pests—a deluge of grasshoppers! Like the plagues of -old they descended upon us. And they greedily devoured every growing -thing—corn, grass, weeds, foliage of the trees—leaving in their wake a -barren waste and a woefully impoverished lot of people. After devouring -every edible thing, and gnawing on pitchfork handles and axe handles — -for salt deposited by sweaty hands — the hoppers deposited eggs in the -ground, and then perished with the coming of cold weather. The -young hoppers in the spring of 1875 cleaned up the farmer’s first -plantings—but on a day, at noon, late in June they rose up as a cloud -blotting out the sun from the earth as they winged their way to greener -pastures—where, nobody here knew. - -Now we have left the Indian standing there by the side of his pony for -a long time. But the Indian doesn’t mind. Not our Kickapoo, anyway. And, -as a stickler for the truth, for accuracy of detail, I will admit -that my deductions, my fears, did not coincide with the facts as later -developed; that, in the language of the street and as my father said of -me at the time out there in the wood—literally, I was “all wet.” - -That Indian was not an emissary of destruction, rather, he was, after -the manner of the wise one of his peoples, a maker of good medicine. My -father’s great haste to get away from the Wolfley timber had been halted -by a clump of black oak trees. There were two holes in a large limb -of the great oak under which the Indian found us standing. The Indian -looked up into the tree. “Long time go Indian’s tomahawk make holes,” he -said. “Maybe catchum coon,” He shifted his beady black eyes to another -part of the tree, and exclaimed, “Seeum squirrel!” - -My father had hot noticed the holes in the limb, nor the squirrel which -the Indian saw flattened out on a branch high up in the tree. To my -father, that tree presented far more interesting possibilities. Before -interrupted, his thoughts had, more or less, shifted from the man -who had treated him so shabbily and had carried him back to the sunny -Southland, to the evergreen hills of his boyhood home. There he had -successfully operated a tannery—successfully, until the Civil War put -him out of business. - -The tree my father was now viewing was a huge black oak. It was -surrounded by more of its kind. At any time the sight of a black oak -attracted him. Black oak bark was the agency he employed in making -leather in his Tennessee tannery. He longed to get back into the -business. There were other black oaks in the country; yet he questioned -if there were enough to justify the establishment of a tannery here. He -was constantly on the lookout for a substitute for making leather. - -Pointing to the boots he himself wore, my father told the Indian that -his interest in that tree was because the bark of the black oak was used -in making leather. Also, noticing that the Indian was wearing moccasins -and other deerskin raiment under his blanket, my father asked him what -the Indians used for tanning. The Indian became thoughtful and finally -said something that sounded like “Sequaw.” But that was worse than Greek -to my father. - -It is fitting that I pause here to pay tribute to one of those little -borderlets mentioned in the opening paragraph. Resplendent in its -lofty setting that little borderlet, and its kind, possessed priceless -properties. Henceforth it becomes golden thread in the woof and warp -of this tale. As with the lovely Claudette Colbert and her coca-cola -tidings, this is, in a manner, “the pause that refreshes.” And so being, -it is with memorable pleasure that I now salute the sumac! It was my -father’s salvation. - -Back in the Wolfley timber, my father told the Indian the owner did not -permit hunting on his premises—that he, the tanner, was not interested -in the squirrel. - -“Me shoot ‘im,” said the Indian. The long barrel of his rifle pointed -upwards—a sharp crack, and the squirrel fell the ground, shot through -the head. The Indian picked up the squirrel, and then holding it out to -the frightened little boy, said, “Take.” - -Without more ceremony the Indian rode away. He was gone only a few -minutes. When he returned he was holding in his hand a branch of -sumac. “Sequaw,” he said again. There were but a few belated red leaves -clinging to the stem. “Catchum ‘fore go red,” he offered when he saw the -leaves shattering in my father’s hands. - -The Indian’s sharp eyes surveyed the black oak again. He looked at -the branch of sumac, saying “Makum buck-kin.” He hesitated. Then said, -“Maybe killum deer ‘fore Sun go way. Maybe two suns. You seeum deer?” - -My father told the Indian—whom he then and there named Eagle Eye—that -he had not seen the deer which those redmen were trailing. Those Indians -who had remained in the background were trying to conceal a deer which -one of them had swung across his pony as they went into that huddle. - -The deer, more numerous in earlier days, had been pretty well killed out -by this time. Though, as late as 1880, I, myself, shot a deer on -that same run. Also I recall having seen one band of antelope, that -fleet-footed little animal of deer family which could outrun the wind -even in its then unhampered sweep across the prairies. I was too young -to identify the little ruminants, but my father said they were antelope, -and he was a hunter of the Daniel Boone type—in fact had hunted in Dan’s -old territory, and he knew his game. - -Here I will say the Indian, Na-che-seah, was the leader of that hunting -party. He was tall, lithe, and straight as an arrow. In later years, -with generous expansion of body, he was known as Big Simon. He died May -27, 1934. As I looked upon the still form of this good Indian, in his -wigwam, on the day of the funeral, my mind drifted back across the -years to the time of our first meeting—but instead of fear, it was now -reverence that gripped me. Big Simon was a man of authority among the -Indians for a great many years—though, contrary to newspaper reports, -he was never chief. About his age, Big Simon would say, “Hundred years, -maybe. Don’t know.” With the passing of Big Simon, Commodore Cat is the -sole surviving member of the old, old tribe. He too may have been one of -those blanketed redmen back there on that deer trail six decades ago. - -The redman’s medicine was an invigorating tonic for my father’s -frayed spirits. It seemed like God had sent that Indian just at the -psychological moment — when my father’s depressed spirits needed -bolstering so very much, when an anodyne for his ills was to be had by -the blending of two agencies for making leather. Though he had never -up to this time regarded it as a commercial agency, my father knew -of course that sumac contained tannin. If the Indians could tan their -deerskins with it, he reasoned, why couldn’t he mix it with oak bark and -tan his calfskins? - -I shall always believe that it was something more than blind chance that -brought the paths of white man and red man together at that particular -spot. Undoubtedly, the Great Spirit was in control. The movements of the -Indians up to that time were of course dark, but timed just right. And -praise be, there were Indians—amongst them an Indian like Eagle Eye, who -could make himself understood. The big break for my father was in the -sumac patch close at hand. - -After ten years absence from his old haunts and the business he loved -so well, the fire in my father’s blood had cooled. Now he felt the old -flame leap. The black oaks and the sumacs beckoned. And to his eager -nostrils rose the odor of a tanyard. - -Almost at once after that meeting with the Indian, still nosing a -tannery, my father was hot on the trail. With the characteristics of a -thoroughbred, he doggedly followed his lead, picking up new hope as -he went at almost every jump, into the woods of three counties. In a -particularly fine stand of wood over in Jackson county, he “treed” his -quarry. Looking up into the trees, his senses all aflame with eagerness, -and I might say standing on his hind legs — upright anyhow — he barked, -“Eureka!” - -Then, having gone there on invitation of the owner to view those fine -black oaks, standing tall, with their big boles close together, he said -more rationally, but still with considerable enthusiasm, “It ’ s enough! -By God I’ll have that tannery now!” - -My father had now declared quite emphatically, though perhaps a bit -inelegantly, that he would establish a tannery here in Wetmore. It was -not idle talk. He experimented, and in due time the tannery was a going -concern. Not immediately, however. Capital had to be provided, and it -took time to bring materials. The tannery was an “open” yard in the -bend of the creek just west of where the town bridge is now—a sort of -makeshift affair, operated only in the summer months. But in one respect -it was regular. It had the tanyard smell. - -The black oak-sumac mixture made a fine grade of leather—much -better than leather made with straight oak bark, and superior to the -present-day chemically tanned leather. My father tanned only calfskins. -His surplus stock was sold to L. Kipper & Sons, wholesale dealers, -Atchison, Kansas. - -I want to say here that those inviting black oaks, earlier mentioned, -made it easy for my father to graciously accept his friend’s apology, -on the plea of forgetfulness—and when he went to deal for the trees John -Wolfley said, “Why, yes, of course you may have them. You know, Bristow, -much as I prize my trees, I couldn’t refuse an old friend like you.” -He glanced toward me, and now I’ll swear there were mirthful crinkles -playing about the man’s eyes. - -The black oaks were cut in the spring when the sap was up, then the bark -was spudded off the trunks of the trees. All available black oaks within -a radius of twenty-five miles of Wetmore were cleaned up in three years. -The last tan-bark came from the Wingo farm near Soldier, twenty miles -away—wagon haul. That was considered a long haul in those days. The -roads here then were no more than winding trails across country, -radiating in every direction from town, like the spokes in a -wagon-wheel. And there were almost no bridges. The creeks were forded. - -The sumac — that innocent little flaming bush, over which young and -inexperienced writers are wont to revel — was cut with corn-knives and -left spread on the ground until dry. The leaves were then stripped off -the stems with a little corn-sheller, the kind that fastened on the -hand. The sumac stems were drawn through the closed shelter and the -leaves were caught upon a large canvas. Like harvesting tanbark, that -was work which had to be done in season—not too soon, not too late. - -The time to get busy was when the sumac began to show a tinge of -coloring late in the summer, after maturity. But, as the Indian had -said, when the big splash came — when the sumac thickets took on a -blaze of coloring, that dark crimson hue, as if Nature had spilled the -life-blood of the waning summer to glorify the last minute splendor of -its passing—it was then time to quit. The leaves would no longer remain -on the stems to carry through the drying process. Yes! That was it! -“Catchum ‘fore go red!” - -My father made Eagle Eye a pair of boots with leather tanned by the new -process. He gave them to the Indian, Eagle Eye wanted to pay for them. -He had Government money and he had ponies. When money was refused, he -thought a pony would be about right. Maybe two, three or even a herd of -ponies would not be too much. But my father said, “No, just bring me a -deerskin sometime.” - -The Indian brought him a green buffalo hide. At that time all swell -turnouts—horse and buggy conveyances — included a buffalo robe. When, in -time, the hide had been tanned and made up, my father found himself -in the rather awkward position of owning a buffalo robe without the -turn-out. But even so it was not a worthless treasure. On cold, stormy, -winter nights—they were bitter cold then—it served as an extra bed -coverlet for a quarter of a dozen of his boys, with, at times, an -additional neighbor boy or two thrown in for good measure. - -Buffalo were quite plentiful only a hundred miles or so west of here -then. But our Kickapoos did not often venture west of the Blue River. -Hostile Indians roamed that territory. The Pawnees were the worst -Indians the whites had to contend with on the old Overland Trail -between the Big Blue and Fort Kearney. Eagle Eye’s gift was all the more -appreciated because he had braved the hostile Pawnees to get a suitable -present for his “Paleface” friend. - -The boots my father made for the Indian were of the tongue pattern, -with morocco tops and small high heels. The tops were scalloped with -half-moons over red sheepskin. A big red heart was fashioned in the top -front. Eagle Eye was very proud of his boots. They were, I believe, the -first boots to be worn on the reservation. - -But, in time, one of those boots ripped. The side seam gaped near the -ankle. The Indian had been walking through wet grass when he came to the -shop to get the rip sewed up. He tried to pull his boot off. It stuck -tight. My father did not have a bootjack. He always said he did not like -to have his perfectly fashioned boot-counters ruined by the use of a -boot-jack. He had a better way. - -My father turned his back to the Indian, and told Eagle Eye to stick -his boot between his—the shoemaker’s—legs and push with the other foot. -“Harder, push harder!” cried the human boot-jack. When the boot finally -came off, a first-class shoemaker took a header into a pile of lasts and -other rubbish in the corner of the room. He came up with a skinned nose. - -The Indian—who had now come to call himself Eagle Eye when in the -presence of my father—did not, of course get any kick out of hurting his -“paleface” friend, but it was plain to be seen that pleasant thoughts -were engaging him. An Indian laughs rarely, if ever—not the old -Indians two generations back, anyway. But he had his moments of extreme -pleasure. - -When the rip was repaired, the Indian had a hard time getting his -water-soaked boot back on. My older brother, Charley, said to me, “Eagle -Eye will have to sleep with his boots on tonight.” The Indian heard. His -copper-colored face again registered anticipated pleasure. He actually -smiled a bit as if he saw real humor in the thing. - -“Huh!” he grunted, as he raised his foot and thrust it to the fore with -much vigor, “Pushum squaw maybe! Heap fool squaw all time say Eagle Eye -not smart!” - -A TWOTIMER We were having company for supper. Little Dorothy Bristow. -four year old daughter of my brother Frank and wife Cecile, told August -and Hulda Bleisener they need not be afraid of the silver, that she and -her aunt Myrtle had cleaned it that afternoon. - -But—hold your laugh. - -My wife had put pickled cling peaches on the table. Now, everyone knows -how hard it is to get the meat off a pickled cling peach. I shoved -one into my mouth and was doing the best I could with it when Myrtle, -looking across the table, said with shocked overtone, “Did you put that -whole peach in your mouth?” She of course had not seen August put one in -his mouth—but, no matter, August shot his out onto his plate right now. - -TEXAS CATTLE AND RATTLESNAKES Not Hitherto Published—1947. - -By John T. Bristow - -When harvesting sumac, often barefooted and always barehanded, we boys, -sons of the tanner, had to keep a sharp lookout for rattlesnakes—and -Texas cattle. We were repeatedly so warned by our parents. Also, it was -generally understood that all children should “watchout” for Indians. -This, however, did not greatly disturb us after we had made friends with -Eagle Eye. - -Then, one day, while cutting sumac for the tannery, with my brother -Charley, near a timbered ravine three miles out southeast, close to the -Oliver Logue farm, a long-horn steer, out of a large herd, chased me up -a tree early in the afternoon and held me prisoner in the treetop until -the riders, Abe Williams and John Taylor, came to round up the herd for -the night. - -I thought that steer would surely butt his horns off, the way he -rammed that six-inch tree. He would back off, paw the ground, shake his -slobbering head, and come snorting at the tree again and again. After -quieting down, he grazed fitfully and frightfully close to the tree—and -he came trotting in several times with something ugly on his bovine -mind, I’m sure. Even now I wonder is it possible for an enraged cowbrute -to have red eyes. - -The day herder, at ease, on a ridge a quarter mile to the west—probably -reading a Frank Merriwell baseball story—was letting the herd feed -north, and so long as the cattle did not attempt to go over the rise -to the east, out of sight, Wes Shuemaker would have no occasion to ride -down my way. And it would have been futile for me to have tried to call -him, with a south wind blowing forty-fifty mph. - -My brother was safely on the other side of the ravine close to trees, -but he slipped out the back way and went home. I knew he was doing the -right thing. And I knew too that I would remain in the tree until the -arrival of the riders. Those Texas cattle behaved nicely for mounted -men, but they could not abide a person on foot. - -I really had no business on that side of the ravine, with those cattle -feeding there—but I guess I was, as always, a little too venturesome. I -knew that herd had some bad actors in it. In fact, I had been warned to -never get off my horse when riding as relief herder of that same herd, -on several occasions. And one time while all alone at the dinner hour -my mount, in jumping a ditch, broke the saddle girth and spilled me on a -rattlesnake infested prairie, amongst those longhorns—with not a tree in -sight. - -However, nothing untoward happened. Had my luck been running true to -form, there should have been at least one rattlesnake coiled on the -margin of the shallow ditch into which I squeezed myself, and waited in -misery for the day herder to return. As I lay in the ditch I just had to -recall the time, a short while before, when a rattlesnake, coiled by a -cowpath, struck as I trotted past—barefoot, of course—and got his fangs -hooked in my trouser leg, requiring two wild jumps to dislodge his -snakeship. - -The herd was owned by Than Morris and Abe Williams, the latter a brother -of Mrs. Jake Wolfley. Morris and Wolfley were brothers-in-law. John -Taylor, herder, was a son of Hebe Taylor, of Atchison. John Taylor was -later bailiff of the Nemaha county court, in Seneca. And he was the -father of Earl W. Taylor for whom the Seneca American Legion Post was -named. Hebe Taylor also, at one time, ran cattle in the open country -southwest of Wetmore — with Ed. Keggin. - -Charley went straight to the Morris general store in Wetmore and -told Than of my predicament, and Morris immediately rounded up two -cowpunchers. John Taylor, working with a herd to the southwest, chanced -to be in town, and rode out with Abe Williams. - -The herd had grazed on past my tree-perch. The unruly steer did not -follow, but if the critter was capable of the sound thinking I was -willing to credit him with, “I betcha” he always wished he had. A -good cowhand could play a tune with a cattlewhip on a critter’s rump, -under dead run. And John Taylor was good. He lashed his short-handled -10-foot whip overhead to the steer’s rump, right and left, with rhythmic -timing, making the hair fly with each crack. The steer’s hindparts, -seemingly trying to outrun his foreparts, swung to the right and swung -to the left with clocklike regularity—and he thus wove himself deep into -the herd, bawling “bloody murder.” - -When told of John Taylor’s adroitness with the whip, my father said, -“I wouldn’t care to tan his hide”—meaning the steer’s, of course. -While father bought the hides from the lost dead of all those big -herds—sometimes the losses in the early spring were heavy—he tanned only -a few of them. He didn’t like to tan a mutilated hide, nor the hide of a -branded critter—and he wouldn’t tan a grubby murrain hide. - -Thus it was, I herded the cattle that produced the hides that made the -leather which I helped make into shoes—all while still in my teens. My -apprenticeship as a shoemaker began by holding a candle for my father to -work by, at night. And if you could think it was not a wearying task for -a sleepy boy, you can think again. The light would have to be shifted -from side to side with each stitch as he sewed the soles on shoes. By -midnight he usually ran out of “endearing” terms by which to bring me to -attention—and he was willing to call it a day. Sometimes my mother -would relieve me of this chore, but too often at such times she would -be engaged in sewing up the side seams of a new boot, with awl and waxed -thread. While I did a lot of repair work satisfactorily, I made out and -out only three pairs of shoes. And though always behind with his orders, -my father very wisely demanded that I make them all to my own measures. - -Might add that we boys, sons of the tanner, and other rough and ready -town boys—just to be doing something of our very own—tanned, in the -big leather vats, squirrel hides, coon skins, and, of all things, two -rattlesnake skins. Wes Shuemaker proudly wore the belt made of those -rattlesnake skins for a long time. - -Dr. Holland was another Atchison man who, in partnership with his -brother-in-law, Mr. Prunty, of Soldier, ran a large herd southwest of -town. His corral, a 10-acre pine board enclosure, was in the northwest -corner of the Harry Cawood quarter. The land was then owned by Billy -Cline, of Soldier. Where there were no corrals, a night herder would -have to stay with the cattle. - -The Bradford spring—now known as the Joe Pfrang spring—gushing up from a -hilltop, was the main attraction for those early day cattlemen. Just how -the free range was divided up to carry several individual herds, without -clashing, I do not know—but there were no cattle feuds, and no gunplay. - -NOTE—The values in cattle, as with everything else, ran low in the old -days. An instance: In 1861, Bill Porter had a hard time raising money -to pay taxes on two quarters of land. Unable to borrow $7.20, the -troublesome amount, he walked and led a big fat cow to Leavenworth, and -sold her for $7.50. In marked contrast, Garrett Bartley of Powhattan, -son-in-law of Bill Porter, the second, reports a neighbor of his -recently sold a 2,000 pound cow on the St. Joseph market for $540.00. -I think the herds corralled here and grazed around the Bradford spring -were bought for as little as $5 to $8 per head. This year—1950—Joe -Pfrang, present owner of the Bradford spring and surrounding acres, -bought, in May, a bunch of 700-pound steers for approximately $160.00 -each—and after running them on pasture, the same wild grass, with some -acres now planted to tame grass, sold them in the fall off grass, for an -average of $270.00; a gain of about $110.00 per head. These steers were -Texas-bred cattle, too. But they were not “longhorns.” Herefords never -are. And likely the Pfrang 1,000-pound steers, out of the feed lot, with -300 pounds added weight, would have sold for about $487.50 each. It was -a great year for the cattlemen. Beefsteak in the old days in Wetmore was -ten cents a pound for the best cuts. - -There were, however, some angry threats between the cattlemen and Old -Morgan, an outsider, who had run in four thousand sheep on them. I -helped shepherd that flock, And I discovered early that by looping a -pebble in the cracker end of my cattle-whip, and sending it over them a -little to the outside of the straying sheep that I could bring them -back into the fold without effort. Also, the singing noise of the pebble -thrown over the flock would divide the sheep into two bunches. I really -became quite good at this thing, and played with the discovery a lot -— until one day when the missile did not sail true, and a sheep had to -hobble home on three legs. We were in the hills south of the creek. The -poor little lamb got no help until after the flock had passed over -the bridge at the east end of town. Old Morgan usually met us there. -Luckily, he was tuned up properly and did all the talking. He threatened -to sue the township for permitting a hole to remain open in the -bridge. This, I like to think, was the one black mark against my rather -diversified career. A sheep herder in a cattle country rated pretty low. -Cattle would not graze after sheep. I quit Old Morgan before the season -was over. - -The cattle herder’s main function was to keep the herds from mixing, and -to keep the cattle clear of the creek-bottom farms and the few isolated -prairie farms; and also to keep them out of mischief in general, such as -running down careless boys—and free of dogs. A dog could always start a -stampede. And a cattle stampede was something to be dreaded, in the old -days. When those Texas cattle and dogs mixed there was sure to be loud -bellowings and a great clashing of hoofs and horns. I have a clear -picture of my Uncle Nick’s herd of longhorns, after running themselves -down, milling about on the range adjacent to his Wolfley creek -farm—milling in a compact bunch, when one could look out upon a sea of -horns; nothing but horns. - -It was quite the thing for local men who had a little cash, or backing, -to take a hand in the cattle game. My Uncle Nick Bristow and Roland Van -Amburg contracted for a large herd of those longhorns from Dr. W. -L. Challis, cattle broker of Atchison. The cattle were fresh from -Texas—brought up over the famed Chisholm trail. Uncle Nick and Van -divided the herd, and after running the cattle on grass, tried to carry -them through a rather severe winter on prairie hay alone. Those fresh -longhorns would not eat corn. The cattle were so weakened by spring that -when turned out on grass they mired down in creeks and water holes all -over the range. They died in bunches, almost to the last head. And while -that cattle deal cost my Uncle his farm, Van said it cost him only -his “britches.” Roland Van Amburg was a grand old sport, with a -great capacity for seeing the “funny” side of life—and up or down, -financially, he was always the same cheery Van. - -Other men got out of their Texas cattle speculations less lucky. Dave -Garvin, besides losing a lot of his hard-earned money, had to take -the “rest cure” for nearly a year. However, those who confined their -speculations, within their means, to native-bred cattle made money. John -Thornburrow, starting from scratch, amassed a small fortune. Charley -Hutchison, a mere boy, scion of a wealthy’ brewer family, sent out here -from Ohio to sober up, and put on a section of wild land, made a pile -of money from his herds — and more, he became a teetotaler, a solid, -honorable citizen. Fred Achten, a fifteen dollar a month farm hand, -built the foundation for the Achten Empire, the largest land holdings in -the country, largely on cattle and free grass. - -Also, John Rebensdorf, a German farm hand, after marrying Christine -Zabel and settling down, made plenty of money running cattle on free -grass. Rebensdorf was oddly a thrifty man. By no means an inveterate -tippler, he liked, occasionally, to pay for his own beer—and drink it -himself. Time and again I have seen him ride into town, tie his horse at -the rack in the middle of the street in front of the saloon, go in, -and, elbow himself a place at the bar, order three quart bottles of -beer—always three bottles. When he had leisurely emptied the third -bottle he was ready to pipe. “I’ze zee richest man in zee whole -country.” And, at that, the man was not far off in his calculations. - -One time, John Rebensdorf and his brother-in-law, Albert Zabel, of -German parentage, were engaged in a spirited argument—on a street -corner, in my hearing — over something which had to do with cattle and -free grass, Albert, a fine Christian gentleman momentarily suffering -a lapse of piety, called Rebensdorf all the fighting names in the -book—that is, all the names that would rile an American, without -perceptibly ruffling him. Albert worked himself up Into a white heat, -but he couldn’t bestir John. Rebenstorf would say, “No, Albert, you -iss wrong.” He repeated this, meekly, several times. Finally, when -Rebensdorf, wearied of the argument, started to walk away, Albert -yelled parting shot, “You old sauerkraut, you know I’m right!” Then “zee -richest man in zee whole country” turned quickly, came blustering back, -shaking his big fat fist, and roared, “By gosh, you call me sauerkraut! -Now I fight!” - -Also, the residents would often—that is, in season, cut hay off the -prairie that had been more or less grazed. One summer my brother Sam and -I hauled into town $315.00 Worth, at $2.50 a ton, measured in stack—and -much of this was done at night, by moonlight, owing to high winds making -it impossible to handle the loose hay by day. Owners of cows in town, as -well as in the country, always aimed to have enough hay stored to carry -their stock through the winter, but often the supply was found to be -short, especially when the winters were unusually severe. Then the -speculators who had stored hay against such eventualities, would have an -inning—maybe get $3 or $3.50 a ton, in stack. One especially energetic -man in the Granada neighborhood, with a couple of confederates, put up -an unusual amount of this free hay one season, inside fire breaks—then -a prairie fire in the late winter destroyed all the outstacked hay -belonging to his neighbors. Then bedlam broke loose among the natives. -Still there were no killings. - -And, even with all that grazing and mowing there was enough grass left -on the south range to make spectacular prairie fires, racing at times, -all the way to town—and would even sometimes jump the creek and menace -the town. - -Here is one more of the many incidents attributable to the free grass -range. Without refrigeration in the early hot summers the farmer’s wives -had difficulty keeping butter made from grass-fed cows fresh until it -could be brought to market. On the whole the women managed exceedingly -well under trying conditions—it was before the day of screens on the -homes—but there were some that didn’t know how, or just didn’t seem to -care. - -At that time I was clerking in Than Morris’ store, along with Curt -Shuemaker, George and Chuck Cawood. We had already accumulated a full -barrel of off-grade butter that would have to be sold for soap-grease, -when Morris told us all that should a certain woman bring in butter -again for us to reject it. It so happened that it fell to the lot of the -“cub” clerk to wait on her. Morris and the three other clerks stood by, -grinning. I carried her jar into the side room, and without uncovering -it, brought it back and told the woman we could not buy it. She appealed -to Than, saying, “Mr. Cawood here,” nodding toward me, “took my butter -away and got it all dirty, and now says he won’t buy it.” Morris knew -what to look for—and it was there for all to see. He said, “Look!” -pointing to the uncovered jar, “ Cawood didn’t put those wigglers in -your butter. Don’t bring us any more of that stuff.” - -The woman insisted that “Mr. Cawood had dirtied it up”—and Morris paid -in full, gross weight. And she was permitted to take the whole mess back -home, along with her purchases. I was thankful that Morris, in dealing -with her, also called me Cawood—minus the “Mister.” - -Still calling me “Mr. Cawood,” this woman later told me she had -rheumatism—that she had, unfortunately, spilled her cooling bucket in -the water well, and that her man would no longer allow her to cool her -butter in the customary way — suspended on a rope deep in the well. -After she had passed on, the second Mrs. L. made good butter—so good in -fact that the town customers called for it by name. But even this could -not correct the damage done to my delicate stomach during that summer -in the Morris store. I have never tasted raw butter since that time. And -with me, after that sheep herding experience, mutton is also taboo. Old -Morgan’s sheep were scabby. - -Again, while clerking in the Morris store I was put to the test—and -though this has nothing whatsoever to do with the free grass range, I -am sure you will observe that it is neatly wrapped in fast green. A Miss -Sumerville, a relative of the Zabel’s, visiting in Wetmore—I believe she -was from Pennsylvania—asked for variegated yarn. I told her we didn’t -have that kind, but I would show her what we had. I admit that I was not -very bright on some matters — but at that, I wasn’t as dumb as one of -the standbys that I could have named. - -Morris said, “Show her what you have in that drawer over there,” -indicating the drawer holding the variegated yarn. After I had made -the sale, Morris complimented me for selling the little lady a lot of -something she didn’t want. He said, “When you don’t have what they want, -always try to sell them something else.” He henkie-henkie-henkied in -a manner which passed as a derisive laugh. “Keep awake, young man,” -he said, “and you’ll make a salesman in time — maybe as good as Cawood -here,” indicating Chuck. - -With George Cox and his two sons, Bill and young George, I helped build -that Holland corral earlier mentioned — and a small bunk house. And it -was here where I mixed it with the rattlesnake I had been admonished -so often to keep a sharp eye out for. Note Note how well young America -obeyed the injunction. I saw the rattlesnake coiled by the roadside as -we were coming in after the day’s work, with ox-team, piloted by a Mr. -Green who had brought the outfit up from Atchison to haul the lumber out -from town. I jumped out of the wagon, and hit the snake with a rock. -It flopped, then lay still. I thought it was dead but to make sure I -prodded it with a stiff prairie weed—and learned pronto that the -stick was a mite too short on one end. That rattler lashed out at me, -overreaching by the fraction of an inch, with its neck or body falling -across my wrist. My hands were scratched and blood-stained from -handling the rough pine boards—fencing came in the rough in those days — -and Mr. Green insisted that he saw the snake bite me “with my own eyes.” -And to prove it, he spotted a snagged place on my hand where he was sure -the snake’s fangs had struck. - -Mr. Green crowded those normally slow plodding oxen, and we actually -came to town by fits and spurts on the gallop. He wanted to buy whisky -for me, and seemed awfully distressed when I refused it. He was so -exercised over the matter that one easily could have believed that it -was he who was in need of a generous slug of the stuff — and I’m not so -sure that he didn’t get it. Anyway, I was ready to go out on time the -next morning. Mr. Green was not. And you can bet your life I never again -tried to poke a diamondback with a stick too short on one end. - -Incidentally, I may say there were other close calls and near misses—not -to overlook the one August day when a seven-button, (seven-year-old) -rattlesnake actually made a ten-strike on my bare foot. And though -always to me a bit hazy, I can now assure you that this is no dream. -Just why I would stand still by the side of the hole into which I had -poured water in the hope of drowning out a ground squirrel, and watch -that snake slither up through the grass, coil and strike, before going -down the hole, has always been something for me to ponder. - -It was said in the old days that snakes would charm their prey—mesmerize -a bird so that it could not fly away. Well, here for once was a -“charmed” fledgling that did “fly” away—too late. The charm was broken -the moment the snake struck, and though I was only six years old, my -brother Charley said I let out a terrific yell, and cleared a wagon road -in one jump. Even now I wonder does one ever get so frightened that both -mind and body refuse to function? - -And here is a solemn truth you will likely find hard to believe. For -several years thereafter, come August and dogdays, my right leg would -become spotted like that rattlesnake. In a previous article I told of -this same rattlesnake encounter, and my Aunt Nancy Porter asked me why -didn’t I mention the fact of those recurrent spots? I told her that I -didn’t want to weaken the story with anything hard to swallow, however -true it might be. Then she said, “Well-I, could tell them that it is -true, that your mother—” her sister—”told me that it was the gospel -truth.” And there were no better Baptists than that pair. Still, in this -day of freedom of thought, you can doubt it if you wish — but you would -be wrong. - -WATCH YOUR LANGUAGE Little Josephine Cole, not yet three years old, -trying to catch an evasive cat in our home, shocked her Aunt Myrtle -by saying, “Damn that cat.” My wife was telling Mrs. Morrison, our -neighbor, about it, When Dick Morrison, the husband, spoke up saying, “I -said those very Words about our damned old cat while the child was over -here yesterday.” It has wisely been said: “Out of the mouths of babies -come Words we shouldn’t have said in the first place.” - -DONE IN CALIFORNIA Not Hitherto Published—1948. - -By John T. Bristow - -As sequel to the foregoing old-time cattle riding story-experienced in -my younger days on the gently undulating plains of Northeast Kansas, I -here record a contrasting up-to-date cattle riding experience I recently -had on a far away mountain range. But in this last ride I did not race -my horse and crack my whip for the sheer fun of it—as of yore. - -Until Sunday, April 18, 1948, I had not been on a horse for fifty-five -years—not since the opening of the Cherokee Strip, September 16, 1893, -at noon, when, with my brother Dave, and Dr. David H. Fitzgerald, and -Charley Rice, I rode sixteen miles in fifty-six minutes to locate a -claim on Turkey creek, seven miles southwest of the present city of -Enid, Oklahoma. In that race we were led—for a price — by “Ranaky Bill,” -an Oklahoma outlaw. - -While going up the mountain, the name of other notorious outlaws—the -Daltons—was mentioned by my nephew, Sam Bristow, with whom I was riding. -Sam owns “Dalton Mountain,” some sixty miles east of Fresno, California, -where it is said those desperadoes were in hiding a long time ago. - -The Dalton gang of bank robbers—following in the wake of the Jesse James -gang whose hideout was in Missouri — operated mainly, I believe, in -Kansas and the Indian Territory, in the late ‘80’s. At any rate, the -Dalton bank robbers came to grief at Coffeyville in southern Kansas, -with three of the gang killed by a sharp-shooting local hardware -merchant, and law enforcement officers. Grat and Bob Dalton were killed. -Emmett Dalton was badly shot up — was captured, convicted, and given a -life sentence. President Theodore Roosevelt pardoned him. I have a -faint recollection that sometime prior to the Coffeyville raid, the news -dispatches stated that the Daltons—under assumed names—had shipped -their horses to the Far west. And it is not at all improbable that our -old-time Kansas and Indian Territory band of desperadoes rode their -horses to the saddle-back near the top of my nephew’s 3500 foot -mountain, from which eminence they could have guarded the approach in -all directions. - -Dalton Mountain is an attraction for patrons of a large Dude Ranch close -by, in the Kings river area—something to talk about only. No dude could -ride a horse up that mountain—particularly none of the thirty New York -“dude” girls who rode the canyon trails thereabout for several weeks, -recently. - -Also, I recall the time when Jim Dalton, after killing Sheriff Charley -Batterson and escaping from the Marysville jail, was captured by a posse -led by Constable Charley Andrews, near the Buening school, eight miles -southwest of Wetmore—my home town. After serving time, it was said, -Jim Dalton went to Los Angeles and made an honorable “killing” in the -manufacture of ovens for bakeries. I do not know if he was a member of -the old gang. Probably not. But it has often been considered that he -was. - -But we were not riding via a series of switchbacks to the top of Dalton -Mountain especially to view that historic spot. From the saddle-back, -looking to the north down a tree-studded canyon, and looking back over -the trail we had traveled, we could see at a glance much of Sam’s 1480 -acres, of mountain pasture land, trees and rocks. And from this lookout -we could locate nearly all of his ninety-eight head of cattle that had -wintered there during the worst winter drought that California has had -in eighty years, while other valley ranchmen were feeding $40 hay to -$100 cattle, or shipping their stock to pastures in other states—some to -the wheat fields of Western Kansas. The north slope of Dalton mountain, -shielded from the burning sun, is what saved the day for Sam. Campbell -mountain, almost in Sam’s dooryard, was picked bare. Sam bought -fifteen of the cattle taken off that range. In his pasture, those newly -purchased cattle did not graze with the other stock. And this is where -the trained McNabb shepherd dog, Spike, comes in. I shall give Spike a -line, later. - -When Sam was saddling the horses before loading them in the truck for -the 35 mile drive up into the mountains, from his 80-acre valley ranch, -his wife—Anna—came out to the barnyard, and said to me, “Don’t let Sam -talk you into making that hard ride all the way up to the top of the -mountain. When you get tired, turn around and come back.” Excellent -advice—but that was the one thing I couldn’t do. We were already coming -down when I began to tire, and a quick reflection on Anna’s injunction -told me that to turn around then would have availed me nothing. And -though I had had it done to me many times in my younger days, that hard -four hours horseback ride up the mountain and back did not produce the -saddle-weary spots my relatives were expecting. - -For identification purposes, let’s say Sam’s son Robert, 21-year-old -ex-GI, an exemplary young man, and Sam’s daughter Virginia Anne, 13 -years old, each own a dog — Spike and Curley. When loading the horses -into the truck both dogs were “rearing” to go. Spike, the trained cattle -dog, told us by signs and in perfectly understandable dog language that -he wanted to ride in the cab. But he was forced in with the horses—and -after he had made the rounds of the pasture, he climbed in with the -horses without argument for the return trip. In the pasture, the dog -would run ahead and spot segregated bunches of cattle, then come back, -point out the stock, and stand “at attention’” awaiting orders. Sam said -should he tell Spike to “Go get ‘em,” the dog would be off right now. He -said it was almost impossible to get the cattle out of the hills without -a trained dog. Sam paid $50 for the pup, and trained it himself. - -Sam had said he would not take Virginia Anne’s dog along with us, that -Curley would likely pick up a deer trail and follow it for hours, which -might delay the return trip. - -He planned to drive back by the Kings river road through the Dude -Ranch to show me the place where the new irrigation ditch now being put -through past his valley ranch — to take San Joaquin river water from the -lake formed by the recently built Friant dam—goes under the Kings -river, ninety feet below, through a 27 foot circular cement tube nearly -three-eights of a mile in length. From the 100 foot bridge spanning the -irrigation ditch one could look down 90 feet to the bottom of the ditch, -and up nearly a 100 feet to the top of the ridge of dirt deposited by -the big dragline. We had seen the west approach to this siphon on coming -out from Fresno the evening before. - -Sam says he frequently sees deer in his pasture—particularly one big -buck—always before the hunting season opens, but never when he is -permitted to shoot them. With the advancing years, it seems the deer, -as well as man, are taking on wisdom. Hunters say that as soon as the -season in California opens the deer make a break for the National Parks, -where they are protected. - -Sam also said that we would call on Mrs. Bert Elwood, who has lived -in the canyon adjoining his pasture for a great many years—and get the -facts about the Daltons. But she was not at home when we stopped, on our -way out. I really wanted to obtain from her a firsthand report on the -early-day cattle business, and information about the cougar menace in -the low mountains years ago. I have been told that the cougars were -alarmingly destructive then. - -The cougars are now mostly in the high mountains, though the Fresno Bee -reported two killed in the Valley last winter. Professional hunters have -kept them down in recent years. It is said a professional cougar hunter -named Bruce—his surname—has a pack of dogs that will track them down -without fail, if the scent is not more than 72 hours old. A grown cougar -will take a toll of 50 deer in one season. - -Getting back to the wise deer in the parks. While “doing” the Sequoia -National Park five years ago with Major Clement A. Tavares—he was in -the service then, and that “Major” handle was pretty firmly fixed, -but “Doctor” takes precedent now—who is the husband of my niece, Alice -Bristow, I saw a deer browsing about the ranger camp. The Major took a -“movie” of it while it was walking in front of a giant Sequoia tree. A -Ranger told me it was a “wild” deer that had never been in captivity. -And I saw deer at several places by the roadside so close that I could -have almost touched them. Also we saw two young bucks “sparring” almost -under the General Grant big tree. The Major turned his camera on them. - -Again, yesterday, we saw deer in the Yosemite Valley. My brother -Theodore shooed one away from a foot-path where it was nonchalantly -nibbling a mushroom. Deer are very tame in the valley. - -The Yosemite Falls, seen at their best on Sunday, May 23, 1948, with -Yosemite creek in flood from melting snow, did not look to be 2425 feet -in height; not until we got up close enough to be sprayed — good. Even -the foot-path through the grove seemed to grow in length, as we walked -toward the Falls. - -Many, many years ago, I heard Eugene May lecture on the beauty and -immensity of Yosemite Valley at the Methodist Church in Wetmore. When -it came to describing the Falls, he got up on his toes, reached for the -sky—literally soaring up, up, up, in an unbelievable manner. Now I find -the Falls and other notable sights in the valley all that May said -they were—and then some. There are six separate falls pouring into the -valley. - -Nothing looks its size up in the High Country. The far famed tunnel -drive through the big Sequoia tree in the Mariposa Big Tree Grove, is -deceiving. It looked as if it would be a tight squeeze for the car, -but after passing through with room to spare, I could easily believe a -cattle truck might pass through it. - -While driving in the Grove, with the big trees standing surprisingly -close together, the Doctor said he had been pretty much all over the -world, and had seen nothing to compare with this wonderful Grove. Just -imagine a tree 33 foot through standing 300 feet high. - -When I first went up into the Sierra Nevada Mountains, years ago—when -automobiles were first coming into general use—trees were hitched on -behind the cars to hold them back while coming down the mountain. And -there was a sizable wood-yard at the foothills—product of those drags. - -Five years ago, I came down from the Sequoia National Park with Major -Tavares, when he put the machine in low gear and eased it down ever -so gently. But now, with everything in California moving along in -high gear, the tendency is to open ‘er up, and let ‘er drop down at an -alarming rate of speed. - -Last Sunday the Doctor—yes, it was the Doctor now — brought me safely -down from the Mariposa Big Tree Grove, at a fast clip—a drop of nearly -8,000 feet in 65 miles of winding hairpin curves, done in less than that -many minutes, the speedometer showing 65 to 70 miles all the way. And I -had been told that his wife Alice was the best driver in the San Joaquin -valley. - -The Park roads are really wonderful—built at the right pitch for safety, -at every turn. - -The Doctor, with Alice and their two children, Clemie, eight, and Myrna, -three, plan to fly in June to Honolulu—the Doctor’s birthplace. He is -not Hawaiian, however. Alice has invited me to accompany them—but as I -have always believed air travel unsafe, I declined, with thanks. - -But now, after Sunday, I think I would not balk at anything—let come -what may. - -THE OLD SWIMMING HOLE Published in Wetmore Spectator January 3, 1936 - -By John T. Bristow - -Other things may be submerged in the whirlpool of life and forgotten, -but memory of the old swimming hole, no matter where it was, or in what -generation, lives long. - -Now comes a letter from one of the old “boys” living in another state -calling for elaboration of that tanyard gang’s doings. Combining the old -swimming hole with the tanyard and our circus layout—they were closely -connected — he mentions them as likely material for a story. A “funny” -story, he suggests. - -Allright, Buddy. You shall have it. But I must warn you, Old Pal, that -you will, like as not, have the jitters instead of a laugh. But you have -asked for it. As the desired mirth-provoking story, this one will likely -be a flop. Buddy must know that while those old escapades, incidents, -or what-nots, always carry well with the ones who have lived them, when -transported in word-pictures across the years to a new audience, by a -limping artist, they very often fail to click. - -Halfway convinced that I could still be murdered for this thing, I have -decided to write a few paragraphs about the old swimming hole and the -gang—and some girls. However, I do not falter. Going on the theory -that when the sweetness of life is over what comes after cannot greatly -matter, I assume the risk—deliberately court danger. - -Regardless of the ever-present smell, that tanyard, located in a bend of -the creek just west of where the town bridge is now, was made a sort -of rendezvous for all the town boys. A dam was constructed across the -creek, and there was a Damsite Company, fully officered. The pond — -long, wide, and eight feet deep made a fine swimming hole. - -Michael Norton, a diminutive Irish boy, was our life-saver. Shy of -qualifications, he was given the post for no good reason at all—unless -it was that his willingness greatly exceeded his size. Michael was a -queer lad. He always crossed himself three times before going into the -water, and his lips would work in a funny little way without saying -anything. Furthermore, it was characteristic of the little fellow -to round out his sentences—especially when earnestness or excitement -spurred — with, “so I will,” or with, “so he did.” And sometimes -it would characteristic of the little fellow to round out his -sentences—especially when earnestness or excitement spurred — with, “so -I will,” or with, “so he did.” And sometimes it would be “You bet.” - -E D Woodburn - -Lawyer - -HOLTON, KANSAS - -January 21 1936 - -Mr. John T. Bristow, Wetmore, Kansas - -Dear John:-- - -This morning I took time to read “THE OLD* SWIMMING HOLE” which you -wrote for the Wetmore Spectator. As usual, you are very interesting -and your article will be enjoyed by all of the citizens of Wetmore and -community who lived there in the long ago. - -It is too bad, John, that you ever quit the paper business. It seems -to me that you naturally belong to that honorable “tribe.’* I have laid -away your articles as I will enjoy reading them again and again. I have -often heard it said that it is one of the signs of old age when one -begins to hark back to our childhood days. Maybe so. I am not denying -that age 13 probably creeping upon you, but I still insist that I “am -as young as I used to be.” We try to keep in touch with the younger -generation and to be and become interested in the things of today but, -in fairness and in strict honesty with ourselves, we will have to admit -that you and I and others of our age are inclined “to cast our eyes, -like a flashing meteor, forward into the past.” - -Keep it up, John, and when you have anything to write remember, I will -appreciate a copy of the good old Wetmore Spectator containing your -article. - -Yours very truly, - -E. D. Woodburn - -At that time the deep slough south of the railroad tracks, instead of -turning abruptly at Kansas avenue and paralleling that street to the -creek as it does now, flowed straight across to a point fifty yards down -stream. The narrow strip of land between slough and creek formed the -north bank of the old swimming hole. Trees and bramble shut out public -gaze fairly well, but they did not make a dependable screen against -prying eyes. - -Ten yards farther down stream from the mouth of the slough was the old -ford. Still farther down stream there was then and is now a mammoth elm -tree that has budded and shed its leaves sixty times since that day. -Tramped firm by cow hoofs, and free of weeds, this bit of ground marked -the spot where our townspeople often went for a few hours loll in the -shade, and where in the surrounding grove even picnics were sometimes -held. It was here also where, on one Independence Day, a fine English -lady from the old Colony essayed to pet a horse on its nether end and -was kicked in the bread-basket. It was so phrased by our elders then. - -In the old days there was in use in the church a hymn-book containing a -song entitled “Beautiful Gates Ajar.” “Dutch” Charley Kumbash, with the -jarring note of the horse’s vengeance and the lady’s name fixed in mind, -said: “It wass now for her the Peu-ti-ful Kates Achar.” The lady was a -Mrs. Gates, daughter of John Radford—later, Mrs. “Paddy” Ryan. - -Starting from the friendly shade of that great elm, where they had gone -to while away a little time, and stopping at the old ford for a wade -in the water, a bevy of girls, wandering aimlessly about, fell upon the -boys’ domain. - -Willie sent out a low whistle of warning. Eyes from all parts of the -pond swept the opening down stream. Girls coming—a lot of them, too -many to count. The boys ducked. Henry, who chanced to be in the top of -a small elm tree ready for a dive, found the bottom of the pond with his -proboscis in no time. One crafty little fellow, well plastered with mud, -was caught wholly unawares, taking his siesta on the bank, cut off from -the pond. As one having lost all sense of decency, he darted this way -and that way in front of the girls—and then, like an ostrich, hid his -head in the low forks of a tree, with back exposed to company. Well now, -maybe it is that the ostrich, when he sticks his head in the sand, -hopes that he might be taken for another bird. Shall I name this ostrich -imitator? Well—maybe later. - -“Let them come!” yelled Henry Callahan, in a braggadocio way. “Who -cares! We used to swim with the Peters girls—and that didn’t kill us.” - -“Yeah,” drawled Timothy Doble, in his usual draggy voice, “but remember, -we had our pants on then—and that made a lot of difference.” - -Timothy was so right about this. It certainly did make a lot of -difference. Incidentally, I may say I have not thought of this boy for a -long time. And Gaskel was his me—not Doble. But the boys all called him -Doble because he was at one time—a considerable time—in a fair way to -have Archibald Doble for a stepfather. However, Bill Kerr, young school -teacher, stepped in and married the widow Gaskel, who was nearly twice -his own age. That marriage did not endure. - -Before going on with the main show, let us go back little—maybe a year, -maybe two or three years. This tanyard pool brought the swimming hole a -mile and a quarter closer to town—and it was hailed with delight by le -barefoot boys. Prior to this, the town boys did their swimming in the -“prairie pools” out south. But the pools had their bad features—hazards -fraught with disturbing elements. - -In the first place, one-third of the distance to the pools was across -the big bottom south of Spring creek which skirts the town. The bottom -was covered with a rank growth of sloughgrass, and, in the early summer -months — the natural time for swimming—after the grass had burned -off, needle-pointed stubs were very damaging bare, feet, and caused -utterances of many an “ouch” and not infrequently a “damnit”—and this -unholy language emanating from youngsters barely past the trundle-bed -stage. But the little sinners could swim—every one of them. - -The prairie pool patronized most, if it were not filled with soil, as -are all the other pools now, would be close to the public road, on the -Grant Dale forty acres—open territory then. Directly north of this was -the Barney Peters forty-acre isolated prairie farm. We could always -count being accompanied by one or more of the four Peters — Bill, -George, Jim, and John. And on rare occasions two Peters girls, Bertha -and Mary, would invade our privacy. - -The pool was about 50 by 25 feet in dimensions with a minimum depth of -eight feet. It was edged with a sort of “greasewood” growth of brush -which grew in clusters at the water’s edge three feet below the rim. -Often water snakes could be seen sunning themselves on branches which -curved out over the water. It was a most disquieting feeling to have -one of those four-foot fellows slither across one’s back. They were not -poisonous. Still they were snakes. - -The Peters girls did not often come upon the scene. But when they did, -it was more disturbing than to be raked over the back by those snakes. -The south side of the pool offered the best place for the snakes to sun -themselves — and as soon as the water was agitated by the bathers coming -in from the north side, as they always did, the snakes would drop off -into the water and make, blindly, for the opposite side and disappear -under the north bank. Some of the snakes seemed to sleep more soundly -than others, and, on a good day, the snake parade to the north side, -while not continuous was, seemingly, never ended. Were it true, as -claimed in the old days, that those snakes passing over one’s back would -make hair grow wherever they touched the bare skin, I would have more -hair on my back than I now have on my head. - -And occasionally a turtle would drop off those bushes into the swimming -hole. It was said by oldtimers that should a turtle nip you that it -would not let loose until sundown. Other oldsters said it would hang -on until it thundered. The adventurous youngsters—usually ready to try -anything—never, to my knowledge, tried to find out which way was right. -With brassy skies and prolonged summer droughts; with thunder clouds few -and far between, made it too risky. At that time swim-suits were unknown -here — maybe just not used—and always after a swim with the Peters -girls, we would have to walk home in our wet pants. - -That chain of water holes along a three-mile treeless water course, was -said to have been “buffalo” holes. But this I was inclined to doubt, -after seeing the remains of true buffalo wallows in Western Kansas. My -Uncle Nick Bristow said there were no buffalo here when he came, and -that so far as he knew no one before him had seen any. But in my time, -the whole plains country west of the Blue river was swarming with them. -They were shamefully slaughtered by eastern outfitted crews, for their -hides. I believe that Zan Gray ’ s novel, “The Thundering Herd, ” was -inspired by the big herds of buffalo in Southwestern Kansas. - -Then there were the “second” pools, a longer wash, one mile farther -south, fed partly by the Bradford spring, which we would patronize -in dry times when the stream connecting the “first” pools would stop -running. - -Back at the tanyard pool: Those girls, full of high spirits and gay -chatter, scooped up our clothing, such as it was, and stood on the bank -laughing at us. Save for the one with head so nattily ensconced in tree -crotch, all were in water up to necks, and thinking some rather ugly -thoughts, we were, I can assure you, most miserable. Miserable, however, -does not fully define the plight of the featherless bird on the bank. - -Then, holding a yapping little dog to a bulging bosom, a Good Samaritan -came moving in. Her smiling face was framed in a lovely orange bonnet. -She interceded for the boys. The girls were adamant, heartless. For -her pains, the intermediary was called “Mother Fuzzicks”—then, and -there-after. She was in truth the mother of the brave Indian fighter -mentioned in an earlier article. - -In all fairness to those girls I should say that they were, probably, -possessed of the idea that their appearance in this manner might cure a -certain habitue of the water hole of being neglectful of his duties at -home, and maybe cause him to choose better company as well. They could -not be censured for that. They were nice girls, those intruders. - -It was our life-saver who undertook to solve the problem for us—the -little fellow of multiple peculiarities, the most pronounced of which, -as you have been informed, was displayed in his crossing himself three -times before going into the water. - -I rather think that one, maybe two, of Michael’s older sisters were -among that hilarious lot. But as to that I cannot be sure. Much water -has gone over the dam since that day and on some points things are a -bit foggy. It is one of the tricks of memory—that parts of a recalled -incident will stand out clearly while other parts remain, shadowy and -tantalizingly, just outside the grasp of the mind. - -So, then, of those damsels I make no identifications — this on account -of much fog. Still, casting back through the mists of many years, I can -sense enough of the old thing to cause me to suspect that I could almost -spit on one of those erstwhile trim maidens, now grown stout, from where -I write. Not, however, that I would want to do so at this late date. - -With a mischievous twinkle in his pale blue eyes, Michael said: “Lave -them to me boys. By-gorry I’ll show them a trick with a hole in it; I -will so I will!” Much stress was laid upon the last phrase. It contained -the true Irish accent. A trick with a hole in it! An old saying, of -course — much used then. - -Manifestly, Michael had decided, as any fine boy of the period would, to -deal modestly with the girls—or, at least, with as much modesty as the -exigencies of the situation would permit—but he had reckoned without -taking into account the destructive forces of Time upon discarded -tinware. - -Someone, pointing to a stick on the bank, said, “Take that and wallop -‘em good!” It was a portion from the butt end of a well seasoned sumac. - -“Aye, I have it!” mouthed Michael. At the same time he fished out of the -mud at the edge of the pond an old weather-beaten dishpan, one of many -that had been used in the tannery for various purposes. This he swung in -front of him. - -Then, with surprising alacrity and apparent confidence in himself and -the implement of his veiling, he bounded up the bank, pivoting at the -top long enough to cast a reassuring look over his shoulder to his -buddies in the water. The gang beamed approvingly on their savior. - -Michael advanced on the intruders, shouting in a rather thin voice, -“Drop the rags, and scram!” He waved his cudgel. No results. Michael -didn’t like having his efforts go for naught that way. The laughter -went out of his eyes. His Irish was up. He resisted an impulse at -belligerence. Then, “Vamoose, I tell you, or bygorry you’ll be knowing -the feel of this shillelagh!” Now, however, his belligerent interest was -superseded by new elements. - -The girls did not budge. Not then. They laughed mightily. All but one. -The Good Samaritan shook with suppressed laughter. Her orange bonnet -bobbed in fine harmony. The little doggie barked. With deep concern -and echoes of mortification trailing in her voice, the laughless -one, stepping forward—it was now observed that she held in her hand a -shillelagh of her own, once again of magic sumac origin—exclaimed, “Holy -horrors! Look Michael! Your manners! There do be a hole in your shield!” - -This he took to indicate her desire for him to depart — as, indeed, it -did. And Michael, our defender, “took water.” - -You must believe me now when I say to you that the -never-to-be-dispensed-with three-time act, peculiarly and persistently -the boy’s very own, was delayed somewhat. - -“You bet!” - -MISS INTERPRETED My mother cautioned my sister Nannie when a very little -girl as she was going out to play, to look good for snakes. After she -had returned, Nannie told her mother that she had looked everywhere and -did not see “ary snake.” Asked what would she have done had she found -one, Nannie said, “I would of bringed it to you.” - -THE “CIRCUS” LAYOUT Published in Wetmore Spectator, - -January 10, 1936. - -By John T. Bristow - -Now, I trust “Buddy” will be satisfied with the foregoing narration -of events at the old swimming hole. He really should be. He is in -it—figuring inversely, up to his neck. - -Since the actual distance from the swimming hole to the tanyard was but -twenty steps—and I mean literally steps—there should be no difficulty -in making the switch over. Those twenty steps did, however, at times, -present physical hazards. They were dirt steps carved out on a rather -steeply inclined bank, up which the tanner’s sons carried water in -buckets from pond to tanvat. Barefooted, with pants rolled up to our -knees, we would dig in with our toes when going up with the filled -buckets, always spilling a little water on the way, until those steps -would become a veritable otter’s slide. As a boy’s bare heels, in the -old days, were poorly fashioned for digging in, the water carriers would -then have to use the longer rope-protected path provided for making the -descent with the empty buckets. One slippery slide on one’s backside was -a hint that it was time to make the switch. - -But a rehash of the “circus layout” as my Old Pal puts it, is maybe -going to be disappointing, as I can now think of nothing in this -connection to pin on Buddy. However, I suppose it might have been -considered—for recreation purposes only—as a sort of adjunct to the -tannery. The trapeze, horizontal bars, and spring-board, were only about -fifty feet removed from the tanvats. And then, too, the lot had the -tanyard smell. - -Ringling Brothers wagon circus had recently made a stand here, and the -“fever” among the local youngsters was running high. Activity about the -lot was both spirited and awkward, with a lively bunch willing to try -anything—once. - -The real trouble was, we had only one Star performer. Charley Askren -was, before he got injured in a fall, a trapeze and bar performer with -the Dan Rice circus. He was a welcome instructor. And though he could -still do some wonderful stunts, I think there are none I want to mention -here, except maybe the time he let me slip through his hands in a rather -daring act, the fall to the ground breaking my left arm. - -This statement, without qualification, would hardly do justice to my -old team-mate. Had we made it, the act would have been a honey. And had -Charley not said, grandly, to a “skirted” audience, “This is going to -be good. Keep your eyes pinned on this Johnny boy, the G-R-E-A-T and -only—,” in real circus ballyhoo fashion, it might not have been a flop. -Charley used a lot of circus terms in his work with us. - -The trouble was, I “weakened”—just a wee bit, to be sure—at the moment -when I took the air, and after making a complete turn came down also -a wee bit tardy for Charley to get a firm hold on me, in his head-down -swinging position. Had he caught me by the wrists, he would have tossed -me, on the third swing, face about, back to the bar from which I had -made the takeoff. - -In practice, another boy — usually George Foreman, brother of Mrs. L. C. -McVay and Mrs. R. A. DeForest — would stand by to right me, in case of -a slip. George was tall and very active. Sometimes we would change -positions in this act. I know now that this would have been a grand time -for me to have called out, in the usual way, “Let George do it!” - -Sure, we had a well-filled straw-tick which was always placed under the -weaklings—but who was there among us that would have wanted to have -it brought out in the presence of lady visitors? Of the two lady -spectators, one was a redhead. She fell in love with Charley—and married -him. Charley had done a lot of impressive flipping and flopping to gain -his position on the bar for the act. The redhead’s younger black; haired -sister (Anna) was the better looking, and near my age—but, as of the -moment, I did not shine as I hoped I might. And then, too, I had that -broken arm to think about. Dr. Thomas Milam “splinted” it up drum-tight, -according to ancient practice—but, by midnight, he had to do it all over -again. - -Then, my Dad came onto the lot, and without any coaching whatsoever, -did some pretty tall kicking. Not the circus kind, however. The “circus” -paraphernalia was then moved up town to a vacant spot alongside Than -Morris’ corn cribs on the lots west of where the Dr. Lapham home now -stands. But it was no go. The tannery was the natural place for such -things. - -Charley Askren came to us, as a young man, in the early 70’s. He was -a carpenter. He married Lib Fleming. And notwithstanding his serious -injury caused by the collapse of a trapeze under the Dan Rice bigtop, he -lived to be quite an old man. He died at his home in Atchison last year. -Here’s hoping that his kid co-performer — the G-R-E-A-T and only”—may -live as long. - -Honesty — The Better Policy NOTE—Some seventy-five years ago I -accidentally dropped a five-dollar gold piece into one of the big vats -at our old tanyard on the creek bank near the town bridge at the foot of -Kansas Avenue which gold piece was never recovered. - -The old bridge has now been removed, and a new one—156-foot span—is -being constructed over a newly dug creek channel sixty-five yards south -of the old one, on a grade ten feet above the old road. In building up -the grade between the old bridge site and the railroad, Albert Tanking, -of Seneca, operator of a County bulldozer, today—June 11, 1949—moved the -ground where the old tanvats were buried. - -As he made the excavation I noticed no signs of the old sunken vats—but -it is none the less certain that my five-dollar gold piece is now -deposited somewhere along the west slope of the fill, or in the “sunken -garden” between the fill and the newly cut drain-ditch paralleling it. -After it rains on the works it is possible that I might go down there -and pick it up. But I think that I shall leave this for the kids to -exploit. It was a sort of kid’s keepsake, anyway. - -That five-dollar gold piece was first given me some years earlier, in -change, by mistake for a nickel. I thought I had been cheated. I took it -back to Peter Shavey, who had a confectionery store in the old part of -the building now occupied by Hettie Shuemaker-Kroulik. He praised me for -being an honest boy—and he loaded me up with candy and oranges. And then -he said, “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to give you this gold -piece for a keepsake, something to remind you always that it pays to -be honest.” And think of it — the old Frenchman was illegally selling -whiskey and unlawfully operating a poker game in the back room. - -I said, “Thank you, Mr. Shavey—but I still have not got my nickel back.” - -He laughed, “Here, honest boy, here’s your nickel.” And now I can’t be -sure If Mr. Peter Shavey inspired this noble trait of honesty in me—or -if it just comes natural. - -INNOCENT FALSEHOOD About twenty years ago, I was going with “Dutch” -Roderick, in his car, to Kansas City, starting at four o’clock in the -morning—and Minnie Cawood, with her two and one-half year old Ruthie, -were going along as far as Leavenworth. We stopped at the H. P. Cawood -home, and “tooted.” Minnie came out, and Harry followed, carrying Ruthie -in his arms. She was fussy, and Harry said, “Don’t cry—your partner is -out here in the car.” Ruthie said—well, had she not been such a sweet -kid as to call me her partner, I’d be tempted to say she told a “white” -lie, when she said, “I thought he would be there.” - -FATHER AND SONS Published in Wetmore Spectator, - -March 20, 1936 - -By John T. Bristow - -T his, then, is the continuation of the story of my father’s tanyard; -with related incidents—hoarded memories of the old days back a half -century, and more. They are solemn reminders that “Time flies.” - -That tanyard was, I might say, a howling success while it lasted. -Besides the tanyard, my father owned a bunch of boys, and those boys, -semi-obedient and helpful, really did some commendable things, but when -encouraged and abetted by the other town boys of that happy, care-free -age, their doings were not always something to be commended. - -Taken by the large—including, of course, the English and the Irish -and the “Dutch,” and a couple of Swedes — they were, I must admit, a -dare-devil bunch. And I might as well confess now that I was, perhaps, -the most devilish one of them all. Anyhow, I became a printer’s “devil” -at an early age. - -My father made good leather—and he knew how to get the most out of it. -Being a shoemaker, he made it up into good boots and shoes and gave his -boys a good leather dressing whenever they needed it—that is, when their -deviltry came within his notice. The Lord knows there were hundreds of -times when they escaped only by narrow margins. And had my father been -a little more vigilant, this day of which I write promised to be the -red-letter day. - -There were two outstanding events that day, either of which would have -merited knee-strap activity. In case you don’t know, the shoemaker’s -knee-strap, besides being useful to hold a shoe in place while the -artisan works, is a persuasive instrument of correction when applied -with vim and vigor at the right time and place. - -As already informed, in a previous article, the creek had been dammed -and there was a fully officered Damsite Company, with Michael Norton -as life-saver, whose actual services, as Jake Geyer now recalls, never -amounted to more than his crossing himself three times before going into -the water. A large wooden box, with metal bottom, used for cooking the -sumac-tanbark mixture, when not otherwise in use served as a boat on -that fine body of water. - -Jim Cardwell, a Kentuckian — and brother-in-law of Andy Maxwell, the -Indian fighter mentioned in previous writings—who held a responsible -position as coal-heaver at the railroad chutes close to the tanyard, -when not otherwise engaged, helped the boys occasionally with the work -of maintaining the dam—and even helped my father sometimes. All this he -did out of the goodness of his heart, glad to be helpful. He was a grand -old sport, even with his one weakness. Jim loved his booze and seemed to -have a mania for sharing his bottle with others. He even gave Eagle Eye, -the Indian featured in a preceding story, a nip of his “firewater” one -day, and my father raised Ned about that. It was unlawful to give liquor -to an Indian. - -Having the distinction of being the only enterprise of the kind in this -part of the West, that tanyard was made a sort of port-of-call for all -comers—local and transient. - -“Lord” Perry graced the tannery with his august presence one day. He was -of the old English Colony folk and drunk or sober, proclaimed himself a -British peer. He was a “remittance” man. - -On this occasion, after riding in from his Colony home, Perry had -stopped up town and was comfortably full when he reached the tanyard. He -slipped the reins over his horse’s head and asked me to hold the animal -while he held audience with Jim Cardwell. “Hand if you let ‘er go,” he -warned, “Hi’ll cut y’r hears hoff.” I dropped the reins as soon as he -was in “spirited” conversation with Jim. The “Lord” soon forgot about -me—and the horse also. - -“Lord” Perry had the poise and the marks of the gentleman he represented -himself to be. Also he loved his drink, and indulged himself freely. -When he had taken on about so much, he would invariably mount a chair, -or anything handy that he could climb upon, and attempt to make a -speech, always prefacing his harangue with “Hi’m a gentleman hand a -scholar, by-god-sir, by-gosh!” - -In this instance, Perry had climbed upon the tank-boat which was -standing on edge. After making his usual salutory and puncturing it -with his long arms waving hither and thither, he stood for some moments -groping for words which did not present themselves with what might be -called kaleidoscopic rapidity. Then one of the gang—designated here as -the one intrusted to ‘old the Nobleman’s ‘orse — casually leaned against -the prop, causing it to topple from under the distinguished Englishman. - -His Lordship then lost some of his aristocratic poise and a modicum of -his temper. A nervous person, with bombastic tendencies, he literally -exploded when he hit the well-tramped terrain about the tanvats. To -be accurate, he made a rather awkward display of himself in a furious -outburst of Anglo-American profanity, in which he branded, correctly, a -certain member of the gang as a “Blarsted, ’ artless hupstart!” - -“Tut, tut, my Lord,” said Jim. “It was an accident.” - -“Haccident, my hye!” retorted Perry, sharply. Jim Cardwell then felt -it incumbent upon himself to offer something to assuage his Lordship’s -agony, to pour balm upon his troubled soul. Good old Jim! How could we -have managed without him. He once move proffered his bottle. And another -drink was directed with grace down the Perry gullet. - -At the tanyard there were six vats, each, four by six feet, which were -set three feet into the ground, with the tops about one foot above -ground. - -A wild black cherry tree, at this time loaded with ripe cherries, stood -close to one of those vats. On account of its fruit and its fine shade -it was the delight of all the boys. Especially was it inviting to my -little brother Davey Cullom, who, though fourth in point of spacings -from being the baby or of the home, was still his mother’s darling -little curly-headed man. - -There was an erroneous notion that black cherries would make one -tipsy—in a mild way. It was also claimed that choke cherries, some of -which grew in the next bend above oh small trees like plum trees, were -poisonous. That was erroneous, too. - -Davey Cullom attempted to walk around on the edge of one of those -tanvats, and fell in. The vat was filled with strong ooze, leachings -from the oakbark and sumac. With the process then employed by my father -it took four months to tan a calfskin—but Davey Cullom got his hide -tanned in about fifteen minutes. Not with the ooze, however. It was -because he could not walk, in a test, the twelve-foot length of a -ten-inch board without stepping off. - -Davey told his father that he had eaten too many cherries. But the gang -knew he was fibbing. Davey Cullom was already “pickled” when he fell -into that tanvat. And had it been any place other than the tanyard, -my father could have had olfactory evidence of his offspring’s -condition—but in a tanyard, there is but one smell. - -After it was all over but the shouting, Davey’s father shrilled, “Howl, -you pusillanimous little devil, howl! Maybe you’ll now stay out of that -cherry tree.” - -Just at that moment Jim Cardwell came staggering up from the creek bank, -flourishing his bottle. “Anybody want a drink?” he queried. My father -took the bottle and threw it into the creek. He never drank. He was -awfully peeved. He swore. And let me say now whatever my father did, he -did it well. “Jim,” he accused, “you’ve been giving Davey whiskey from -your rotten old bottle!”Davey Cullom stopped his howling long enough to -say, “No, daddy, it was the cherries; honest it was.” He supplemented -his little lie with the further information that it was not the choke -cherries, but the black cherries, that he had eaten. Then my father -said, “I’ll cut that damned black cherry tree down tomorrow.” - -Jim Cardwell laughed, drunkenly, and inquired, “Got a match, Bill?” -My father didn’t smoke, and he didn’t have a match. Then Jim mumbled, -“Furnish my own whiskey, find my own match.” He fumbled in his pockets -and produced a match. - -Jim walked over to the curly-headed boy who had lied so cleverly, and -said, “Now, Davey, we can show Bill that you didn’t drink any of Jim’s -old rot-gut.” Placing the match and a dollar in Davey’s hands, he said, -“Bet you that dollar you can’t blow out the match.” Jim looked at us -boys and grinned in a maudlin way. “Light the match and then blow it -out, Davey, and the dollar is yours. John and all the boys here know -you won’t take a dare; and I dare you!” he taunted. It was then I -wished that I could make little crosses like Michael Norton to ward off -impending disaster. - -Jim staggered backwards a little as he continued. “But don’t light the -match, Davey, until I get away. I know my old whiskey breath will burn -like a house afire.” Davey Cullom stared, looked foolish and finally -said, “I don’t want your dollar, Mr. Cardwell.” - -I shall now explain. Speaking for the gang as well as myself, we thought -Davey would put the stuff to his little lips, then, with a wry face, -push it away—perhaps spill it on the ground, which, of course, would -have tickled us immensely. But the little fellow, feeling that he must -make sure of winning the dare, took not one but two small swigs of the -raw stuff. Booze was booze then, and it took only a very little of it to -make a small boy wobble. If it will help any to put over my alibi I will -say now that the “pusillanimous little devil” made that face. - -Now a bright idea struck one of the gang. I believe it might have been -Will Gill—now Dr. W. W. Gill, of Enid, Oklahoma. He would know, of -course. Anyway, someone had said, “Come Jim, let’s get your bottle.” -They managed somehow to get into the tank-boat and they rowed out to -deep water. And there, from some unexplained cause, the boat capsized. -Michael Norton crossed himself three times. - -Then the whole bunch—lifesaver, officers, and all—plunged into the water -without stopping to remove clothing, which wouldn’t have been a very big -job, at that. Jim was saved, of course. And appreciably sobered. - -As intimated in the foregoing paragraph, the clothing worn by the -tanyard gang during the summer months was almost nil—negligible, at any -rate. Always there were rents and patches, and more rents. But the gang -did not care. - -The next day after Davey’s debauch my father came blustering into the -house, and bellowed, “Now, who in hell has taken my axe?” My mother said -to him in her sweet, calm way, “Oh, don’t be so fussy, William—Davey -loaned your axe to Jim Cardwell last night.” - -Attaching no significance to this fact, nor sensing forebodings, my -father laughingly said, “I wonder what Jim thought he could do with an -axe, in his pickled condition?” I should like to tell you now that he -found that out, to his dismay, all too soon. - -He was a good feeler, was my father, happy as a lark when things went -right—and not at all ugly even when he swore, not counting of course the -tempo of the sulphurous words of easement which he sometimes released. -Just habitual, understand. The indiscriminate use of swearwords was -as natural as long-whiskers to the old pioneer. He whistled a lot, and -sometimes tried to sing, but he was hot very good at that. - -Having first boots to mend for a patron of his shoe-shop, my father was -late in reaching the tannery this day. The ruffled condition which had -broken forth with the axe inquiry now relegated from his thoughts, he -whistled while he worked, and this too in bad taste in the presence of -his patron. - -It had fallen to my lot to remain at the house for a while, the home -and the shoeshop being one and the same place. A packing case containing -alum, tallow, neatsfoot oil, and lampblack, had been received by express -the day previous. I was to take from this packing box some alum, powder -it fine, then dissolve it in warm water. It was to be used at the -tannery in the day’s workout of the hides from one of the vats. It was -to firm them. A hide in the jelly stage is as slippery as an eel, and it -was always a chore to get them safely landed on the work bench. - -My father would work the ooze out of the hides with a slicker—a piece -of plate glass ground smooth on the edge. Then he would rub the alum in -with the same devise, before returning them to the vat which would be -refilled with fresh ooze. Later, after the six vats were worked out, the -hides would again be put upon the bench, when tallow and neats-foot oil -would be worked into them with that same slicker. It would come into -play again when he polished the blackened leather. All handlings at the -bench called for vigorous rubbings. So vigorously did he attack them -that he would sweat. Oh, God, how that man did sweat! Being in fine -fettle, and late on the job this day, he would rush the work, and -whistle—and sweat all the more. - -Consider now for a moment that cherished black cherry tree—the tree -which, in a spasm of idle talk, my father had threatened to cut down. It -was a large tree, as black cherry trees grow, more than a foot through, -and tall with good spread. Under this wild cherry tree reposed my -father’s work-bench. Also under this tree was the ash-hopper in which -lye was made from wood-ashes to remove the hair from the hides. As a -protector from the hot summer sun the tree was well nigh indispensable. - -The sun rose that July morning sixty years ago on a rain-soaked world—a -perfumed, growing world; sparkling; invigorating. The brook at the -tannery, slightly augmented by the early morning shower, gave forth a -soft, dreamy murmur as it poured over the dam. Birds sang sweetly in the -tree tops. Jim sang also, though rather poorly, as he put the finishing -touches on the job to which he had set himself. Save for the depressing -knowledge that later in the day things would sizzle in steaming -humidity, with old expansion of noisome tannery fumes, all was fine and -vely. - -Came now my father, gayly whistling, to his beloved tannery. Davey -followed. The other boys were already there. With a puzzled look on -his face the daddy of that happy-go-lucky bunch stopped suddenly in his -tracks. He surveyed the surroundings in considerable disgust. - -At first I thought my father was so overcome by the shock that he was -not going to say anything. Well, he didn’t—exactly. Maybe he couldn’t. -But it was none the less certain that a violent change of mood had taken -place. The thing he saw had stilled his gay whistle—and whereas only a -few moments before could his voice but have taken up the glad song of -his heart he would have sung beautifully, now he cursed prodigiously! - -And Davey howled some more. - -That “damned” black cherry tree was gone—cut down, trimmed, and neatly -piled. Jim had mistaken Davey’s purpose in bringing him the axe. He -had done his work well. The morning sun flooded the tanvats and the -work-bench. By noon it would beat down upon them with torrid intensity. - -PLUGGING FOR HER DADDY Little Janet, four-year-old daughter of Dr. and -Mrs. Leland Latham, was at the home of J. E. (Dutch) Roderick. Thinking -to get a reaction from Janet, “Dutch” said in a sort of off-hand way to -no one in particular, “Wish I knew where to find a good veterinarian?” -The little Latham girl said, “My daddy is a vet’narian. If you want to -get spayed, he can do it.” - -THE STRANGE CASE OF MR. HENRY, et al. Not Hitherto Published—1947. - -By John T. Bristow - -The last three preceding articles were done at the request of one of the -old tanyard-swimming hole gang whom I dubbed “Buddy.” It really was a -triple order. At the same time I was committed to still another request. -Went out to one of Buddy’s buddies to verify data pertaining to Buddy’s -written request and ran head-on into another one—the one I’m going to -tackle now, together with other incidents. - -It is a dangerous operation, this thing of running in unrelated -episodes, and if in attempting it I should find myself up in the air -going around in circles with no place to land, I shall have to call on -Buddy’s buddy to “talk” me down. Though no longer in our midst, Buddy’s -octogenarian buddy still lives. And it will be a pleasure to grant his -request. - -In reminiscing one incident calls up another, and that one still -another, and so on ad infinitum—and anything of the time and place -is considered fair game, if you can capture it without maiming it, or -without encumbering something else. In presenting the Strange Case of -Mr. Henry, I shall try to ease it in without a jarring note. But, to -do this, I must go back to the “circus” lot, grab onto one of my -co-performers, and work up to it through a chain of co-incidental -events. - -George Foreman was here at that time going to school, and learning -telegraphy with his brother-in-law, L. C. (Cass) McVay. George was my -closest boy friend. After graduating in telegraphy, he worked for the -railroad company out on the west end of the Central Branch—and later -blossomed out as a fullblown lawyer in a finely appointed Denver office, -all his own. When I called on him there he laughingly remarked, “Here -I am, a big lawyer in a big city—with no clients.” In later years I saw -him up at Blackhawk doing assay work for a Colorado mining company. This -time he aid, “I’ve found out that I am a better assayer than I ever *was -a lawyer.” He went from there to Butte, Montana, still following the -assay business. He never married. - -His sister, Alice Foreman-McVay, with whom George made his home, came -here from a highly cultured community over by the river in Doniphan -county, as the bride of Cass McVay. And, being a refined lady with a -fine show of modesty, notably out-classing the common herd, got the -unearned name of being a “stuck-up.” But she lived that down nicely, -simply by carrying on in her own sweet way oblivious to it all. -Alice McVay had the happy faculty of attending strictly to her own -knitting—and letting the world go by. She was, in truth, the town’s most -gracious and beloved woman. And had she aspired to it, she could have -been nominated as the outstanding model of social perfection, displacing -one who had held that distinction from the town’s beginning. - -Up to this time, our people had not been what one might call -connoisseurs in the art of classifying the townfolk. In the old days, -social standing was largely measured by wealth — even make-believe -wealth. For example, Eliza Morris, (Mrs. Bill), as the leading -merchant’s wife—and a big hearted woman—was looked upon as the leader -in society, one who set the pattern. The fact that she said “bekase” -for because, with many another outmoded expression, did not disqualify -her—but she lost caste when she sallied forth to church wearing her new -Easter bonnet wrong-side-to. But, let it be remembered, she had a way -with the youngsters about town that was taking. - -After her husband’s death, which occurred in the eighth year after -coming here, Alice McVay could have married, in later years, Henry -DeForest, the town’s top eligible bachelor, and while she greatly -admired him, as did everyone else, she simply would not “desert” her -three children — Harvey, Myrtle, and Louis. I was favored with this -bit of information for having “tended” store for Mr. Henry while he -accompanied the lady with her purchases to her home. Besides teaching -me double-entry book-keeping of evenings, Mr. Henry would sometimes get -confidential on other matters. He told me himself that Alice McVay’s -love for her children was the one thing which caused her to forego a -marriage with him. And then too, Mr. Henry was markedly devoted to his -aristocratic mother, which fact might have had some bearing on what to -my mind should have developed into a most charming romance. His mother -spoke of him always as Mr. Henry. - -Alice McVay had ample means to rear her children — and rear them she did -right here in Wetmore. Then the family moved to Whittier, California. -Besides his savings, Cass McVay and his brother Bill, had each inherited -$7,000 from the family estate shortly before Cass died. Alice was a -step-sister, and also shared in the cut. - -Cass McVay was a thrifty man, a real gentleman. Aside from his position -as station agent at the C. B. U. P. depot—it was a Union Pacific -line then, and before that organized as the Atchison and Pike’s Peak -railroad—Cass owned a lumber yard, and operated a small grain elevator, -powered by a donkey. I know it was a donkey for when I would sometimes -whip him up in order to lift the grain faster so that I might get off -early to play, “one old cat” with the town boys, he would bray just -like a donkey. Cass McVay built the dwelling later owned by Dr. Guy S. -Graham. Close in now, it was considered “away out in the cow country” -then. In marked contrast, Bill McVay squandered his inheritance, in -drink. He had Spanish blood in his veins, along with his other short -comings. Bill McVay married Johnny Thomas’ oldest sister, Jemima. - -The DeForest-McVay romance was not Mr. Henry’s first. That came earlier -in life. The girl was the sister of Seth Handley, who was Mr. Henry’s -partner in the implement business on first coming to Wetmore. Adherence -to a family brand of religion — something like that which threatened -the love of the King of England and Wally — was said to have prevented -marriage. She was reputedly a divorcee. - -In reviewing this romance, I am uncovering no skeletons, giving away no -secrets. The story has been told and retold, in whispers and snatches, -with varying degrees of accuracy. Clean and beautiful beyond compare, it -was not a thing to be hidden under a bushel. - -I did not get the divorce angle in the case of the Handley girl from Mr. -Henry, or any other member of his family. Had understood all along -that it was nothing more than family objections occasioned by a doting -mother’s idea of her son’s superior breeding that was holding the -romance in check. But John Thomas, one of the few oldtimers left, -tells me now that he got the impression of the divorce from his -brother-in-law, Moulton DeForest. So then, I think, much as I dislike -to, we shall have to accept it as authentic. - -This causes me to speculate. - -Henry Clay DeForest was 26 years old when he came here. Seth Handley -was about the same age. His sister was younger. This would have afforded -scant time for the girl to have married and become divorced before the -beginning of her romance with Mr. Henry. And moreover, I cannot imagine -Mr. Henry deliberately paying court to a divorced woman, knowing the -while the family feelings, the Church restrictions, and above all his -aristocratic mother’s set views on such matters. The romance dated back -to Madison, Wisconsin, beyond the time he came to Wetmore — likely back -to school days. And in that event, accepting the divorce angle, it very -well could have been a case where the man had “Loved and Lost,” with the -old flame carrying on after Reno. - -The town people said the same thing about Augusta Ann DeForest as was -wrongfully said about Alice McVay — and she lived up to it, nobly. I -wouldn’t know what, if anything, she had in her own right to justify -this, but she had the DeForest name to build on—and that was a million. - -The DeForests were of French Huguenot stock. Joseph DeForest, -grandfather of Mr. Henry, was reputedly, at one time, a very wealthy -man. He made an endowment to Yale college—hence the schooling there of -Moulton and Mr. Henry. - -Augusta Ann did not play the aristocracy game offensively. With -courteous dignity, she played it faultlessly. It was well known that -she had definite ideas about gentlemen in general marrying beneath their -station and, it was said, she saw to it that her hired girls—in one -long-lasting instance an extraordinarily pretty maiden — would have no -chance, under her roof, to make google eyes at her boys. - -In the process of making, Mr. Henry was not touched with this better -than thou idea—and it seems that father Isaac Newton had none of it. In -fact, Isaac was not at all times in complete agreement with his spouse. - -Mr. Henry was not Augusta Ann’s oldest, nor yet her youngest. He was -seventh in a family of eight boys. Even so, he displayed no necromantic -talent, despite the ancient superstition. But he sure had a lot of the -worthwhile kind of talent. Then, too, that run of seven might have been -broken by the birth of a girl. I never learned just where she came -in, did not even know of Mrs. John C. Kridler until she came here from -Denver with her three fine little girls — Lettie, Grace, and Blanche. -Jane DeForest-Kridler was now a divorcee—something more for the -aristocratic Augusta Ann to frown upon. - -Augusta Ann was a mite heavy on her feet, and on her infrequent -appearances in public leaned heavily upon her Mr. Henry. And though not -of a mind to recognize caste, our people paid her marked respect, and -were free in saying that it was mighty nice of Mr. Henry, tall and -stately, to give his mother, short and dumpy, his arm on all occasions. -It was truly a most beautiful mother-son attachment. - -It would, perhaps, be too much to say that in this unusual show of -attention Mr. Henry had hopes of bringing about a change in his mother’s -estimation of his girl. But never doubt he had hopes, enduring hopes, -that in riding the thing out something favorable would turn up. The way -I had it in mind, Mr. Henry did not want to break with the family—nor -did he have any intention of ever giving up his girl. This awkward -situation made it inadvisable for him to bring her here. - -One time, after I had gotten myself rather too deeply in the mining game -for comfort, Mr. Henry told me that he also had, some years earlier, -taken a flyer in mining with his old partner, Seth Handley, at Grass -Valley, California. But when the conversation was terminated, I was of -the opinion that he had, in fact, only put his sweetheart on ice, so -to speak, for safe keeping against the time when the family winds might -blow less raw. And had the Aristocratic Augusta Ann have passed on -before the girl I think Mr. Henry, divorcee or no, would have cast his -religion to the winds—as did The King. - -Somehow, I don’t like the divorce angle. - -Seth Handley’s sister died at the little mining town of Grass Valley, in -California, where her brother was a prospector. Mr. Henry went to Omaha -to meet the Union Pacific train bearing his old partner, Seth, and the -remains on the way back east for burial. On his return home, Mr. Henry -was visibly shaken. It was a sad day for him. Few people here ever -knew just who it was that held such a strangle hold on Mr. Henry’s -affections. - -From my early association with Mr. Henry and Seth I got the impression -that there was more between them than just being partners. Later, I had -it from one or the other of them, maybe both, that the girl in the case -was Seth’s sister. Their implement house and yard was just across the -street from our home, down by the tracks, on “Smoky Row.” And though -less than half their age, my mother said I was always under foot when -they wanted to go about their work. The year was 1872. But if I were not -under foot at the moment when Seth wanted to go hunting, he would come -to the house and ask me to go along. He would shoot anything that could -fly. And Seth remembered, years later. He sent his respects to me from -Omaha by Mr. Henry. At that time I was “helping out” in the DeForest -general store. - -I suspect there were some things the aristocratic Augusta Ann did not -know about her favorite son. While vacationing in Colorado Mr. Henry, -with the Handley girl—who was supposed to be in California—rode horses -on the trail to the top of Pike’s Peak. Miss Handley rode a sidesaddle, -the ancient kind where the lady puts her left foot in the stirrup and -throws her right leg over the left fork of the split pommel—and holds -on for dear life. That was at a time when it was considered vulgar for -a lady to straddle a horse. Also it was before the cog-railroad mounted -the Peak, even before the time of the carriage road up the north side of -the mountain. - -Mr. Henry’s eyes sparkled when he told me it was a wonderful trip—one -I should not miss—and though a little difficult coming down, especially -for the ladies, he said he enjoyed it immensely. That was quite -understandable. Love had come to Mr. Henry wrapped in trouble. Here now -for a day at least he was bound by no thongs. Here, with the girl -who was the most precious one in the world to him, his spirits could -soar—unhampered, up to the clouds. - -Under Mr. Henry’s oral guidance, I also made that trip all by my -lonesome—that is, without my girl. Later, I went to the top again with -THE Girl, and I can tell you there was a difference. We were in love, a -maid and a man—intoxicated with the joy that only the first love of the -young knows. And the clouds came down to where one could almost reach up -and touch them—just as Mr. Henry had said they would. - -I have learned, as doubtless Mr. Henry had learned, that the show spots -in this old world of ours take on beauty and meaning when you have -someone along—preferably THE ONE—to help you enjoy them. It’s truly a -situation where two hearts can beat as one. And it’s worth a million to -see the shine come into her eyes. - -Might say here that it was while on an editorial junket to Colorado -Springs—with THE Girl—that I made this great discovery. It was her first -trip to the mountains, and the shine was in her eyes—big. I’m glad -that memory holds the picture of the girl, who, in all her radiant -loveliness, walked by my side all through that week with but one tiny -shadow to flit across her faultless blue sky. - -And while she had, with justification, came near showing temper one -morning, when, in following the crowd, I had innocently led her away -from the historic grave of Helen Hunt-Jackson, on the mountain above the -Seven Falls, down the gravel slide, thereby ruining a pair of new shoes -for her, she was still THE Girl that made all the difference. Compared -with some of the other women who took the plunge, her squawk was mild -indeed—and most ladylike. The well-dressed women in that day wore high -kid shoes and silk stockings. - -The gravel slide is—or was—about three hundred feet downslope from the -grave, along the mountain at a left turn, where all join hands, stick -feet in the gravel, stand erect, pulling first one foot up and then the -other to avoid being swamped, while the whole mass slips away to the -canyon several hundred feet below. And there you were—right at the -trail, with the laborious climb down the seven flights of steps avoided. - -The mutilation of those new shoes at a time like that was truly a -disconcerting thing to befall the “perfect 34” girl—we had ‘em then—who -had only the day before been declared the neatest dressed and -most attractive woman in the editorial party. She had form, poise, -personality—and a wonderfully good dressmaker. However, before the day -was done, she evened the score—and gloried in it. - -The Association members held their annual meeting in the parlors of the -Alamo Hotel that evening, and through the courtesy of my good friend, -Harvey Hyde, of the Holton Signal, I was nominated and elected -vice-president. This gesture cost me. Any one of the editorial party -could have testified that Mr. Harvey had joyously climbed down off -the “water wagon” on his first trip to Oldtown—Colorado City — halfway -between Colorado Springs and Manitou. That I was paying for the whisky -without participating in the drinking thereof, I cannot deny. But if -I should say that he never gave me as much as a smell of the stuff, I -would not be telling the truth. By pre-arrangement, Harvey’s wife -was sharing her room with my girl, and I wars sharing my room with -Harvey—and there was nothing I could do about it. A bargain was a -bargain—and neither of us had the faintest notion of welshing. - -When the speech-making was getting dangerously close to the -vice-president’s turn, I slipped out. Motivated by strictly personal -interest, Mr. Harvey followed. And though I did, later, get away with -the acknowledged best write-up of the outing, I couldn’t have said one -word in that meeting, with the Pike’s Peak Press Club in attendance, -for all of Cheyenne mountain, with the famous Seven Falls and the gravel -slide thrown in—and THE Girl knew this. - -Also, as it turned out, my girl carried off the acknowledged -speech-making honors—following some very fuzzy ones. I never could -understand why relatively smart people would insist on pushing the -ill-equipped fellow out into the open. When the call came Major J. F. -Clough, of the Sabetha Republican, president elect—the old piker had -just delegated another to do his talking—said, “we must hear from the -vice-president; someone please fetch him back in.” - -The Major, who, incidentally, in partnership with Theodore J. Wolfley, -established the Wetmore Spectator, in 1882, and therefore was a sort of -godfather to my paper, looked over to where THE Girl was seated, with -Mrs. Hyde and other women including his own daughter, Miss Bay. Then -THE Girl raised her 118 pounds up to her full 5-6 height, in her scuffed -shoes, saying, mirthfully, “He has gone out with Mr. Hyde. You’ll not -see HIM again tonight.” - -The applause, started by the ladies—all of whom had scuffed shoes, and -instantly taken up by the men, all of whom had gotten from their women -a neat and not a gentle telling off—was enough to frighten THE Girl. The -shine having already gotten back into her eyes, THE Girl, in associating -me as of the moment with Mr. Harvey, was actually trying to cover up -for me for running out on them. But the inference, nevertheless, pointed -toward Oldtown. - -There were some in the party who were not bona fide editors—that had -worked transportation through the newspapers. A Wetmore shoe merchant -had made a deal with a county paper. The outing was a courtesy gesture -of the railroad—principally the Rock Island. - -Might say here that the next year—1892—the Association arranged with -the Union Pacific for transportation to Salt Lake City, concluding the -outing again at Colorado Springs—and it was almost a complete sell-out -on the part of the newspapers. We were short ticketed to Grand Island, -there to meet the through train carrying a Company representative who -would ask us some questions about our papers, and supply us with passes -for the round trip. When he came to me, after working pretty well -through the cars carrying the “editors,” he laughed and said, “You are -the second newspaperman I have found, so far.” I told him he should find -at least one more who knew the password. My partner had been coached. -Though not present himself, Ewing Herbert, of the Hiawatha World, was -elected president. And though a mighty good newspaperman, he did not -seem to have’ influence with the railroads. Our Association never -got another complimentary outing. But, personally, I remained in good -standing with the railroads, and got everything asked for—all told -about 250,000 miles of free travel. In addition THE Girl—Miss -Myrtle Mercer—had a Missouri Pacific pass, and Moulton DeForest, our -proofreader, had one for nearly ten years. Newspapers do not get them so -easily now—if at all. - -Also, there were five girls in the Colorado Springs editorial party. The -secretary, Clyde McManigal, of the Horton Commercial, had written -the single editors telling them to bring their girls along—that the -Association had arranged to have a chaperon look after them. The -chaperon proved to be a grass widow, a newspaper owner in a nearby -town—and right off she found herself a man. The fact that he was a -married man, a shoe merchant from my home town, by the way, made no -difference—not until they got home. - -Mr. Henry had come to the Spectator office, bringing copy for a change -of his advertisement, and tarried a few minutes to converse with me -about our Colorado outing. I showed him the proof of my write-up. He -said he would not take time to read it just then, but he marveled at the -four fine wood cuts illustrating the Pike’s Peak trip—and marveled some -more when I told him they were engraved right there in the office by my -brother Sam. - -Might add that editor Clough said in his paper, the Sabetha Republican, -“The Wetmore Spectator has a genius in the office in the person of the -editor’s brother, a wood engraver. Last week it published engravings of -scenery about Pike’s Peak equal to any we have ever seen. They are true -to nature and finely executed.” He said, further, “We also notice that -nearly all the papers gave the Spectator credit for having the best -write-up of the excursion.” Think maybe those engravings had influenced -some of the decisions. - -Might say that Sam became so good at it, that John Stowell, former -owner of the Spectator, sought to get him a job with the Government in -Washington—and he came very near doing it too. Stowell, an impulsive -little Englishman, had the happy thought that as he was making -his appeal for the boy direct to the Government, that a print of -a ten-dollar bill would be an impressive sample. It was a lifesize -masterpiece. Do I need tell you that Sammy’s Uncle Sam informed them -that if they didn’t destroy that cut and all prints immediately, -somebody would surely get a lasting job? Uncle Sam did, however, -compliment Sammy on his work—said it was good, in fact, too good. - -Mr Henry also had a few words with Alex Hamel, who, besides being the -type-setter, was editor-in-chief during my absence. Henry said, “Ecky, -I’ll bet you helped John write that one.” Alex—he was called Ecky by -nearly everyone — said truthfully, “No—Myrtle did.” But Ecky had slipped -in a few sentences about the authoress of “Ramona,” which bit of history -had not appeared to the eye when I viewed the large pile of pebbles -marking her grave. - -Being the smarter man, Ecky got the credit for writing my best feature -stories during our newspaper regime back in the 90’s. But Ecky died in -1899, and I’ve not been able to find a dependable ghost-writer to take -his place. However, Ecky did write some really fine feature stories -for the Spectator, using the pseudonym, “Xela Lemah” Alex Hamel spelled -backwards. And Ecky was a poet, too. The following eight lines appeared, -unsigned, in my paper, Sept. 1, 1893. It is one of many of Hamel’s poems -that were widely copied by other papers and credited to the Spectator. -To fully appreciate it now, the reader would have to know the then -generally accepted panacea for bellyache. At that time an epidemic of -“summer complaint” was going the rounds. Now, properly signed, this is -the only injection of writings by another than myself to appear in this -volume. - -A Summer Idyl. - -Jem. Aker Ginger is my name; - -I have a way that’s takin’ — - -My seat in summer’s in the lap - -Of dear Miss Belle A. Aiken. - -And Watt R. Melon is the chap - -Who, by schemes of his own makin’, - -Secured for me the stand-in with - -My darling Belle A. Aiken. - -—Xela Lemah. - -As against Ecky’s classic eight lines, my own most widely copied writing -consisted of only nine simple little words—words well put together, -timely, and not wholly my own: “It once rained for forty days and forty -nights.” It was a prolonged rainy spring, with farmers kept out of their -fields so long as to cause much uneasiness. West E. Wilkenson, of the -Seneca Courier, pronounced these nine words the best piece of writing -coming from any of his contemporaries in many a day. - -Brevity—saying a lot in few words—did it. - -I do not mean to brag about this, for the item was largely a quotation, -as any good Bible student would know. If I really wanted to brag, I -would tell about the four times in one year my writings in the -Spectator were selected and reprinted in Arthur Capper’s Topeka Daily -Capital—maybe it was J. K. Hudson’s Daily then—as the best article of -the week appearing in any of the four hundred newspapers in Kansas. -Selecting and reprinting a best article was a weekly feature of the -Capital for one year. - -I “crowed” a little about it then, and P. L. Burlingame, a school -teacher—principal of the Wetmore schools in the late 80’s and lawyer -thereafter in partnership with his brother-in-law, M. DeForest, in -offices across the hall from the Spectator office—said that I should -have been content to let the other fellow “toot my horn.” But the -Capital’s readers were not my readers—and I figured nothing was too good -for the home folks. Always I write for the home folks. - -Alex Hamel’s stories were more academically put together than anything I -could write. Ecky was a school teacher. Also he was my very good friend. -And it would be ungrateful of me not to acknowledge his able assistance -— though his technique was rather too highbrow for my background, and -I had to reject many of his literary buildups. Ecky’s writings were -clothed in rhetoric and spiced with learned quotations, while I had to -get along with bare limpy grammar. But then, in newspaper writing, it -is not always academic learning that counts. However, it doesn’t hurt -any—if one does not try to make it the whole show. - -And moreover, one cannot get too much of it—if one learns at the same -time to “carry it like a gentleman.” Firsthand knowledge of the matter -one chooses to write about, when presented in an interesting and -readable manner, even though devoid of the earmarks of higher education, -always scores high. - -For example, the late Ed. Howe, “The Sage of Potato Hill,” (his country -estate), publisher of Atchison Daily Globe, and writer of numerous -magazine articles, and a highly acclaimed novel, “The Story of a Country -Town,” once told me that he had never studied grammar a day in his life. -Like Mark Twain and Damon Runyan and Charles Dickens, Howe’s education -really began when he entered his father’s newspaper office at the age of -thirteen years. - -Now, since I have brought the name of this successful author into this -writing, I would like to tell you a little more about him—and his. Ed. -Howe was the father of three noted writers. Jim Howe, now living on a -ranch in California, was a top overseas correspondent throughout the -first World War. Gene Howe is publisher of the Amarillo (Texas) Daily -Globe—and a magazine writer. And Mateel Howe-Farnham wrote a book. -Before writing her story, “Rebellion,” Mateel’s father advised her -to select characters from real life. And this she did. It was said in -Atchison that Mateel made her father the main character in her book; -that she was a bit rough in her delineation—and that she painted the -picture so well that everyone in Atchison knew without further telling. -This may be true to a certain extent — but I hardly think a -dutiful daughter would have gone the limit in portraying her father -uncharitably. Ed Howe was my friend—and I don’t hold with those rumors. -Doubtless, Mateel padded, and built her rebellious character into a -personage that did not exist. But her “homey” line made the story. It -was a big success. Mateel’s “Rebellion” won the $10,000 Bok prize—and -become a best seller. - -Mateel was living in New York City, while her father was in Atchison, -Kansas—and thus widely separated they could not compare notes. Ed Howe -was asked by Mateel’s publishers to write a foreword to the story. For -this he got big pay—I believe the amount he received was fifteen hundred -dollars for an equal number of words. I think also that the liberality -of the publishers was influenced less by the Sage’s fine wording of -his contribution than it was by his veiled admission that he had been -flailed rather unmercifully by his daughter. - -Here, I should maybe pick up a few hanging threads and backstitch a -little. My entry into the newspaper field was purely accidental. Being -a chum of the junior partner of Clough & Wolfley, who were preparing to -launch The Spectator, Theodore Wolfley invited me to stick around — said -I might learn something. Mr. Clough, obviously recognizing my need for -it, observed “There’s nothing like a newspaper connection to bolster -your education.” - -Major Clough had brought along from Sabetha his foreman, George Fabrick, -to get out the first few issues. Then, after Fabrick had gone back to -Sabetha, a printer came over from Falls City—but Will Allen played pool -most of the time while here. Allen stayed ten weeks, went home for a -visit, and failed to come back. Then the “Devil” took over. It was as -simple—and raw—as that. - -The Spectator passed through several ownerships — Lawyer F. M. Jeffries, -Don Perry, John Stowell, Curt and Marie (Polly) Shuemaker. I worked for -all the separate owners—but there was a time between Jeffries and Perry -that publication was suspended for over a year. The newspaper business -in small towns was not very remunerative in those days. To keep going, -the publisher often had to take up side lines, but Jeffries rather -overdid the matter—and failed, even then. He made a pretense of keeping -up his law practice, taught the Hayden school, walked three miles out -and back, and, after a few week’s help from me, tried to do all the -mechanical work, with only the help of his inexperienced wife. - -The ownership had reverted back to Wolfley, and so remained, -camouflaged, through the Perry regime, which also was of short duration. -Perry was a good newspaperman — when sober—having conducted the Seneca -Courier-Democrat for a number of years. Jake Cober, also of Seneca, was -his first printer here. - -One evening Don Perry came rushing up to the office—-that is, moving as -swiftly as he could make the stairs, in his cups, otherwise very drunk, -saying, “They are after me — I want to make you safe.” I had drawn -no wages, and the amount due me was $127.00. He grabbed up a piece of -yellow scratch paper and penciled a due bill for the amount, and said, -“There now, my patient friend, you’re safe—that’s as good as gold,” with -emphasis. And the surprising thing is that, though he could not have -paid cash for another half-pint of booze, that yellow memento, regarded -worthless, was indeed good as gold. But the payment would have fallen on -my friend Wolfley—and that might have complicated matters between us. I -decided to forget it—and went to Centralia to work for Bill Granger. And -The Spectator went into suspension again. - -Then, after I had worked as compositor on the Seneca Tribune, (with -Wolfley again), the Centralia Journal, the Greenleaf Sentinel, the -Atchison Daily Globe, the Atchison Daily Times, and the Kansas City -Daily Journal—subbed for Harvey Hyde—I became owner of the Wetmore -Spectator, buying it from Polly Shuemaker after Curt Shuemaker’s death, -in December, 1890. And my education, so long neglected and retarded by -circumstances, had now begun. Let me say here and now that I cherish the -memory of Theodore J. Wolfley, from whom I derived, at an impressionable -age, the still unshakable conviction that a newspaperman is a pretty -good thing to be. - -Not aiming to brag, I led the “pack” on the Atchison Daily Times with -more type set in given time than any other printer. It was back in the -80’s when everything was handset. On learning that a new daily newspaper -was to be launched in Atchison, I wrote to John N. Reynolds asking for -a position as compositor. He replied that all cases had been filled. He -said he liked the tone of my letter, and maybe there would be an opening -later. I went down to Atchison anyway the day before the first issue was -to come out. Reynolds said he wished I had applied earlier; that he had -been told by a Globe printer—probably Charley Gill or “Doc” Tennal—that -I was a swift, printer’s term for a fast type-setter. After a little -more conversation, he said, “Come back here tomorrow morning—if any one -of the printers fail to show up a 7 o’clock, you shall have his case.” -A printer who had the night before celebrated on the prospect of a new -job, came in five minutes after I had gone to work. - -And while I made more money than ever before, setting bravier -type—(8-point now) at 30 cents a thousand ems, had I known in advance -the low character the Times proved to be, I think I should have let that -disappointed celebrant have his case. Conducting his paper on something -like iconoclastic order; not exactly image smashing, but unquestionably -an attacker of shams—I am now thinking of “Bran’s Iconoclast,” published -at Waco, Texas, about that time — Reynolds dug deeply into the private -lives of Atchison’s truly great. - -A prominent Atchison banker was reportedly out gunning for the editor. -The Times office was in a large second floor room on the south side of -Commercial street. An open stairway, the only entrance to the printing -office, came up from below in the rear of the building. Reynolds, facing -the stairway, always with a six-shooter tucked in his belt, worked at a -flat-top desk halfway between the head of the stairs and the printers’ -cases against the windows in the front end. It was watchful waiting for -the eight printers. - -Then one day it happened. When the banker’s head showed above the level -of the floor, every printer made a break for cover—that is, got quickly -out of range of possible feudal bullets. The banker did not come up with -his hands in the air. Nor did Reynolds lay aside his gun, as he had done -a few days before while discussing matters with a woman. But then, it -was said, the woman had no grievance with the editor. She merely wanted -to know how he had found out so much about her man and the other woman -— things that would be helpful in the matter of obtaining a divorce. And -so far as we—the printers — were to know, the banker might also have -had no grievance with the editor. It was apparently only a business -discussion. - -As an indication of the stakes Reynolds was playing for, I cite this -case. A tired, overworked, Commercial street business man—and family -man—was reportedly seen crossing the river bridge with another man’s -wife. The incident rated only five lines. Somehow the tired merchant got -hold of a first copy of the afternoon paper—and it was said, paid $500 -to have the objectionable five lines lifted before the edition was -printed. And I still think Reynolds had engineered matters so that the -overworked merchant could have a look-see in plenty of time to act. - -I had set that five line item. But I balked, later, when I got a “take” -attacking one of Atchison’s foremost professional men, involving a -woman, who, of all women, in her most respectable churchy connection, -should have been above reproach. I gave that “take” and my “string”—type -set that morning—to a printer whose case was next to mine; and called -for my time. - -Nannie Reynolds, the publisher’s pretty 18-year-old daughter—she was -really pretty—gave me a statement of the amount due me. Ordinarily, -it would have been the foreman’s place to attend to this matter, but, -unfortunately, he was in jail—said to have been put there because of -his position on the paper, but more likely for a night’s celebration. -Oldtime printers thought they had to go on periodical “busts” to ward -off lead poisoning caused from handling so much type. And, incidentally, -I had declined to take the foreman’s place—that is, the foremanship of -the Times, while the ranking man was confined in the City bastile. - -I took the statement Nannie had given me down stairs to Scott Hall, who -was to be the cashier of a new bank not yet formally opened, in that -building—but he had been paying the paper bills. Scott said he had paid -out all he was going to until more definite arrangements could be made. -I went back to Reynolds. He grabbed up a full blank newspaper sheet and -wrote in six-inch letters diagonally across from corner to corner: “Pay -this man $17.65.” Scott Hall reluctantly went into the vault and brought -out the money. He said, “This IS THE LAST. You can count yourself lucky -in getting away now.” - -I learned later that the tall Irishman who so bravely took my “string,” -did not profit by it. In fact, there were no more payments. And, with -the publisher in the penitentiary and a portion of his printing plant -in the Missouri river, the Times also was no more. Atchison’s enraged -“good” people did not overlook any bets. Reynolds was caught in a -Federal net, charged with irregularities while president of a defunct -Atchison Live Stock Insurance Company. - -Reynold’s wife died a few months after he was taken to Leavenworth. -He was permitted to come home for the funeral, under guard, of course. -Nannie had neither brother nor sister. Thus, she was now left entirely -alone. It is always a very sad thing for a beautiful young girl to be -left out in a cold world alone. - -While in the pen, Reynolds wrote a book, “The Kansas Hell.” In fact, he -wrote two books—the other one, “Twin Hells.” He had been in the pen -in another state—Iowa, I believe. After his release from the Kansas -penitentiary, John N. Reynolds drove into Wetmore with four large gray -horses hitched to a spring wagon, carrying his books and four male -gospel singers. He made a stand in front of the old Wetmore House, and -sold his books. He spotted me in the crowd, nodded a greeting, and later -gave me a hearty handshake—and a copy of his Kansas Hell. - -Like Howe, and Runyan, and Twain—all good newspapermen—my formal -schooling was negligible. I did not work up to the big school in -Wetmore, on the hilltop. Also I did not graduate. I do not know if I got -as high as the eighth grade, or even far along in the grammar school. -The one-room, one-teacher school down town had no grades. But I do know -I wouldn’t study my grammar. And I now know too that this was one -regrettable mistake. - -If it had not been for the ravenous grasshoppers — 1874 — and other -calamitous visitations upon us in those pioneer days it might not have -been so, but the fact is, I quit school at the age of fourteen to help -my father earn money to take care of his family while he himself was -industriously engaged in bringing in new recruits for the school. -The tenth one was the only girl—and to be brought up with a bunch of -“roughneck” boys, she was a pretty good kid. And smart too. She studied -her grammar in the first school house on the hilltop. - -Nannie and my brother Theodore are, besides myself, all there are left -of the once big family. They are, and have been for forty-five years, -living in Fresno, California — now at 1005 Ferger avenue. Theodore was -the seventh son, but contrary to ancient superstition, he has displayed -no supernatural talent. He is now, and has been for forty years, in the -employ of the Southern Pacific railroad, at Fresno. Theodore was the -last born of twins. Willie, the first born—and sixth in line—died when -about a year old. And Joseph, my youngest brother, lived only nine -months. - -Me, I was just a darned good printer—a “swift,” if you please—trying, -lamely, to fill an outsize editorial chair. And it was Myrtle -Mercer—later my wife—who, as compositor, took the kinks out of my -grammar. The hard and fast printer’s rule to “follow copy if it goes out -the window,” was something to be ignored in my office. And though she -has been dead now since 1925, that ever helpful girl still is, in -a manner, taking the kinks out of my grammar—I hope. The pain of -shop-acquired grammar is that one never knows for sure just how faulty -his English might be. - -Getting back to the dominating character of this story, during that -morning call at The Spectator office, Mr. Henry stepped over to where -The Girl was setting type, saying, “I should know, Miss Myrtle, without -asking that you must have enjoyed the Peak trip.” Their eyes sparkled as -they talked it over. Though months and years had passed since the day -he made the trip with the Handley girl, Mr. Henry was still feeling the -exhilaration of it. - -The Spectator office was over the W. H. Osborn shoe store on a corner -across the street from the DeForest mercantile corner. Hardly had Mr. -Henry gotten back to his store when Myrtle, looking out the window, -exclaimed, “My gosh—the chaperon! Look out below!” Seeing the chaperon -heading for the shoe store, caused Myrtle to say to me, “It looks as if -some of you brilliant fraters of Faber could have foreseen the damage to -be done by that foolhardy plunge down the gravel slide.” She had picked -up the term, “fraters of Faber,” in the parlors of the Alamo hotel when -the party was welcomed by Mayor Sprague, the Chamber of Commerce, and -the Pike’s Peak Press Club. - -The shoe merchant’s wife had taken care of the store during his absence, -and was still on duty. Somehow, during the hour’s visit, the merchant -slipped a pair of new shoes to the chaperon—as was quite proper, since -he had led her down that gravel slide. But his wife seemingly was not an -understanding woman. She followed the chaperon to the railroad station, -and recovered the shoes. No blows, no hair pulling—not at the depot, -anyway. - -Another time, while ostensibly vacationing in Colorado—Colorado again, -I’m sure it was—Mr. Henry had a couple of fine flannel shirts washed by -a Chinese laundry-man in Grass Valley, California, and they had shrunk -so badly that he put them back in stock in his store. I’m positive he -told me they were laundered in Grass Valley. Those fine shirts were to -be taken on another outing in Colorado, and one of them got up Pike’s -Peak, too—but those shirts did not find their way to Grass Valley this -time. I know. I wore them. - -Years after that sad trip to Omaha, and after he had thrown his fortunes -in with the younger set, Mr. Henry married a mighty fine Wetmore girl, -a school teacher—Miss Anna Gill. The marriage license gave their ages -as over 21, which was correct as far as it went. A closer tab would have -revealed his age as being somewhere around 54, and hers a full decade -above the stated figure. This romance also “hung fire” for several -years. In fact, it was hard to tell just when it began. - -More than once have I walked with Mr. Henry the mile to her country -home, when I thought my friend Alex Hamel, or maybe Rodman DeForest, or -Johnny Thomas, or my brother Sam, was the top man there. We were not, of -course—Mr. Henry and I—walking out together of a Sunday evening to see -the same girl, but had I been pressed to make a choice of the half dozen -girls who congregated there, Miss Anna would have been that one. It was -not clear to all just who was going to see whom. - -Alex Hamel’s most cherished memory of his suit was the fact—so he told -me—that while walking out in the night with Mr. Henry and the girl, -arms in arms, Alex on one side and the tall stately highbred gentleman -(Alex’s description) on the other side, he had reached over and kissed -Miss Anna. Alex did not say whether or not she had inclined her head -toward him for the reception of that kiss in the dark. - -It was no comedown for the “highbred gentleman” when he married the -harness-maker’s daughter. Mr. Henry died, in retirement, in 1917. -His widow and son Carroll, later, moved to Boise, Idaho. Augusta Ann -DeForest died in 1895. Her husband, Isaac Newton DeForest, had died ten -years earlier. - -During a ten days stay in Los Angeles, following Christmas (1947), at -the home of my nephew, W. G. Bristow, and his wife Ethel, and visiting -the Weavers — Raymond, Nellie, and Miss Cloy—Tom DeForest called with -a new automobile and drove me to his home at Santa Anita, a restricted -residential section in the foothills, where I met his wife Hilda, his -daughter Mary, and his son Tommy. He also drove me over to the west -side to call on the Larzeleres — Ed, Mabel, Ella and her husband Lester -Hatch, and their daughter Miss Drusilla, who writes feature (society) -articles for the Los Angeles Sunday Times. Tom, son of Moulton and Mary -(Thomas) DeForest, is in possession of the original DeForest family -bible. From those records, and from Tom himself, I verified facts set -forth in this article. - -Tom DeForest has a $50,000 home only a little way up the canyon from the -famous Santa Anita race track. After showing me through the home and -we were on our way out, Tom spied some freshly baked pumpkin pies on -a table. I imagine they were pies baked for a family outing “below the -border” in Old Mexico, where Tom said they were going the following -morning for a three-day fishing trip. He said, “I think we ought to have -a piece of pie and a glass of milk before we go over to Larzelere’s.” -While eating the pie, Tom expounded glibly, as only a DeForest could, on -his liking for pumpkin pies in general and particularly the one we -were eating—and his detestation of the so-called pumpkin pies made from -squash. As we were going out the door, his wife whispered to me, “I made -that pie out of Tom’s despised squash which he grew himself here in the -garden.” Tom has an extra lot back of his residence where he digs in the -good earth to keep himself fit. - -T. M. DeForest is a former Wetmore boy who made good. He told me that -when he landed in Los Angeles about 1908, Ed (Bogs) Graham, another -Wetmore boy, staked him to a meal ticket. As we were driving past -the business location — confectionery store, I believe — of Ed’s twin -daughters, Marion and Maxine, very close to the Larzelere home, Tom said -he had a warm spot in his heart for the girls because of the lift he -had gotten from their father, long since dead, when things looked pretty -blue for him. - -Tom DeForest started his restaurant career with a push-cart, peddling -hamburgers and beans of evenings, while studying law during the day — -just to please his father. The hamburger and bean business grew beyond -all expectations—and Tom soon forgot about his father’s wish that he -study law. Tom did not travel the streets with his push-cart. He stored -it back of a bank building in the daytime, and brought it out only of -evenings — keeping late hours, and quite often “wee” hours. When he -housed the business at 2420 North Broadway, it became “Ptomaine Tommy’s -Place.” And it continued to grow. The name made it famous. Tom told me -he could sell the business for $100,000—but he didn’t know what to do -with the money. Then, too, I suspect, the complicated income tax demands -was also a deterrent. That’s what has stopped Jim Leibig — another -Wetmore boy who has made good, at Santa Ana — from turning a big profit. -I think Jim could clean up with as much, or maybe more, than Tom. - -Tom DeForest has leased the business to his former help for a percentage -of the profits. He goes to the place only once every day now, (12 -o’clock, noon), to check up — and gather in the cash. Pretty soft, -Tommy—pretty soft. - -Now, was there ever another man like Henry Clay DeForest? Certainly not -in Wetmore. Mr. Henry was my hero, had been so since the time of his -partnership here with Seth Handley, when I was eleven years old, “under -foot” much of the time in their establishment. And I should have liked -very much to have seen his romance with Seth’s sister materialize. -Although I had seen her but once, I had come to think of her as an -exceptionally desirable lady, a lovely personage like her wonderful -brother Seth. And though it came to naught, I still think it was, in a -way, the most beautiful romance that I have ever known; with the lady -waiting—waiting unto death for the clouds to roll by. - -And even with the handicap of being influenced by an aristocratic mother -— if it really were a handicap — Mr. Henry rose, in a community dead set -against such holdings, to the heights in popularity. He was the almost -perfect man — a man after my own heart, and even now it pleases me no -little to remember that I had selected him as my hero early in life. - -SMALLPOX PESTILENCE Not Hitherto Published—1947. - -By John T. Bristow - -Don’t be frightened. On paper, smallpox is not contagious. That is, -usually it isn’t. But I shall cite one case where it might have been. -Had you been living here in Wetmore fifty years ago, it would have been -about a hundred to one chance that you would have backed away from the -mere mention of smallpox. - -Some five hundred others did just that. - -It was my first and only experience with the loathsome disease. Also -it was the first — and last — case of smallpox the town ever had. There -were among us, however, several sorry looking walking testimonials -of what that pestilence could do to one’s face. Elva Kenoyer, in her -twenties, unattached and so remaining to the end, was horribly pitted. -E. S. Frager, the furniture dealer, got his pits elsewhere. Eli -Swerdfeger, a retired farmer, had ’ em all over his face, and deep too. -And though he was at that time making his living by doing odd jobs about -town, he wouldn’t for love or money attend me. Said he had his family to -consider. - -And Eugene Dorcas, living in the country at the time — later in -Wetmore—had smallpox so badly that the soles of his feet had come off -like a rattlesnake sheds its skin. But, at that, he had nothing on me. - -Dr. J. W. Graham, the old family physician, was called in—and, as a -mark of courtesy to me, or perhaps more correctly as a beginning for -launching his son just out of medical school on a like career, brought -Dr. Guy S. Graham along with him. And, in a manner, it was Guy’s first -professional case. They found that I was running a temperature of 105, -and mighty sick, but no signs or even thought of smallpox—yet. The young -doctor remained with me after the old doctor had gone to the drugstore -to get a prescription filled. He sat on the edge of my bed, just -visiting. - -At that time, there was a lot of smallpox in Kansas City, and I had been -there about ten days before with a mixed carload of hogs and cattle — -owned in partnership with my brother Theodore—from my Bancroft farm. -Also, I had occupied a seat in the railroad coach coming home, with -George Fundis. He spoke of the prevalence of smallpox in Kansas City, -and his fear of contracting it—and then proceeded to have his attack -almost at once on getting back to his home in Centralia. He might have -been a carrier. George was a stockbuyer—but before this time, he owned -and operated a general store at Ontario. - -On the following morning after the Drs. Graham had visited me, I noticed -red spots deep under the skin in the palms of my hands. They worried me. -I sent word to Dr. J. W. Graham appraising him of my fears, and asked -him to not come back. And the young doctor rushed out immediately and -buried his clothes. However, the old doctor was not frightened — so he -said. But he called up the County Health Officer and scared the “puddin’ -” out of him. - -I had Dr. Graham send for Dr. Charley Howe, of Atchison, known as “The -Smallpox Doctor,” on account of his having stamped out an epidemic at -Lenora with his vinegar treatment, or rather his vinegar preventive. - -Dr. Howe first had a talk with Dr. Graham, and decided I did not have -it. He came to see me without putting on his rubber suit. On first -entering the room, however, he said, “You don’t need to tell me -anything, you’ve got it, I can smell it—but I thought you were so scared -of catching it, that you would never get it.” - -A few weeks before this I had met Dr. Howe at the depot in Wetmore, -while on his way to Centralia to see a man whom the local doctor -believed might be coming down with smallpox. I had known Charley Howe -for a long time — had worked with him on his brother Ed’s Daily Globe -in Atchison, and worked for Charley on his Greenleaf newspaper before he -was a doctor. When he stepped off the train to tell me about his -findings, I hung back a little from the start, but when he said the -fellow was broken out, I backed still farther away from him before he -had got around to saying it was not smallpox. Dr. Howe laughed about -this, and said, “Oh, you’ll never get it.” - -The doctor asked me if I had a shotgun? I told him Dad had one in the -kitchen. He said, “You better have it brought in here. If the people try -to force you away to a pest house, stand them off with it. To move you -now would mean almost sure death.” Dr. Howe told my sister Nannie — she -had been attending me up to this time, and thought she was in for it -too—that she could continue waiting on me, without risk, if she would -ring off my bed with chairs”, come into the room as little as possible, -not touch dishes or anything else handled by me, without rubber -gloves—and take the vinegar preventive, she would be safe. He said the -danger was not so much with the first fever stage, as later. - -The doctor said I should eat no solids; nothing but soft food for -eight days— “ and then,” he laughed, “you’ll not care to eat solids -or anything else, for awhile.” That’s when the smallpox patient erupts -internally. We settled on cream of wheat, and my sister, not getting the -short term well fixed in mind, kept me on that one diet for forty-two -days—long after I was well enough to get out. The County Health Officer -was afraid to come down from Seneca to release me. He took plenty of -time, and then without ever seeing me, issued an order for my release, -with a “guess so” attachment. - -My sister Nannie, at seventeen, was rather plump — not bulky fat—but -after the vinegar treatment she came out as slim as a race horse, and -has been trim ever since. An awful lot of cider vinegar —it had to -be cider vinegar — was consumed in Wetmore that winter. I believe the -vinegar produced an acid blood. - -On the first afternoon when the fever was making me pretty stupid, I had -spent maybe a half hour sitting by the stove in Bud Means’ store, below -the printing office. Near by, there was a water bucket, with dipper, -for everybody’s use. I did not drink at the public bucket that day — but -when it became known that I had a high fever at that very time, and was -now down with smallpox, it was but natural for Bud to imagine that I had -tried to cool my fever with several trips to his water bucket. And -there was no imagination about the quaff he himself had taken from that -dipper, after I had left. Bud told me after I had gotten out—not right -away, you can bet your life—that it almost made him sick. - -With Elva’s and Eli’s pockmarked faces constantly in mind, I laid awake -nights to make sure that I would not, in my sleep, scratch my face, or -misplace the slipperyelm poultice, done in cheesecloth, in which my face -was swathed. And then, even then, it was awful, a mass of apparently -disfigurating open pustules, with face redder than a spanked baby. - -After my face had come back to somewhere near normal, I sent my -neighbor, Ed Reitzel, up to B. O. Bass’ barber shop to buy—not borrow—a -razor and mug, aiming to use them only once. Then, before I had started -on that oh-so-awful looking face, I began to wonder if maybe Byron had -not sent me his “deadman’s” razor, and I had to send Ed back to make -sure about that. I knew that Byron, when telling one of his funny -barbershop stories, was liable to do and say things off key. One time -he poured nearly a whole bottle of hairoil on my head—which I had not -ordered, and didn’t want—while he was looking away from his work, and -laughing at his own funny story. Then I had to have a shampoo before I -could go to “protracted” meeting that night. - -Fixed up with Byron’s razor, I looked a little more like myself, and was -now ready to hold an appointment with my girl, who was also the manager -of my newspaper business, with the alternate help of Herb Wait and -Jim Harvey Hyde, of the Centralia Journal. She had secured for me -from General Passenger Agent Barker in St. Louis a pass over the MK&T -railroad, to Galveston. George Cawood had sent me word not to show up at -his store for awhile after I would get out, and I knew that all the town -people were feeling the same way about me. Hence the trip to the gulf. - -As instructed, Myrtle met me at the front gate of her home, handed me my -credentials and the money she had gotten for me, stood off a reasonable -distance, also as per instructions, and said, “You look like the devil.” -The cold had enhanced the “splendor” of the blemishes on my face. If she -could have said further, “But I still love you in the same old way,” it -would have been a more cheerful sendoff for the long journey ahead of -me. - -But Myrtle was too busy trying to tell me how she had managed my -business. She didn’t know it, but she herself had, in prospect, a -substantial interest in the printery. Before leaving the office on that -dreadful day when my fever was at high pitch—I mean actual temperature—I -deposited in my desk a check written in her favor, with no ifs or ands -attached, for an amount which would have come near bankrupting me as of -the moment—even as I have now, since I am no longer a family man, set -aside the residue of my possessions, if any, in favor of the sister who -had so bravely, at the risk of her face and figure, stood by me through -that smallpox ordeal. - -After getting settled in bed that first night, I told my sister about -the check in my desk, and also told her that I wanted her to see that -it be paid, if, and when, it would appear appropriate to do so. I was -remembering at the time the case of Myran Ash and Ella Wolverton, -south of town. Ella had waited on him in his last sickness, and in the -meantime picked up Myran’s check for $1,000. His relatives tried, but -failed, to prevent her from cashing the check. - -When I boarded the train at Wetmore that same day, Charley Fletcher, the -conductor, coming down the aisle gathering tickets, stopped stock-still, -and backed up a few steps, when he saw me. He wouldn’t touch my Mo. -Pacific pass until I had explained that it had been in the office all -the time during my sickness. - -After first calling on my doctor, I stopped in Atchison long enough to -buy a suit of clothes and other needed articles. I had left home wearing -an old suit, “borrowed” from Ed Murray. On leaving the clothing store -I met, or came near meeting, Mr. Redford, bookkeeper at the -Green-leaf-Baker grain elevator, whom I knew quite well, having shipped -grain to the firm. Taking to the street, he shied around me, but he -had the decency to laugh about it—and told me that I would see Frank -Crowell, of the firm, at Galveston, if I were going that way. The Kansas -Grain Dealers Association was to hold a meeting in Galveston two days -hence. - -On my way to a barbershop down the street, I had a chat with my doctor -again. He was standing on the sidewalk at the bottom of the steps -leading up to his office, grinning. He said, “Well, your conductor came -along while I was standing here, and I asked him what did he mean by -bringing that smallpox patient down from Wetmore?” Dr. Howe laughed, and -said, “You know, I thought that poor fellow was going to collapse on -the sidewalk, and I had to tell him quickly that you couldn’t give it to -anyone if you would try.” - -There was one small spot on my jaw that had not properly healed, and -I had asked the doctor earlier, in the office, if he thought it might -cause the barber to ask questions? He said, “No, no—just go in and say -nothing.” But after we had talked awhile on the sidewalk, he said, “You -better hunt a fire before you go to the barbershop. Your face is as -spotted as a leopard.” - -At Galveston, I met Mrs. Poynter—she was our Bancroft correspondent—with -several of the grainmen’s wives. Usually very sociable, she acted as -if she were looking for a chance to run, and I backed out of a rather -embarrassing position. Evidently not knowing of my smallpox siege, -Secretary E. J. Smiley gave me a cordial ham, even laughed as if he were -remembering the illegal grain contract which he and my local competitor -had virtually forced upon me, “for benefit of the Association” — a -similar one of like illegality, which had, reputedly, within a few -weeks therefrom, got someone a 30-day jail sentence at Salina. Other -acquaintances in the grain dealers party acted as if they could get -along very well without me—and I troubled them no more. - -Back home, the people gradually stopped their shying, and in the week I -waited for the County Health Officer’s instructions for fumigating the -house, I talked matters over with the family. For the peace of mind of -our town people, it was decided that everything in the smallpox house -should be burned—and my parents and my sister would go to Fresno, -California, where my brothers Dave and Frank were in business. - -My Aunt Nancy, with her husband, Bill Porter, drove in from their -Wolfley creek home, and had dinner with the folks the day I was to start -the fires. Bill Porter said it would be rank foolishness for us to burn -the stuff. I said, “All right, Bill; drive by this afternoon and I’ll -load your wagon.” He said, quickly, “Don’t want any of the things — on -account of our neighbors.” - -Several years later, the Porter family all had smallpox—and Bill, the -elder, died of it. And Bill, the second — there is a third Bill -Porter, and a fourth Bill Porter now — tells me that not for six months -thereafter did they have callers. Had I loaded his wagon that day of my -fire, the loss of my uncle would have made it regrettable—but I don’t -think that I would have allowed him to cart away anything, even had he -accepted my offer. - -Jessie Bryant’s three-months old daughter, Violet, was first in the -Porter family to have it, and she was thought to have contracted the -disease in a rather peculiar way. Jessie was holding the baby on her lap -as she read a letter from her husband, Lon Bryant, who was working in -Nebraska, saying he would have to move from the place he was staying, on -account of the people in the home having smallpox. - -The burning of the things was mostly done that afternoon, but the -fumigation would carry over into the next day. To avoid an extra -scrubbing of myself, with change of clothing twice, I planned to stay -that night in the house, and held back one bed and some bedding. It was -in the same room I had occupied, and was first to be fumigated. It would -get another dose of brimstone the next day, after the room would be -cleared. I opened all windows and one outer door, but the room did not -air out readily. The brimstone had penetrated the bed covers so as to -make them squeak under touch, and I could hardly get my breath in the -room. It was almost dark, and quite cold. I could not sit by an open -window, through the night. Then I thought of a roll of linoleum in the -kitchen. I put one end of the rolled linoleum in the bed and stuck the -other end out the window. With the coat I had worn that day wrapped -around my neck, I got in bed, covered up head and foot, stuck my face in -the funnel, chinked around with the old coat, and got through the night -very well—with little sleep, however. - -Our close neighbors did not show undue fright. In fact, they volunteered -assistance while the home was under quarantine—but they had the good -sense to limit their visits to the middle of the road in front of the -house. My brother Sam got out before the red flag was posted, and -took refuge in his mobile photo gallery. My father got caught, with my -mother, in the kitchen—and remained there and in a connecting bedroom -until permitted by the proper authorities to go to his shoeshop. And -there, save for one lone kid, he had no callers, for the duration—but, -with the help of this boy runner he kept the supply line open to the -quarantined house. Louie Gibbons, half-brother of “Spike” Wilson, -our old Spectator’s celebrated “Devil,” after spending forty years in -Minneapolis, Minnesota, got the urge to see what Wetmore and Holton -looks like now—and, after flying to Kansas City, dropped in here for a -day recently. When he found out who I was, and I learned who he was, he -said, “You know, I used to carry groceries over to your home in the east -part of town when you had smallpox.” - -Oldtimers who have often heard the expression, applied to persons of -dubious ways and stupendous blunders, should not miss the climax in -this last paragraph. After I had cleaned myself up with doubly strong -solution of corrosive sublimate — which, by the way, salivated me — I -called on our neighbors, Don and Cass Rising. Don had been choreboy for -the folks while holed up. My face was not pitted, and Don said that I -must have had smallpox very lightly, or maybe not at all. I told him -I had protected my face because I figured that it would be about all I -would have left after the expense of the thing—but if he would send his -wife out of the room, I would show him. My hips, and even farther back -all the way round, were badly pitted — still very red, almost raw. When -I showed him, Don yelled, “Cass, Cass—come in here!” I started to -pull my pants up, but he grabbed hold of my garment, saying, “No, no — -don’t!” Then he shoved my trousers down even farther than I had dropped -them. - -And the lady came in. - -CORRECT VISION Little Donna Cole was whimpering in my wife’s arms as -Myrtle was carrying her niece to the child’s home after nightfall, with -a half-full moon lighting the way. Myrtle said, “Oh, Donna, you must -not cry—don’t you see the pretty moon?” Donna stopped her whimpering and -after a moment, said, “I can see half of it, Aunt Myrtle.” - -GRAPES — RIPENED ON FRIENDSHIP’S VINE Not Hitherto Published—1947. - -By John T. Bristow - -In the preceding article I mentioned an illegal contract literally -shoved down my throat. The purpose of this article is to shed further -light on that incident—and to show how it got me pulled into court, as -star witness. And then too, as a whole, the article gives a “bird’s -eye” view of a small town pulling for the good of the town—according to -selfish individual tastes. - -There is no malice in this writing, no sore spots. But there are some -blunt facts. To leave them out, or gloss over the bluntness, would -destroy the comedy — then the writing would have no point. There are -some “humdinger” situations in it—and I don’t aim to lose them. But, -believe me, there is no chip on my shoulder. When one approaches the -cross-roads where he can go no farther, when his interests are all -centered around the stark grim business of clinging to life, he wants -nothing so much as tranquil waters on which to drift leisurely down the -remaining days of his existence. I repeat, this article is not meant to -be critical. - -Starting out with the grain trade in Wetmore, I will say Michael Worthy -had been a shipper before I got into the business. He owned and operated -a small grain elevator connected with the flour mill originally built -by Merritt & Gettys, and later owned by Doug Bailey, G. A. Russell, and -Littleton M. Wells, on the south side of the railroad. After the mill -and elevator were destroyed by fire in the eighties, Mr. Worthy built a -small combined crib and grain house, with a long high driveway, on the -location of the present Continental Grain Company’s elevator, west of -the depot, north of the tracks. There had been a minor accident on that -high driveway, and Mr. Worthy had abandoned use of it. This reduced him -to the status of a track buyer. - -In the meantime I had bought the Grant Means corn crib—capacity ten -thousand bushels—on the north side of the tracks, east of the depot, -and filled it with ear-corn, for speculation. When I moved that corn, -I saved some money by shipping it myself. And that’s how I got into the -grain business, as a side line, in competition with Mr. Worthy. - -About this time, the Kansas Grain Dealers Association was born. The -Association did not recognize track buyers. In fact, its members fought -them whenever they came in competition with the elevators. Just how my -competitor, with his inoperative dump, got into the Association in the -first place was, of course, his own business. I didn’t care to join -the Association—probably couldn’t have got in anyway, as I had no blind -dump. - -But I was shipping to a house in Atchison that had been forced into the -Association to hold its business. I think Mr. Baker had come in only on -one foot, however. Anyway, he was sending me sealed bids, and buying my -corn against an Association rule which said he must not do that. It took -Mr. Worthy nigh onto two years to find this out. And then, of course, it -was his duty to report the matter to the Association. - -I had a friend in the Mo. Pacific Agent, and whenever I would bill out a -car of corn, Ed Murray would give me the waybill which ordinarily would -have been placed in a box by the door on the outside of the depot for -the trainman to pick up along with the car. I watched for trains, and in -event the car had not been taken out, I would put the waybill in the box -after I was sure Michael would not snoop. - -Mr. Worthy was a devout Methodist, a religiously just man who would not -knowingly do a wrong—a wrong according to his lights. He attended prayer -meeting every Thursday night. His home was a half mile south of town. -On a Thursday I had two loaded cars on track. That Michael had something -unusual on his mind this day there could be no doubt. He had stopped by -to chat a bit with me while the cars were being loaded. He handled coal -in connection with his lumber business, owned coal-bins close by, and -had the grace to putter around them a bit before leaving the scene. -I hung around on the fringe of the depot that night until Mr. Worthy -drove by, as always, in his one-horse buggy, with lantern hanging on -the dashboard. I allowed time for him to drive to his home, and a little -extra—then dropped my waybills in the box. And that was the night when I -should have stood vigil until the wee hours. - -Michael snooped. Two A. M. - -On the fifth morning after that shipment I got a telegram from Atchison -telling me, much as a friend might ask a criminal to come in and give -himself up, to go to the Josephine hotel in Holton that day and join the -Grain Dealers Association. - -Also, there was a circus billed for Holton that day. - -I found Michael Worthy and Secretary E. J. Smiley at the hotel waiting -for me. There was much stir about the hotel, as if a general meeting was -in progress. Mr. Smiley told me that he and Mr. Worthy had a tentative -contract drafted, and that I might take my girl to the circus—then I -was to drop by the hotel and sign up for membership in the Association, -which would cost me $12 a year, in quarterly payments. I was going -to take my girl to the circus anyway. Harvey Lynn and Anna Bates, and -Myrtle Mercer, were in the hotel parlor waiting for me. We had planned -this even before I got that telegram. I had complimentary tickets, and -we could not afford to miss the circus to parley over a contract. We -four circus lovers had gone to Holton with a livery team, in an open -spring wagon. - -After the circus, Mr. Smiley asked me if I had any objections to the -contract? I told him that inasmuch as I was being pushed in with scant -knowledge of what it was all about, and that in deference to my friends -in Atchison who were urging me to get in PDQ, that I would sign on the -dotted line—and trust to luck. It seemed to be Mr. Worthy’s field day, -and he would have had his own way, anyhow. It looked as if it might -rain, and I did not want to waste time quibbling over the matter. If -need be, I would gladly forego shipping altogether for the life of the -contract—which was six months, with renewal privilege — rather than get -my friends in trouble. - -When I had signed the paper, Mr. Smiley shook his head, negatively, -grinned, and said in undertone so that Michael couldn’t hear, “He’ll not -want to renew it.” I pondered this for many days, and don’t know that I -ever did hit upon the right solution. There certainly was nothing in -the contract to alert me on that point. Had Mr. Smiley known what I had -decided to do in the matter before I got home that day, he would have -been justified in making that prediction. - -Well, it rained. It rained “pitchforks.” And, in that open wagon, there -were two mighty sloppy girls, and as many sloppy boys—and, to make -matters worse, the creek was over the Netawaka bridge. Held up here, I -took the opportunity to scrutinize the $3.00 package I had so recently -purchased, practically “sight unseen,” and see what they had really done -to me. - -The contract gave Mr. Worthy two-thirds of the business, and I was -to have the other third. If either of us got more than the allotted -proportion, he must pay the other one cent a bushel for the excess. We -would buy now at a price supplied us from day to day by an anonymous -somebody having no permanent address. No matter where located, any -member receiving house that we might choose, would confirm our sales. It -was September, and the old corn was about all gone. Mr. Worthy had 1200 -bushels contracted from Herb Wessel, and I had 3000 bushels coming in -from Charley Hannah. By agreement, these lots were not to be counted on -the contract. - -Harvey Lynn was Assistant Cashier of the Wetmore State Bank, and should -have been able to decipher any funny business—but he could see no just -reason why Mr. Worthy should be given twice as much as me. Certainly not -on account of that old dump. - -Anna Bates said, “Why, that old dump, nobody would risk their horses -on that rickety high driveway. I’ve heard lots of farmers say they -wouldn’t.” Mr. and Mrs. O. Bates were operating the north side -restaurant, and as waitress Anna had a good opportunity to hear the corn -haulers express themselves. - -Myrtle Mercer said, “I know what I’d do. You could let Mr. Worthy have -it all, and then go down to his lumber office once a month, and collect. -That would give you a third interest in his grain business—just for -grapes. That ought to hold him.” - -Harvey said, “John, I believe Myrtle’s got something there. You can’t -fight with your hands tied.” - -“But,” I said, “that clause saying I must buy everything offered, at a -designated price, will keep my hands tied.” - -Myrtle said, “Think, think, think! Let’s pray that there shall be a way -around that. It’s not fair to let Mr. Worthy do all the thinking. It’s -only for corn shipped. And you always fill your cribs every winter -anyway.” - -She was all for the grapes. - -As of the moment, Myrtle’s estimate of one-third was correct — but, like -a struggling corporation doubling its capital with the induction of new -blood, our new set-up raised the buyer’s margin from one cent to two -cents a bushel; thus reducing the little man’s share to one-sixth of the -gross, with all the expense of handling and shipper’s losses falling on -the promoter. And the losses—mostly on account of wet snow-ridden corn -being carelessly scooped off the ground into the sheller—were unusually -heavy that winter. But Michael, being the man he was, took his medicine -without a whimper. - -Happily, there was a way around it. An honorable way. Michael said as -much himself. Actually, I did not ship one car of corn in the whole six -months. But I did spring the market on nearly all the 10,000 bushels of -ear-corn cribbed that winter. My crib was 16-foot tall on the high side, -with doors or openings well up toward the top, and it took more to get -the farmers to bring it to me in the ear. The extra money paid for the -shoveling was very generously interpreted by Mr. Worthy as no violation -of our contract. - -Though I was the loser, a funny incident fits in here. I was bothered -some by petty stealing, but never a loss of any consequence. John -Irving, commonly called “Nigger John,” head of the only colored family -ever living in Wet-more—and, except John, a right good colored family -it was — thought it a huge joke on me. He laughed “fit to kill” when -he told me that he had climbed up to one of those high doors one night -about 10 o’clock, and then dropped down on the inside to the corn, and -was filling his sack, “when I gets me some company.” He said a white -man, (naming him) with sack in readiness, had dropped down on top of -him. He laughed, “That white man, he was sure scared most to def.” -Nigger John also told me that he and our deputy town marshal had bumped -heads in my corn crib one dark night. “But that’s eber time,” he lied. -And John was not what you might call a really bad Nigger. Other men who -helped themselves to my corn were not “white” enough to tell me about -it. - -Also, someone had whittled out a hand-opening, enlarged the crack -between two boards on the back side of the crib—with a loss of two or -three bushels of corn. When I went down one evening about dusk to close -the crib, I saw a very fine old lady—a grandmother—filling her apron -with my corn. I sneaked away, praying that she had not seen me. - -And again, I had given permission to a crippled man to gather up some -shattered corn around the sheller after the day’s run. When I went -down late in the evening to close the crib, I saw the man and his wife -putting ear-corn in a sack. I didn’t want to humiliate them, so I walked -unobserved around to the opposite side of the crib, and made a lot -of racket. The sacks contained no ear-corn when I got around to the -sheller—and I knew then that they would always be my friends. - -Eighty-three dollars was the largest monthly check paid me on that -lop-sided contract. With the sixth and last month’s collection in hand, -I asked Mr. Worthy if he wished to renew the contract? - -“Lord no,” he said, throwing up his hands. “The nice thing about this -track buying is, when a fellow knows he’s licked, he can shoulder his -scoop-shovel, go home and sleep soundly.” - -But it was not so tough on Mr. Worthy as one might think. We had been -buying on a one-cent margin. Now we — or more properly he — were working -on a two-cent margin, and, barring shipping expenses and losses, he -would still be making a cent profit on the third on which he would have -to pay me one cent a bushel. It was just galling him — that’s all. He -had the old-fashioned notion that one should labor for his money. - -Mr. Worthy told me later that he had made the discovery of my billing at -two o’clock that night after he had gone home from church. He laughed, -saying he had made several futile nocturnal visits to that box before -this time. It was luck more than perseverance that had rewarded him at -that late hour. A freight train that would have picked up the loads, had -it not already been loaded to capacity, passed through at 11 o’clock. -Also, he said he had believed for awhile that I was selling my corn on -the Kansas City market—and that when I would get enough of this that I -would quit. Except on a sustained rising market, the dealer shipping to -Kansas City could not compete successfully with the dealer who sold to -the receiving houses, on advance bids. And that is how the Association -was eliminating the track buyers. - -I could not realize at first what tremendous advantage this lop-sided -contract would give me. On the face of the contract—no. Decidedly the -opposite. Nor was it out in the open for Michael to see. In fact, it -was by way of developments mothered by that contract. The Association -maintained a weighmaster at all member receiving houses, who would check -on member-shipper’s receipts, at 35 cents a car, if desired; but it was -not obligatory. Having had some rather unsatisfactory treatment from -other houses, I had now found a place where I could depend on getting -honest weights. I wrote F. M. Baker, telling him that while I -hardly knew yet why the urgency, I had paid for a membership in the -Association; and, as I had always had satisfactory weights from his -firm, I desired him to disregard the Association weighmaster. - -He wrote me, saying he deeply appreciated my statement of confidence -in him; that he had been accused of all manner of uncomplimentary -things—stated much stronger—and that if he could ever do me a favor, -he would do it gladly. Thus was laid the foundation for a real helpful -friendship—but, handicapped by that lop-sided contract, it did not come -into being for another six months. - -On the q~t, we belonged to the same poker club. - -When I got a free hand, I also got the corn. We received bids from the -purchasing houses every morning, good until 9:30 a.m. Corn bought after -this time would be subject to the fluctuations of the day’s market, with -a new bid the next morning. Though I hardly know how it got started, -it became a fixed routine for the firm’s telegraph operator and buyer, -George Wolf—now Executive Vice President of the Exchange National Bank, -in Atchison—to call me up after the close of the market. If I had bought -corn that day on the basis of the morning bid, and it had dropped a -cent, or any amount, he would book it at the morning bid. And if it -had gone up he would tell me to hold it for developments the next day. -Sometimes the market would go up day after day, and I would not sell -until there was a break; and then I would get the last top bid. - -That was grapes—ripened on friendship’s vine. - -I spent a pleasant hour with George Wolf in his private corner of the -Exchange National, three years ago. We discussed old times. I believe -George would now vouch for all I am saying here. - -I went down to Atchison one afternoon, when corn had dropped a half -cent. I had 3,000 bushels that I had bought from Jim Smith, and 10,000 -bushels of the Ham Lynn corn which I had agreed to ship for his account, -at $5 a car. The corn was several years old, and a portion of the big -crib had been unroofed for one whole summer. The grade was doubtful. I -did not want to buy it outright. There was a car shortage, too, and I -wanted the shipment to take care of the grades as well as penalties, -if any, in case the shipment was not completed within the 10-day time -limit. Mr. Baker said he would take my 3,000 bushels at the morning bid, -and Mr. Lynn’s 10,000 bushels at the present market (one-half cent less) -if he would let it go at that. And in that case he would give me credit -for the half cent, amounting to $50. He said, rather gruffly, “We don’t -owe the farmer anything. There’s the phone. See what you can do with -him.” Mr. Lynn accepted the new offer. And he was mighty glad that he -did. By the time I got around to telling him all about the deal, corn -had dropped several cents. If it had gone up, I don’t believe I would -have ever told him. The Lynn shipment totaled 13,000 bushels, with only -one car off grade. - -I used to take an occasional flyer on the Board of Trade—mostly, I -believe, before my good Christian friend, Albert Zabel, told me that it -was gambling. I had 7,000 bushels of corn cribbed, and Albert had 3,000 -bushels cribbed on the same lots, which he wanted me to sell. Corn was -cheap then, and getting lower as the new crop promised a good yield. -A good general rain the night before had spurred our desire to sell at -once. My top bid that morning was 17 cents. - -Ed Murray, agent at the depot, showed me a wire from the Orthwine people -in East St. Louis, bidding Mike Worthy 18% cents. I had shipped some -corn to the Orthwines. I wired them, offering 10,000 bushels at 18 3/4 -cents, same as their bid to Mr. Worthy. Their reply was slow in coming, -and I may say that when it did come, the market was off nearly five -cents. - -I had told Albert that evidently the Orthwine people were waiting for -the market to open—and that I was going to sell mine on the Board, and -asked him if I should include his in my sale? He studied a moment, then -said, “That would be gambling, wouldn’t it?” - -I said, “No—not when we have the corn to fill the contract. This will be -protection against further loss. We gambled, Albert, when we bought the -corn at the ridiculously low price of eleven to sixteen cents a bushel.” - -Albert said, “I don’t know about that. If it wasn’t for them weevil -in the corn, I would hold it over until next year.” We had previously -discussed this, and decided that it would not be advisable to hold it -over. He finally said, “No, I’ll not go in with you. I never gamble.” -And just think of it, the fellow was buying and shipping hogs—continuing -in the business until his finances were “not what they used to be.” - -I sold 10,000 bushels anyway, on the Chicago Board — and cleaned up -three cents a bushel by the time we sold our cribbed corn at 14 cents -a bushel. “Them” weevil had us scared. But the damage was not enough to -lower the grade beyond the number three contracted. - -In the old days, many of the farmers would shuck their corn early, pile -it out in the open on a grass patch or rocky knoll, and then haul it -to market after it had taken rains and snows—the more, seemingly, the -better. More than once have I gone out to the country, and shoveled -drifted snow away for lots bought on contract. It was such corn as this -that brought the weevil, which worked mostly in the damp spots. Another -trick of the old farmer was to wait for a freeze before shelling and -marketing his ground “cribbed” corn. One such car of mine, billed for -“export,” and passed by the Greenleaf-Baker firm—that is, not unloaded -in Atchison, was reported steaming when it arrived in Galveston. It had -passed inspection in Atchison. - -Think I should say here—well, really it should be apparent without -saying—that our reputable farmers were not guilty of this practice. It -was usually floater-tenants, irresponsible farmers making a short stay -in the community, who devoted much time to figuring out a way to skin -someone. A fellow by the name of Groves, farming the old Adam Swerdfeger -place eight miles northwest of Wetmore, contracted to deliver to me 800 -bushels of “Number Three, or better” corn at 32 cents a bushel. When -the wagons began coming, in the afternoon, I saw the corn was not up to -grade, and I held up the haulers waiting for the arrival of the seller. -In the meantime I learned from the haulers that it was corn that had -been frosted, gathered while immature, shelled while frozen, and stored -in a bin on the farm. The fellow had sent word by the last hauler in, -that there would be two more loads to follow. When they did not show -up at the proper interval, I dumped the loads (in waiting) and let -the impatient farmers go home. I knew now from the way the fellow was -holding back that I would have a tough customer to deal with—but I would -take a chance on him. I felt that I couldn’t afford to keep the haulers, -who were my friends, waiting longer. The seller came in with the two -loads between sundown and dark. I told him the corn was not up to grade. -He said,”Well, you’ve dumped it, haven’t you?” I said, “Yes, for a fact, -I have dumped thirteen loads of it—but here’s two loads I’m not going to -dump.” But I did finally dump them, on agreement with the fellow to ship -the lot separately and give him full returns. The shipment was reported -“no grade” and the price was cut six cents a bushel. I paid the man 26 -cents a bushel, on the basis of our weight—and was glad to be rid of -him. Then, the next day I received an amended report on the car. It was -found to be in such bad condition that the receiving house had called -for a re-inspection—and the price was cut another eight cents a bushel. -And this was mine—all mine. - -It seemed to me that nearly everything, in the old days was, in a sense, -touched with that horrible word—gamble. And I know that I really did -gamble in an attempt to grow a crop of corn on my expensively tiled -bottom seed-corn farm down the creek a mile from town, one very dry -year. - -I hired all the work done, paid out $500 in good money—and got nothing -but fodder. - -Another time I filled my cribs with 25 cent corn and held it for the -summer market. When I was bid 49% cents a bushel, I jokingly told Mr. -Worthy that I couldn’t figure fractions very well, and that I would -wait for even money. Fifty cents was considered a high price for corn -then—but usually when it would reach near that figure, the holders would -begin to talk one dollar corn. It was a year when the corn speculators -just didn’t know what to do, after the price began to slip. - -Alpheus Kempton, over north of Netawaka near the Indian reservation, -had 5,000 bushels stored on the farm. He told me he had been watching my -cribs, and thought that maybe I had inside information of a come-back in -prospect. I too had been watching some cribs, with similar thoughts. -The Greenleaf-Baker firm had 20,000 bushels stored in two long cribs at -Farmington. As I frequently traveled the railroad—on a pass—and noticed -the corn had not been moved out, I thought that maybe, after all, I had -not erred in letting the high bids get away from me. I told Mr. Baker -that I had been watching his Farmington cribs for a reminder as to when -it would be time for me to sell mine. He laughed, saying, “I’ve sold it -(on the Board) and bought it back probably twenty times.” - -Well, Alpheus and I—we held our corn over another year—and then sold it -for 301/2 cents a bushel. May I say that by this time I had brushed up -on my arithmetic. And Christian or no, who is there to say I did not -gamble that time? I still maintain that I gambled when I bought -the corn. However, there were times when I sold 25-cent corn for 70 -cents—and most of it went back to the country here. The only advantage -that I could see in storing corn instead of buying it on the Board, was -the possibility of striking a local market. - -And again, I bought 5,000 bushels of wheat on the Chicago Board, at 61 -cents a bushel, and margined it with $100. As the market advanced, I -bought seven more five thousand bushel lots with the profits, making -40,000 bushels in all. It was a very dry time in Kansas, and wheat was -jumping three to five cents a day—and had reached a fraction under $1.00 -on the Thursday before Memorial Day, which of course would be a holiday, -with no market. - -My profit on the single $100 investment was now nearly $4,000.00. I had -planned to get out before the close of the market on Thursday, because I -did not want to run the risk of carrying the deal over the holiday. But -the weather map, just in from Kansas City, indicated clear skies for -Kansas over the week-end. This, coupled with the exuberant spirits of -the excited dealers on the Atchison Board, caused me to change my mind. -One more day of dry weather would likely double my earnings. - -The weather man was wrong; horribly wrong. - -It began raining in Wetmore about 10 o’clock that night. You’ve probably -been lulled to sleep by rain patter on the roof. Believe me, there was -no lullaby sleep in the constant rain patter on the roof over me that -night. It rained off and on here all day Friday. Everyone I met on the -street here exclaimed, “Fine rain, John!” I would say, “Yep”—and think -something else. It was truly a $4,000.00 rain, in reverse—so far as I -was concerned. - -On Saturday morning, the speculators were back on the Atchison Board -of Trade floor—to a man. The rain had washed their faces clean of all -animation. Mr. Roper, working with telegraph instrument, rose and faced -the weary-laden boys. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’ve got good news — for -nobody.” The death-like quiet for a fraction of a moment, as if we -were standing in the Salt Lake Mormon tabernacle waiting for the usual -pin-dropping demonstration, gave way to a concerted sigh. It had rained -everywhere. - -I sold 50,000 bushels at the opening. My profits were wiped out clean. -The extra 10,000 bushels short sale made me $63.75 in about three -minutes. And this, added to the return of my $100—and relief from -liability—made me feel rich. - -Though little or no wheat was grown here at that time, the Kansas wheat -farmer was considered the biggest gambler of them all. Even so, having -just got out of a big wheat deal, by “the skin of my teeth,” would it -not be good business for me to take a “flyer” in some wheat land, and -try growing the stuff? - -Land in the wheat country was going begging at $300 a quarter—the same -land that is now selling up to $200 an acre. Land agents were actually -fighting over prospective buyers. Bill Talley, born in Indiana and -reared here, was at this time operating a drink emporium in Wetmore, but -had lived, and dealt in land, at Cimarron, in Gray County. At the depot, -the day I started for the west, Bill told me to go to his friend, Johnny -Harper. When I got off the train at Cimarron at 2 o’clock at night, -Johnny was there to meet me. We by-passed the leading hotel—a rival -agent, F. M. Luther, lived at the hotel—and Johnny took me to a -restaurant three blocks away. The next morning Johnny and his partner, -Mr. Emery, ate breakfast with me at the restaurant. Mr. Emery was to -drive me across the river to look at land. Every parcel of land shown -was priced at $300 a quarter. And at every booster stop we visited, the -farmer would reply to Mr. Emery’s inquiry: “I would not take $25 an acre -for mine.” A few sandhill plums, a dilapidated barn, and weather-beaten -three-room house—made the difference. We got back to Cimarron about four -o’clock in the afternoon. - -As if he were sure I had seen a plenty to interest me on the side of a -quick purchase, Johnny produced a map, saying, “Now, which piece have -you decided on?” I had made no decision. Mr. Emery then thought I might -like to see a big alfalfa field four miles up the river—not that it was -for sale, but just to show me how good it was. In truth, it was just to -get me out of town. The alfalfa looked good, but you know my mind was -fixed on wheat, and this big field did not interest me. - -I had company again for supper, and either Mr. Emery or Mr. Harper -stayed by me until bedtime. It was Saturday. I needed a shave. Mr. Emery -took me through the main business part of the town to a barbershop on -the south side of the tracks. And here I came as near getting a skinning -as I ever did in a business deal. There were, of course, better shops in -town—but competitive real estate agents didn’t go across the tracks -for their shaves. In the meantime Mr. Luther had dropped in at the -restaurant. He was introduced by Mr. Harper. I asked Mr. Luther if he -were engaged in business in Cimarron? He replied, “Yes, the real estate -business.” Right away I had a notion that I should like to have a -private talk with Mr. Luther. Likewise, Mr. Luther. And don’t think that -Johnny didn’t catch on, too. - -Mr. Luther bid us “good night,” and stepped outside. Mr. Harper bid me -“good night,” and started on his way out—and I went up to my room. We -were to start right after breakfast on a drive to Dodge City, thirty -miles down the river, where I would get a train for home. I did not -go to bed immediately. I went back downstairs for something, I don’t -remember what now. Maybe to pick up a little disinterested information -from the restaurant man. Mr. Luther came back in at the front door. Mr. -Harper followed immediately. I went back up to my room. - -The following morning three real estate men ate breakfast with me. Mr. -Harper, Mr. Emery, and I started for the livery stable a block away, -while Mr. Luther lingered awhile over his coffee. Bill Talley’s friends -owned their driving team, and did their own stable work. When they got -their fractious horses partly hitched, I made an excuse to run back to -the restaurant. Mr. Luther said, “You were over in the neighborhood -of the Kelly school house yesterday, I believe. I can sell you three -quarters in the same section as the Kelly school house for $200 a -quarter, or $600 for the three quarters.” I promised to write him—or see -him later. - -Mr. Emery drove me to Dodge City, showing me a big 30-acre cottonwood -planting on the way, which purportedly was the reason for the drive. It -did not interest me. We had cottonwoods at home. Mr. Emery stabled his -foaming horses at a livery barn on the south side of the tracks, near -the river, a good quarter of a mile from the Santa Fe depot. We ate -our dinner at a restaurant close by the depot. It was Sunday. Mr. Emery -showed me the town. We visited “Boot Hill” Cemetery, the only visible -reminder now that Dodge City was once the wildest and toughest spot -in the Old West, and other semi-interesting and some non-interesting -places. After walking our legs off, we were now near the depot again. - -Mr. Emery wished to look in on his erstwhile steaming horses. Yes, I -would go along with him. On passing the depot I dropped out of the line -of march on the pretense of wanting to get a line on the through train -I was to take that evening. This done, I hiked back to the restaurant, -inquired for a real estate office, and was told the Painter Brothers in -office above the restaurant were the men I should see. A poker game was -in full swing, but one of the brothers—I couldn’t for the life of me -remember which one now—took time out to tell me that he could sell me -land as good as the best for $200 a quarter. He gave me some literature. -We planned to meet again. - -I rushed back to the depot in time to meet Mr. Emery on his return from -the stable. We walked some more. A local train from the west was due at -3 o’clock. Johnny Harper got off this train—and took over. Mr. Emery bid -me “good-by” saying he would now drive his team back to Cimarron. Johnny -proposed a walk. We took in the town again—always by our lonesome. He -saw me off on the train. I did not learn how Johnny planned to get back -to Cimarron. And I didn’t care. - -Bill Talley was at the depot when I got back home. He said, “Well, -did you see Johnny Harper? Fine fellow, isn’t he?” And, “Did you find -anything to suit you?” Yes, I had seen Johnny; fine fellow, too. No, I -had not bought anything—yet. But I planned to buy three quarters in the -same section as the Kelly school house, from F. M. Luther, for $600. -Bill popped his fist in the palm of his left hand, and bellowed, “Damn -Luther!”—with shocking prefix. - -It is only fair for me to say that ordinarily Bill was not given to the -use of such language. But the exigencies of the situation were very much -out of the ordinary. With prospect of a cut in commission—and his fear -that I might run afoul of Mr. Luther—Bill had gambled the price of a -telegram to Johnny Harper. I did not learn the why of this explosion for -a little over one year. My brother Frank was considering a trade for a -quarter of irrigated land south of the river, two miles from Lakin, -and had written from Fresno, California, asking me to look it over, and -report to him. On going through on the train, I stepped off at Cimarron, -and inquired for Johnny Harper. A by-stander said Johnny was not among -the people on the station platform—but, he said, “Here’s his brother.” -Johnny’s brother stepped forward, saying he was going west on the train. -On the train, he said, “You were out here last year driving with Johnny. -Why didn’t you buy, then?” - -I told Johnny’s brother that they had “herded” me so closely as to make -me suspicious. He said they had to do that to keep their competitors -from blocking their sales. He said the competitors would quote a low -price on tracts in the neighborhood of the places visited by Johnny’s -prospects—and then, if the prospect decided to buy, the competitor would -discover that his partner had just sold it to another—but he always had -other bargains to show him. - -Johnny’s brother also told me that our friend Talley had gotten into an -altercation with Mr. Luther, and that the Cimarron man had knocked the -whey out of our Wetmore boy—all while the latter was connected in the -realty business with brother Johnny. - -If I could have gone out there wholly on my own—that is, without any -helpful interference from Mr. Talley, and maybe got lost on the big flat -beyond the sandhills just south of the river for a week, I could have -made a potful of money. I had planned to buy two sections. But, instead, -I bought 80 acres of rather swampy bottom land here for the same money, -$2400 — and then spent $1800 more to install five miles of drain tile. - -This tiling was a gamble that paid big dividends. - -Michael Worthy, my late semi-partner in the grain business, had better -luck than I. He bought Gray County wheat land in the neighborhood of the -Kelly school house — which was to be passed down as a huge profit-making -legacy—even to the third generation. - -Oscar Porter was a track buyer at Bancroft until Jim Wilcox, elevator -owner, crowded him out. Being a track shipper, Oscar was not eligible to -come into the Association — nor was I, but somehow I had been roped in. -Porter wanted to know how I did it, that he might do likewise. I could -give him no helpful information. His next step was to start legal -action to compel me to divulge the secret. I was subpoenaed to appear -in court—supposed to be the star witness—in a complaint lodged by Mr. -Porter against the Association. - -County Attorney S. K. Woodworth called me aside, said he knew I had the -information to smash the Association, if I would just give. He said I -could tell the truth—he added, “and I know you will,” without fear of -having it used against me. I asked him if he were thinking of the time -when I had slightly stretched the truth—but I really had not done this — -in behalf of his candidacy, in my newspaper? He laughed at that. - -I told Sam that he could depend on me to answer his questions -truthfully, as always—he laughed again—but that I would not make -a statement. He said he would not ask me to do that. I was not -particularly in sympathy with the Association, but I did not want to -volunteer information against it—and then, too, my Atchison friends and -my partner Michael were entitled to some consideration. - -I answered the County Attorney’s questions truthfully, and I believe -satisfactorily—but still they did not get what they wanted. I had the -information, of course, but Sam and Oscar knew too little about the -business in hand to formulate the right questions. I believe they did -not know about that illegal contract. - -If they could have had Michael and our illegal contract, written in -violation of the Sherman Act, brought into court, they would have had -a case. But then it was I, a lowly track buyer comparable to the -complainant, who had by some hook or crook, aided by a swift kick in -the pants, bolted through the barrier that was keeping Oscar out of the -Association. - -LOCAL “BOARD OF TRADE” Not Hitherto Published—1947. - -By John T. Bristow - -This, a continuation of the preceding article, brings us up to the -second phase of my grain dealing experience. The businessmen, and some -who were not so businesslike, organized what they called a Board of -Trade, purportedly for the enhancement of the town’s interest—but, -in reality, as events proved, to locate an outside man in the grain -business here. - -Goff had two merchants advertising in my newspaper — one a particularly -live businessman—quoting prices, and drawing trade away from this -territory. Even people living right here in town would go up on the noon -train, and come back at four o’clock, loaded with purchases. - -There had been discussions as to whether or not it was morally -legitimate for the local paper to accept outside advertising when in -competition with the home merchants—and the publishers all around had -decided that it was quite legitimate, especially when the home merchants -did not make liberal use of the paper’s space. Yet, I doubted if it was -wise for me to do so. However, I do not think I was violating the code -of loyalty when I prayed for a live merchant like Mr. Abbott. - -The Board of Trade had come to life in Moulton De-Forest’s office -across the hall from my printing office, on a Thursday night. My name, -mentioned for possible membership—I was told, later—was discussed at -length. I was the culprit, at least it was I who owned the vehicle -carrying the price-smashing ads which were making them unhappy. And -though I was at the time publishing The Spectator, doing job printing, -buying and shipping grain, writing fire insurance, selling real estate, -and making more farm loans than both the other assembled loan agents, -there was doubt if I should be classed as a businessman, in the true -sense. Stupid as this may seem, it is a fact. The reason for it is not -apparent—yet. - -There were in this organization men who had been at odds, even fighting -mad, over other activities. It seemed as though something nasty was -always brewing then. The man who had not so long before been petitioned -to leave town, and the fellow who had borne the liberally signed -document to the printing office for public exposure, were now working -together in an effort to push me around, simply because I had been so -indiscreet as to accept outside advertisements. - -The leading Prohibitionist had been especially active in trying to clean -up the town. It had provoked the imbibers and the “blind-tiger” boys. -They got up a petition asking the Prohib to leave town, and brought -it to the Wolfley printing office, where I was in charge during the -editor’s absence. I refused to print it. They berated me plenty. But -they got handbills printed elsewhere—now signed “Committee.” - -The Prohib did not choose to leave town. - -One of the “boys” got gloriously drunk—and bragged a little. The Prohib -and the Drunk met in the middle of the main town square. There were a -lot of people on the street. Ed Cawood, quite young then, is the only -one now living that I recall. The Drunk struck at the Prohib, missed, -and fell flat in the street. He had to have help to get up. - -Years later, I heard a brother of the Drunk, a highly respected, and -ordinarily very truthful man, in telling the story, say that his brother -(called by name) beat the Prohib up scandalously. You can’t rely on what -the old fellows tell you. You’ve got to know it—or let someone who does -know it, tell it. Hearsay, after it passes through a generation is not -reliable. - -Here I wish to say that, except the grain business, the sidelines -enumerated herein were acquired from the long established agency of S. -C. Shuemaker, at the same time I bought the newspaper after his death, -and that I was not butting in on anyone’s prior rights. Also, I want to -say that the ones having those unreasonable notions, had axes to grind. - -However, a committee came over to my office, and asked me to join them -in Moulton’s office. I gave them $1.00 membership fee, and noted the -freshly written by-laws calling for an additional dime for each and -every time I might be absent from the regular Thursday night meeting. -Keep this in mind. - -The members who had no axes to grind were pretty decent. They felt the -need of something to counteract the inroads the Goff merchants were -making on the local merchants’ business, and decided that a full -front-page write-up in The Spectator was desirable. It was promised -for the second week ahead. Nothing was said about paying for this -service—and no payment was expected. - -Henry DeForest told those dominating members that they were acting like -spoiled children, or worse—imbeciles. It is really surprising to what -absurd lengths some fairly just people will sometimes go in trying to -force their will upon others. - -Now, Thursday night was always a busy night with us — but it was doubly -so the next Thursday night. The Board fellows decided that they could -not wait two weeks for the write-up, and asked me to advance it one -week. I told them that we would accommodate them it we could get Mr. -Abbott to reduce his space, or forgo the advertisement altogether. Mr. -Abbott would oblige. And this was the straw that ultimately broke the -spinal column of the Board of Trade. - -Our full office force burned the midnight oil that Thursday night—and -then some. The Board members trudging up to Moulton’s office could have -looked in on us and seen that we were having no picnic. But, by golly, -we were a little proud of our accomplishments, hoping it would please. -And it did. The thing that caused me to lose faith in the Board was that -paltry dime assessed against me for missing the meeting. - -The prime purpose of the Board was to locate an outside man in the grain -business here, backed up by a stronger purpose of one of its members -to sell an old canning factory building to be converted into an -elevator:—plus one up-and-coming young doctor who was crying for an -opposition paper, with political slant. The business was delegated to -a committee of four—the canning factory owner, a relatively new doctor, -and two other men. - -At this time doctors, after petty politicians, were the bane of the -local papers. It was considered by the profession unethical for them -to advertise—yet, too often, they craved top newspaper recognition when -only minor mention or none at all was due. The case in hand was the -third, with as many different doctors, with which I had to contend—in -every instance for what the paper failed to say about them, or what -it did say about some other doctor. But I want to say that our old -reliables, Dr. J. W. Graham, and Dr. Thomas Milam, did not fall into -this category. - -However, the cases I had t o deal with were really mild — mild indeed -to the one which threatened to do mayhem, or worse, to the whole office -force, when I was printer on T. J. Wolfley’s Spectator. A doctor who -had come down from Granada and located in Wetmore, sent word that he -was going to pay us a visit at 10 o’clock of a Saturday morning for the -express purpose of cleaning out the whole office. The offending item was -a week old, and the demanded retraction in Friday’s paper had, as viewed -by the Doctor, added “insult to injury.” - -Theodore Wolf ley really enjoyed a scrap—and managed to have something -on tap nearly all the time. He represented one faction of the local -Republicans, and Moulton DeForest, when not a pronounced Prohibitionist, -essayed to control another faction. The Doctor, a husky farm-bred boy -in the Granada neighborhood, now on honored citizen of Wetmore, was -a rantankerous Republican allied with the De-Forest faction—until -he switched to the Populist party without losing any part of his -rantankerous attributes. - -Anticipating in advance the proposed call from the Doctor, Wolfley -procured a revolver, and he and I practiced shooting the thing in the -office, from a distance of ten feet, with target pinned on the leg of -the imposing stone. He never hit the target once, but he broke a window -pane all of two feet above the stone. He always shut his eyes and -flinched before pulling the trigger. - -I was supposed to be stationed at the imposing stone, in pretense of -performing my regular duties, with iron side-stick—a lethal weapon when -expertly wielded—in readiness for my part of the defense, if, and when, -the Doctor might extend his belligerence thus far. - -The printing office at that time was over the old Morris store on the -north side of the main street. A stairway went up on the outside, with -turnback to the front porch above. At the appointed hour, heavy feet -pounded on the stairs. I had all of one minute in which to visualize -my precarious position. With each step on the stairs my nervousness -mounted. The irate intruder would of necessity be stationed somewhere -between the editor and his foreman. The thing that worried me was my -boss’ unpredictable marksmanship. - -But it was not the Doctor’s heavy feet on the stairway. He had sent his -understudy, Joe Eyman, who also was a husky bigfooted farm-bred boy from -up in the Granada neighborhood. Joe fixed matters so that the Doctor and -the Editor could talk it out between themselves. And in good time Joe -became eligible to write MD after his own name. He then married Hattie -Smarr, and they went to Sundance, Wyoming, to hang out his shingle. She -was known in later years, in Wetmore, as Mrs. Stalder. - -I am not sure if the belligerent Doctor’s grievance was professional -or political. Probably the latter—but I do know that he was touchy in a -professional way, for he later accounted for one-third of my unfavorable -experience with doctors, as earlier mentioned in this writing. His -successor in the Granada field had sent in by our Granada correspondent, -a dollar’s worth of advertising, in the form of a personal, which had -piqued the Old Doctor, causing him to do a bit of rantankerous snorting -at me. But I did not rush out and buy a gun. I used the weapon I already -had. The paper ignored him—and that whipped him into line in about one -year. And he was ever after that my friend—with full ‘appreciation -of the silent power of the press. He was a good doctor, and a good -fellow—when he was good. - -As Populist crusader, the Doctor was a success. His advertised meetings -drew big crowds. He always brought in a principal speaker. One time he -had two billed for the same night—”Sockless” Jerry Simpson and “Peruna” -Jerry Botkin—but he got Mary Ellen Lease, instead. The Doctor and his -two very fine little girls, Bertha and Belle, led the singing. The -Doctor himself was not a noted vocalist—but he bore down heavily on the -refrain of his favorite Populist song, “Turn The Rascals Out.” - -Also, let me add that any time the editor of a local paper lets the -politicians handle him, he is going to be woefully out of luck. Politics -was dirty then. If an editor was a Republican, he was expected to engage -in mud-slinging, shying the muck at all and sundry Democrats, regardless -of their standing as citizens. The mere favorable mention of Republican -candidates was not enough. And if he were true blue, he must keep up a -barrage against editors of Democratic papers, and vice versa, a sort of -nonsensical exchange of blasts. I steadfastly refused to be drawn into -their political scraps. They called me a “mugwump.” But Gov. E. N. -Morrell said—put it in writing—that inasmuch as I had succeeded in -keeping my political skirts clean that I was a high-minded Republican. -My hardest task was to hold down a brilliant and goshawful sarcastic -local politician who wanted to engage in muck-raking, over the assumed -name “Samantha” in my paper. - -Politics was something to be shunned by me—that is, from a business -standpoint in connection with the publication of the newspaper. I -once went over to Edgerton, in the Missouri hills beyond Rushville, -to investigate an offer of $1,000 bonus for the establishment of a -newspaper. I struck the town at a time when a teachers’ convention was -being held there. The banker, who was on the committee welcoming the -teachers, was also on the committee pulling for the paper, and he had -arranged the appointment with me. Mistaking me for a professor, he gave -me a hearty handshake, and welcomed me along with the teachers getting -off the same train. When I got up town, I called at his bank—and was -“welcomed” again. - -“What’s your politics?” he asked. - -“Republican,” said I. - -“Your train leaves in one hour,” said he. - -I did not know Missourians as well then as I do now. The banker -laughingly said, “Stick around awhile—I will talk the matter over with -you when I get a moment’s time.” He told me that there were only -two Republicans in the township; that I could run the paper as an -Independent until election time, and then I would be expected to be a -good Democrat—a real old “Missouri Mossback” and no foolin’, I think -the order would have been. I judged they did not want a newspaper. They -wanted a political “organ.” - -On invitation of the banker, I attended a meeting in the school house, -which was set in a natural oak grove — and met many sociable and -interesting people. In the gathering, there were a lot of pretty -girls—and all in all, it looked to me as if it would be a swell place -for a young fellow to settle down. But—while I wouldn’t know why I was a -Republican, I couldn’t pretend to be something that I was not. - -A young doctor from Goff had come here to make his professional start. -He first took his old schoolmate, Ecky Hamel, to task for calling him -by his given name, demanding that he be addressed as “Doctor.” Ecky -had gravitated from country school teacher to printer and reporter, and -thought he himself was some pumpkins, too. But I don’t think this was -held against the Doctor when Ecky wrote the five-line item that touched -off the explosion—caused the Doctor to whoop-it-up for a competing -paper. - -The offending item merely said that “Dr. Jermane of Holton, who had -operated on Lyman Harvey here last week for appendicitis, had died of -a like operation at Holton this week.” A Philadelphia lawyer could -have found no fault with this—but the local doctor thought it was a -reflection on his professional ability. Knowing that he had brought the -Holton doctor here to do the job, and knowing also that the local doctor -had been duly recognized in the item reporting the Harvey operation, I -thought he had no kick coming — and let it go at that. And anyway, Mr. -Harvey had also died of his operation. - -The complaining doctor was a hustler, socially a good fellow, very -much on the way up in his profession, when a catastrophic repercussion -reduced him to the level of the ice-man. As attending physician, he had -brought into the world an illegitimate child whose birth was a great -embarrassment for its little mother and the maternal grandparents. And -on a subsequent call at the country home he discovered the child was -missing. I am not familiar with the details at this stage of the affair, -but rumor had it that the doctor turned sleuth and dug up the fact that -the child was buried in the back yard. - -The home folks, older members of the family, contended that it had died -of natural causes—pneumonia, I believe. The doctor was wholly within -his rights when he reported the matter to the authorities—but he did not -prove an apt witness in court. Two older doctors from the north part of -the county, combined and “proved” in effect, on the witness stand that -the young doctor did not know enough about such matters to make a case. - -In the ice business in a southern Kansas town the fellow made good. And -though the “injured” doctor had kept on whooping-it-up for a competing -paper until he did, with the help of some disgruntled politicians, put -me out of the newspaper business, I’m glad to say he was not one to -carry a grudge beyond the time of its actual usefulness to him. Just for -old friendship’s sake, he wrote me from the office of his artificial -ice plant—owned jointly with his brother—complimenting me on one of my -articles in W. F. Turrentine’s Spectator. This note on the background of -the doctor is given here for reasons which will appear later. - -J. W. Coleman, publisher of the Effingham New Leaf, having conceived the -idea that a string of local papers along the Central Branch, would -be the motive power to land him in a fat political job, came here to -negotiate with me for the Spectator. My paper was not for sale. The -doctor and the political boys combined to persuade Mr. Coleman that a -second paper would be preferable. It would seem the MD and PB’s did not -want to crush me on the spot—or maybe it was their idea of one huge joke -to let me die a slower death. In either event, it was the wedge that -pried me loose from The Spectator. I sold to Coleman. I did not permit -this to cause me to break with the Doctor and my political friends — as -there was the outside chance that they might have been misquoted by the -over-anxious purchaser. And then, too, it was not long before I really -liked it. It afforded me time to give my full attention to other more -congenial matters — for getting married, for instance. The wife said it -was a great stroke of good luck for me. - -I had weathered one brief, and I may say clean siege of competition, -which had proved that the town was not large enough to support two -papers. P. L. Briney, with his two daughters, Bertha and Olive, wholly -on their own—that is, without MD’s or PB’s moral support—established and -published the Enterprise for about one year. Unable to make a go of it, -Mr. Briney sold the whole outfit—exclusive of the girls, of course—to me -for $125, his first asking price. - -Mr. Coleman did not last long enough here to do the political boys any -good. He got off on the wrong foot in an early issue. He attended a -recital given by Edith McConwell’s music pupils—and ridiculed it. Our -people did not like to have their kiddies ridiculed—nor their music -teacher either, who was once a kiddie here herself. However, after a few -issues by Coleman, Art Sells, also of Effingham, took charge, and gave -the people—not the politicians—a very satisfactory paper. Coleman gave -up his political aspirations, sold his two papers, and took the job of -City Editor for the Atchison Daily Globe. However, Coleman’s successor, -W. F. Turrentine, held forth twenty years longer than the fourteen years -that I had published the Spectator before giving up the ghost about five -years ago. The idle plant is still in Wetmore. - -To give a clear picture of the grain situation I should explain that Mr. -Baker, of the Greenleaf-Baker grain firm, of Atchison, had asked me why -would it not be a good idea for me to build an elevator here? I told him -that I did not think there would be business enough, from year to -year, to justify me in so doing—which, I might say, was a fact -fully demonstrated in later years. I pointed out that with the large -feeding interests here; and in the north territory, particularly at -Granada, where the Achtens sometimes bought as much as one hundred -thousand bushels of corn for feeding cattle and hogs; that practically -all the south territory was in pasture land; and with two elevators at -Goff and- two at Netawaka, we could hardly expect to draw trade away -from them without making costly inducements, as we were now doing in our -track buying. - -Mr. Baker said, “Well, then, I’ll build one for you. It will save you -paying a premium to get the corn, and make it more convenient for you to -handle it.” - -I think the Board members did not know this at the time of organizing. -But the committee, composed of the man who had a canning factory -building to sell, and the doctor who wanted a competing newspaper with -political slant, both uncompromisingly for the Goff man, and two other -men who had a tendency to view things in their proper light, met with a -representative of the Greenleaf-Baker firm in ‘the opera house here. -The spokesman for the committee told Frank Crowell, Mr. Baker’s -brother-in-law, and member of the firm, that they preferred to locate -their man Reckeway, because it would bring another family to town and -consequently make a bit more business for the local merchants. Mr. -Crowell told them that we would like to have their friendship and -co-operation—but, regardless of whether or not they located Mr. -Reckeway, that his firm positively would build the elevator as planned. -The two silent members on the committee packed power enough only to -delay action. - -As it is now all water over the dam, with not even a trickle of -cankerous aftermath, it is not my purpose to show up the old Board of -Trade boys in a critical light—but it was evident that they were not -being guided by the Golden Rule. They knew the Greenleaf-Baker people -were going to build an elevator, when they located their man. They knew -also that in normal crop years there would hardly be business enough -here to sustain one elevator. As a sort of excuse for them pulling for -the Goff man, the spokesman said to me, “You know, if we don’t get our -man located this year, we may never get an elevator. We have never had -a corn crop like this before, and we may never have another one.” It was -not strictly a Christian act—and I suspect they never had any regrets -for having turned the trick. It was apparently their way of building up -the town—and, incidentally, securing a buyer for an old canning factory -building. - -The Canning Company, a local organization, having failed to bring in the -expected returns, and having accumulated debts in excess of its ability -to pay, had liquidated, the building going to the highest bidder, one -Theodore Wolfley by name—uncle of Editor Theodore Wolfley. Then, later, -it was planned by the holders of the worthless canning factory stock—and -others—to try to recoup their losses by the establishment of a cheese -factory, with an eye on the old building as a prospective site. It -was then that the present owner hopped out and bought the old canning -factory building, hoping to turn a neat profit. But the cheese factory -promotion fell by the wayside. It was then patent to the purchaser -that he had over-played his hand. Knowing these facts, one can better -understand his sudden anxiety for an elevator—for the good of the town. - -Their prospect, W. M. Reckeway, who had been operating the Denton -elevator at Goff, likely misunderstanding the Committee, gave out an -interview in the Goff Advance, saying that they had bargained for the -Worthy dump, and that it was his intention to build a modern up-to-date -elevator in Wetmore, but J. T. Bristow had slipped in and bought it away -from them—the inference being that the good people of Wetmore who had -longed for an elevator for lo these many years, would now have to take -what they could get—something less than would have been the case had -Bristow behaved himself. - -Had this been true—the way I look upon such matters — it would have been -both shrewd and legitimate business on my part, though it would have -left an ominous smirch on Mr. Worthy. But it was far from the truth. The -Board Committee had not bargained for the Worthy dump. - -As has been pointed out, the Greenleaf-Baker Grain Company had already -planned to build an elevator here for my convenience, as a shipper—but -of course the company was not in the market for the old canning factory -building. My Company, as well as their prospect—not the Committee — -wanted a better location. Mr. Baker instructed me to buy the Worthy -dump, solely for the location. - -Knowing the canning factory owner like a book, I did not even suspect -that they would consider the Worthy location. And as a matter of fact, -the Board Committee apparently did not want the Worthy dump—only, at -any rate, as a last resort. When I called on Mr. Worthy, he said, “I’ve -given the Board of Trade fellows an option on it for $200, good until -noon today. Come back here promptly at twelve o’clock. Now don’t wait -until after dinner,” he warned. The Committee went to Mr. Worthy after -one o’clock, asking for an extension of the option. That old canning -factory was still in the way. And the owner did not exactly pat me -on the back, but looked as if he wanted to when he learned that I had -bought the Worthy dump. I did not get the doctor’s reaction to this—but -I do know that, though we continued on friendly terms—we never had any -clashes — he continued to “harp” for a competing paper, with political -slant. - -Mr. Reckeway, being handy with hammer and saw, converted the old canning -factory building into an elevator in time for the fall business. The -people, including the Board of Trade boys, had an erroneous notion that -an elevator operator could pay more for corn than the track buyer, and -while the reverse is true, they had located their man with this belief. -Then that new man did give me a merry chase—in fact he put me completely -out for a spell. He paid more for corn than I could get for it. How -come? Well, the BT boys gave credit to the old canning factory. They -were wrong of course. - -It may be a little early to bring this in—but Mr. Reckeway was making -some profit on the sale of a carload of flour he had brought in, but he -could not count on a repeater in this line, for he had already been told -by the canning factory vendor—who sold flour in his general store at -substantially higher prices—to cut it out. It was made plain to the -fellow that he had not been brought here to compete With the home -merchants. - -I’ll get around to aft explanation of how and why Mr. Heckeway bid up -the price on corn—but this seems the opportune time to slip in a line -about the entry of a business which led all competition. And lo, the man -was from Goff, the town which had furnished me a competitor in the -grain business, and a politically minded doctor who wanted a competing -paper—and ironically enough, the town whose advertising merchants, C. C. -Abbott, John Wendell, and George Bickel, were the thorns that had been -pricking the Board of Trade boys’ sensitive hides. - -Mr. C. C. Abbott, the live merchant—the man whose advertisements in my -paper had given so much concern at the Board of Trade’s first meeting, -and was the cause for that elaborate write-up, had moved in on them with -a complete new stock of general merchandise, locating in the old Stowell -brick building, the present Catholic recreation hall. - -Now, let ‘em kick! - -The energetic efforts of the dominating member of the Board Committee -to close a deal for the sale of that old canning factory building had, -unwittingly of course, also paved the way for the entry of some live -competition for himself. - -Mr. Abbott became my best advertiser. Legitimate, too. He paid, in -trade, three to five cents a bushel premium for ear-corn, and turned it -to me at the market price. Also, there was a general come-down of prices -in the other stores. Now was I, or was I not, working for the best -interests of the town? - -Evidently Mr. Reckeway had a threefold purpose in bidding up the -price of corn. He wanted to build up a reputation, wanted to crush -competition, and at the same time discourage the Greenleaf-Baker people -in their plans to build an elevator here. The word got around that I was -going to try to operate the Worthy dump “as is.” It would have not been -fruitful for them to let Reckeway know the truth at this stage of their -dickerings—hence the circulated report that I had bought the Worthy -dump, aiming to operate it myself. - -Nor did Mr. Reckeway know that the order for the lumber in special -lengths had been given to a mill in Arkansas the day after I had bought -the Worthy dump, when he betook himself to Atchison in an effort to -dissuade the Greenleaf-Baker firm from building, pointing out that he -had the grain business corralled here; that I was now a “dead duck,” -without standing in my own community. Mr. Baker was not impressed by Mr. -R.’s pleadings. - -Mr. Reckeway had been shrewd enough — or lucky enough—to sell, in early -fall, a sizable quantity of December corn at a price above the settled -market. He had been sloughing off his profits to the farmers to create -atmosphere—and to stop me. Many of his old Goff customers were now -bringing their corn to him in Wetmore, a high testimonial of his -popularity—and a welcome morsel for the aggressive half of the BT -Committee to peddle in support of their earlier expressed contention -that an elevator man could actually pay more for corn—even, so to speak, -pull rabbits out of a hat. - -Had Mr. Reckeway made it win, it would have been good business. As it -was, I’m not shrewd enough to say whether it was good business or bad -business. The one certainty is that he did not make the goal he was -shooting for. - -Owing to delay in getting the lumber, the Baker elevator did not -open for business until January 5. Reckeway had now quit playing for -atmosphere. Then, we both got more corn than we could conveniently -handle, as a car shortage had developed, which slowed down shipments. - -We had a little bad luck the very first day the Baker elevator was -opened for business. We were getting corn from three shelters, about -4,000 bushels that day—and some of the wagons came in after dark. Elmer -Brockman, the builder, was looking after the elevator end of the first -day’s run. I weighed a wagon, told the driver to wait for Elmer to -signal him in with his lantern. - -Something had gone wrong, and Elmer had taken his lantern and stepped -out of the driveway. Mr. farmer, after pulling up and stopping, decided -that he didn’t need a lantern to guide him—and he drove on in and got -one horse part way in the open dump. The horse lost patches of hair in -two or three places, but was not otherwise injured. The next day the -fellow came back and wanted to sell me the horse for $100. The old plug -was worth only about $40. I didn’t want to buy the horse at any -price, and I didn’t want the man to go away dissatisfied. And I -suspicioned—correctly—that some of my competitor’s supporters might be -back of the fellow. I suggested that I send Milt Cole, the liveryman, -out to the farm to examine the horse—and that I would pay him whatever -amount that the two of them might decide would be just. Mr. Cole said -$40 would be a big plenty—and I paid it. Then, about a week later the -farmer, pleased with his high-handed stroke of luck, had the nerve to -tell me that I was an easy mark, that the horse was as good as ever, and -that I had virtually thrown away forty dollars. - -Now, this man was on a farm owned by an Illinois man—a Mr. Smith, who -had entrusted me with the rental of the place. The farmer had contracted -to pay cash rent, with a clause in the contract stating that in case of -drought, or for any cause lowering the normal yield, that a substantial -reduction would be allowed. Mr. Smith was a firm believer in the old -principle of “live and let live.” But he soon found out that it wouldn’t -work so well here. And anyway, it was mostly his sister’s idea—she -having an interest in the land. - -The tenant had asked for a reduction. Well, Mr. Smith came to my -printing office one day, borrowed my shotgun, pulled on new overalls, -and went out to his farm to hunt a bit. He found the tenant at the -house, asked for and received permission to hunt. Mr. Smith said -truthfully he had just got in from Minnesota, and casually asked about -crops in general here. The tenant said they had been good, and he -bragged a little about how well he himself had done that year. Mr. -Smith’s sister lived in Minneapolis, and he had gone around that way -to get her to yield a point on that stiff “live and let live” idea of -hers—and to discuss plans for selling the farm. I sold it for them, -later. - -Might say here that another tenant the previous year had asked for, and -received a reduction. The man had sold his corn. He patted his pants -pocket, and told me, “I’ve got the money all in here. They’ll have to -settle my way, or not at all.” He was entitled to a reduction and I -was sure Mr. Smith would do the right thing. And he did. I said to -the tenant, “If you should lose that money we would have no chance to -collect anything. Put your money back in the bank where it will be safe. -If anything comes up, I’ll notify you in time for you to get it out -before attempting to force a collection.” He said, “On your word, I’ll -do that. Can’t sleep very well with the money in my britches, anyway.” -This man was Albert W. Dixon. Don’t care to name the other fellow. - -This rather unusual incident got “noised” around, and the tenant:—the -farmer with the “crippled” horse—being what he was, thought he might -just as well do a little more gouging. Mr. Smith said to me, “Make that -fellow pay in full—and get rid of him.” - -Still Mr. Reckeway was not satisfied. Having failed in his efforts to -block the building of the west elevator, he now began a play to get -control of it. And, finally, he did get it. During a grain dealers -meeting at the Byram hotel in Atchison, Frank Crowell told me that my -competitor was still after my “goat”—that Mr. Reckeway had just renewed -his offer to give them all his shipments, if he could get control of the -west elevator. - -I said, “For heaven’s sake, let him have it—if it means anything to -you?” Please note that Mr. Crowell and Mr. Baker were my sponsors. They -would not let me down. - -Reckeway closed the west elevator. - -When the new crop began to come in, I resumed track buying. I could have -forgiven Mr. Reckeway for trying to squeeze me out—but now I would have -to show him how badly he had been misled by his promoters, when he told -the Greenleaf-Baker people that I was a “dead duck.” - -We now had a new man in the depot. Agent Larkin was a fine Christian -gentleman, an active church man. Also, he had a wife, and a pretty -daughter who was a popular elocutionist—and a flock of 200 chickens. He -did not impress me as a man who could be influenced or bought for a -few kernels of corn. However, when he asked permission to scrape up the -waste around the car we had just loaded, it gave me an idea. I was not -expecting any favors from this agent — but I wanted to forestall the -efforts of my competitor in demanding a division of cars on a comparable -basis of his grand-elegant physical representation. When the boys would -spill too little corn while loading the cars, I often climbed into the -car and kicked out an extra bushel, sometimes more, before reporting the -car ready for sealing—and of course I wouldn’t object to Agent Larkin -gathering up the spilled corn, for his 200 chickens. I was getting an -equal division of cars, and that was all I could reasonably expect—more, -in fact, than seemed equitable to my competitor, with his investment -in an owned elevator and his shrewdly acquired control of the -Greenleaf-Baker elevator. - -The idea that an elevator operator could pay more for corn than the -track buyer was all wrong. An elevator is a convenience to the shipper, -and helpful to a community — but don’t forget for one moment that the -grain producer must pay for it all. When track buying, I usually kept -two men at the car, one inside the car and one to help the haulers -shovel off their loads. I paid them 15 cents an hour. Tom and Juber -Gibbons were horses to work then—but don’t look at ‘em now! And in long -hauls, I would take the drivers to dinner at the Wetmore hotel, and feed -their teams at Cole’s livery barn. The haulers, who were the seller’s -neighbors, would complain about having to shovel the corn—but they, in -turn, would bring me their corn for these extra helps, and extra money. -One farmer who sold me 3,000 bushels said, “My neighbors will kick like -the devil about having to shovel off their loads—but I reckon I kicked -too when I shoveled off my loads when I was hauling for them.” - -On the basis of those magnificent holdings, Mr. Reckeway took his -troubles to the higher-ups. Agent Larkin called me to the depot. -Reckeway was there with a special representative of the railroad — the -“trouble shooter.” Reckeway told his side of the story—very correctly, -I must say. He owned outright an elevator, and he had control of the -Greenleaf-Baker elevator as well — and that firm was getting all his -shipments. And, as a clincher, he said, “You know the Greenleaf-Baker -people are heavy shippers over your railroad. They have elevators all -along the Central Branch.” - -The special agent then asked me: “Have you any storage for grain?” - -“Yes,” I replied, “a bin with capacity for two car loads of shelled -corn.” - -His next question: “Did you ever have to pay demurrage for holding a car -over-time while loading?” - -Again I replied, “Never.” - -The special agent’s final question, the one I was hoping he would ask -me: “Where do you ship your corn?” - -I said, “To the Greenleaf-Baker people in Atchison, as always.” - -Reckeway’s countenance showed surprise, if not real anger. The agents -both laughed. - -Turning to Agent Larkin, the special agent asked: “Has he told the truth -in all three instances?” - -“Absolutely,” said my chicken-owner friend. - -“Then, give him every other car,” said my newly found friend. - -And Mr. Reckeway stalked out mumbling in jumbled English and German, of -which I could catch only, “A man with two elevators—.” My reputation was -now redeemed. - -The so-called “Board of Trade” had long since passed out. It was never -a Board of Trade, anyway. Its operations were limited to the sale of one -old canning factory building, and the location of Mr. Reckeway—that is, -if we do not choose to count the location of Mr. Abbott. You know, I was -a member of the Board, with dues and absentee penalties paid in full. - -Now, let’s get this straight. I wouldn’t have been so resentful as to -induce a live merchant like Mr. Abbott to move in on the homefolk. I -just told him of the behavior of some of the Board members, and that -I might have to deny him space in my paper. “Oh,” he said, “I -don’t believe you will want to do that to me.” He winked. Well, I -didn’t—really. - -Mr. Abbott had been thinking things over ever since the time I had asked -him to surrender his space in the interests of that elaborate write-up. -Said he figured it would now be OK for him to bring me copy for a -half-page advertisement announcing his location in Wetmore. - -There were, however, many proposals advanced — but always they met with -opposition from some member or members of the Board. In general, they -kicked like the proverbial “bay steer” whenever something was advanced -which might be helpful to one and detrimental to another. I think Mr. -Worthy and I were the only ones who did not protest their proposals—such -as bringing in Mr. Reckeway. And, frankly, until it had come to a -showdown, I was not favored with too much information as to what Michael -had up his sleeve. - -I don’t know where they could have found a better man than Mr. Reckeway -for the place—but he was no miracle man. Handicapped as he was, he -found the going rather tough. And having found out also that the Board -Committee’s prophesy was only a myth—that an elevator alone could not -make two bushels grow where only one bushel grew before—after a few -rather lean years, he departed for greener pastures. I believe Mr. -Reckeway made good in the flour milling business at Girard, Kansas. - -The Board of Trade sponsored (Reckeway) elevator, after years of -idleness, has been torn down. Goff and Netawaka, like Wetmore, each now -have only one elevator. And still the grain does not roll into Wetmore -as was anticipated by the Board of Trade enthusiasts. Perhaps the old -town may someday be favored with another set of progressives—who do not -know their onions. - -I reiterate, there is no lingering malice in this writing. Collectively, -year in and year out, the oldtime Wetmore people, despite all -differences, were the best people I ever knew—and I lived in relative -harmony with them for a long, long time. I’ve lived a lot of living in -the old home town. - -And, thankfully, I’m still here. - -FAMILY AFFAIR Not Hitherto Published—1947. - -By John T. Bristow - -In the foregoing article I made reference to Theodore Wolfley’s poor -marksmanship, with a revolver. When possible, I like to back up my -assertions with proof. I now quote from a letter dated at St. Louis, -April 5, 1941, written by T. J. Wolfley to his sister May Purcell, -commenting on my writings in The Spectator, in which I likened a -Belgrade story to a hot Wolfley editorial. It was at a time when a -Hitler delegation was in Belgrade endeavoring to put pressure on the -Yugoslavs to force them into the war on the Hitler side. The quote: - -“I received the copy of the Wetmore Spectator, which you so kindly sent -me. Thank you for it. I was interested in the story from Yugoslavia; and -flattered to be even remotely connected with the incident by my friend -John Bristow, who professes to think that if I wasn’t in St. Louis, -I might be running a newspaper in Yugoslavia. . . . Just as in the -political wars he mentioned, I was sometimes more friendly with the men -I opposed than with the ones I favored. But the people liked it and it -was then the accepted slogan to give the people the kind of news they -wanted. . . . John was a good newspaper man and a good squirrel hunter, -so we thought a little expert shooting might lend realism to the -picture. But I wasn’t a good shot. I couldn’t even hit the imposing -stone when it stood on the side against the wall. But I remember John -could hit a penny when it laid on the floor at the leg of the imposing -stone. So we depended upon John’s ability as a shooter to keep the -enemy away. . . . Show this to John. A good many things happened in the -Spectator office even after I quit, similar to the way they happen in -Yugoslavia. He may remember some more.” - -Well, yes—I do remember one more. Always one more. But first I want -to say that Theodore verifies the point I made in the preceding -article—that he could not even hit the leg of the imposing stone, in his -gun-practice. To those who are not familiar with the mechanics of the -print-shop, the imposing stone is a heavy slab of marble mounted on a -stand about waist-high, on which the forms of the newspaper are made up. - -When the Spectator was in its first year, I helped Theodore Wolfley -carry out one of his “bright” ideas which gave him some sleepless -nights. His sister Mary, still too young to carry on a flirtation with -a grown man, had embarked on a whirlwind romance with a Central Branch -railroad engineer. The heavy grade at the John Wolfley farmstead five -miles west of Wetmore, made it possible for the engineer and the girl to -exchange notes. And when they might desire a few moments time together, -it was said, he would drop off at the crossing near her home, and then -grab onto the caboose—and the fireman would take the long freight train -into Goff. - -Theodore told me that, as her older and wiser brother, he intended to -break it up. He said it had got to a point when a talking to would do -no good—and the girl was too big to spank. We printed a ten-line item in -the Spectator, branding Mary’s Romeo as an all round bad character, even -had him arrested and jailed for drunkenness—and credited the item to one -of Atchison’s daily newspapers. After printing one copy for the Wolfley -family perusal, I lifted the spurious item before running the regular -edition. - -Theodore commuted on horseback between farm and town at that time. He -took the “doctored” paper home with him. He watched Mary read the item. -He said she wrinkled up her nose, shook her head as if she meant to -get even with someone. When he came back to the office the next day, he -said, “I guess that will hold her.” But it didn’t. - -On the following day Theodore discovered the item had been cut out of -the Spectator—and he rightly suspicioned it had been turned over to Mr. -Romeo. He came to the office in agitated confusion. He asked me, “What -paper did we credit that darned item to?” He had maligned an Atchison -man and credited the item to one of the three Atchison daily papers—the -Champion, the Patriot, or the Globe—which made him liable to attack from -two angles. But luck was with Wolfley. John Reynolds, the engineer, -came back promptly with his daily exchange saying the item referred to -another John Reynolds living in Atchison—and the romance went merrily -on. - -Theodore would have felt a lot easier had he known there actually was -another John Reynolds living in Atchison. And though the second Mr. -Reynolds had a shady record, he was never guilty of the things the item -charged the engineer with. I have penned a line on this John N. Reynolds -in another article. John A. Reynolds, the engineer, was really an -honorable man, with high standing in Atchison. I came to know him well -in later years. - -I shall carry on from here — after this paragraph — without Mr. Wolfley. -But I’m not forgetting the Romeo engineer. And I should say here that -Mary’s romance terminated without hitting the rocks, and that Theodore -never had any complaints from Atchison. And I might say further, as a -last tribute to my old friend, that Theodore Wolfley went from here to -Phoenix, Arizona, and became editor of the Daily Republican, owned -by ex-Governor Wolfley, of Arizona, (no relation), where he played up -Republican politics to his heart’s content. From there he went to the -St. Joseph (Mo.) Daily Gazette, where I imagine he would have been a -loyal Democrat. And from St. Joe he went to the St. Louis Globe-Democrat -as Financial editor. While in St. Joe Theodore wrote me that he was -holding open for me a place on the Gazette paying four and one-half -times the ten dollar weekly salary I was getting here. That was -considered “big money” then. But I had promised Curt and Polly Shuemaker -that I would remain on the job here when they bought the Spectator from -John Stowell. Curt Shuemaker was blind—lost his eyesight from close -bookwork in the Morris store and as the first cashier of the Wetmore -State Bank. I could not quit them cold—but I was trying to find them -a reliable printer when Curt sickened and died suddenly, leaving The -Spectator in need of an editor as well. The quickest way to help out -Polly was for me to buy The Spectator—at my own price. Not an unfair -price, however. When Theodore was back home a short time before he died, -having just read my manuscript of the Green Campbell story, he proposed -that we buy The Spectator from the Turrentines—just to show the people -what we could do. From past experience, I knew he could have shown them -plenty—and I was afraid he might insist on doing it. - -Some years after Mary’s romance, I was walking past the depot in Wetmore -with the girl who afterwards became my wife. Her home was on the south -side of the tracks, near the watertank. The noon passenger train was at -the tank. As we came abreast the engine the engineer hopped down from -the cab, pulled off a leather gauntlet glove, and met the girl with a -hearty handshake—and some hurried palaver. She introduced him as Mr. -Reynolds. - -But you know, passenger trains must move on time — and when alone with -the girl, I said, “Let me see your hand.” She said, “Oh, you’d never -get a speck of dirt from shaking hands with Johnny Reynolds; he’s really -quite particular about keeping himself clean of engine grime.” I learned -later that she had told the truth in this particular—but how the -devil did it come she knew so much about him? I said, “I think I know -something about him that you do not know.” Then I told her about his -exchange of notes with the Wolfley girl. - -She laughed and said, “Were you expecting to see a note in my hand? -You don’t need to be afraid of Johnny Reynolds. He is engaged to a Miss -Spelty, in Atchison.” - -“Johnny” Reynolds had roomed at their home in Effingham before the -family came to Wetmore, when Myrtle Mercer was eight years old. Being -a very courteous man, he “made over” all members of the Mercer family -whenever and wherever he might chance to meet them. And he had gotten -lunches from their home in Wetmore. - -After her husband’s death in 1888, Myrtle’s mother had rather a hard -time providing for her family of five girls, ranging in age from two to -sixteen years. She was advised to open a boarding house for trainmen — -and others—but it settled down mostly to providing lunches for the two -local freight train crews which passed through here about the noon hour. -I think it was not very helpful. She was an excellent cook, and her -twenty-five cent lunches were too elaborate to make money, even in those -days. The passenger trains had stopped here for dinner before this. -The hotel charged trainmen 25 cents—as was customary at all stops—while -passengers paid 35 or 50 cents. Hence a 25 cent precedent for trainmen. - -The pinch was lifted, however, some years later, when Mrs. Mercer -was granted a Government pension—for herself and the two younger -children—with several years back pay. Though only 39 years old when he -died, John Mercer was an “honorably” discharged soldier. He had enlisted -in 1864, when only 15 years old. How he managed to get in at that age, -is presumed to be the same as other under-age boys got in. - -One time when I was riding the local freight to Atchison, I saw Tom -Haverty, the conductor, an Irish Catholic, open his lunch basket. It -contained a big porterhouse steak cooked just right—it was a steak that -would cost at least $2.50 now, with very few trimmings. I know that -steak was cooked just right, for my wife had learned the art from her -mother, and she had cooked many a one to the same turn for me. Well, -Tom Haverty picked up that steak, held it as though he thought it might -bite, walked to the opposite side of the caboose and chucked it out an -open window. - -It was Friday. - -After selling my newspaper, I found time to “putter about” on my farm -one mile down the creek from town. I actually did a lot of worthwhile -work, cleaning up the bottom land of brush, trimming hedge, and cutting -cockle burrs with a “Nigger” hoe. I usually stuck a sandwich in my -pocket for lunch—but sometimes Myrtle would prepare a real dinner, even -steaks like I’ve been describing, carry it in a basket, sit down on -the ground with me in the shade of hedge or tree, fight flies and gnats -while eating, and pretend to enjoy it. - -One morning she said I need not take a lunch—that she was going to cook -a real dinner, bring it down to the farm, and eat it with me. I told -her I would come for dinner, and save her that long walk. She insisted -that she “loved the walk, loved to get out in the open,” and I told her -where to meet me. - -But she caught a ride most of the way. Green Goodwin, conductor of the -local freight, told her to come aboard the caboose, that he would stop -the train out near the farm and let her off. He had gotten lunches from -her mother’s home. She said, “Mr. Goodwin said my lunch basket smelled -good — like old times. He told a passenger in the caboose that he could -always be sure of getting a good lunch at our home. I sure appreciated -the ride, and I offered to give him my part of the lunch, but he -wouldn’t take it. I’ll bet that traveling man who peeped in the basket -wouldn’t have turned it down. But Mr. Goodwin did eat two of the -cream-puffs: he said they were as good as the ones mamma used to put -in his lunches. That leaves four cream-puffs for you—if I don’t eat any -myself.” What manner of man would have eaten four cream-puffs—just then? - -Myrtle felt pretty chesty about getting this ride—to think Green would -stop his train on a steep grade, to save her the walk. Well, it was a -pretty steep grade—and it was kind of Green to give her this lift. It -recalled the time when, on several occasions, freight trains had stopped -at that same place to let me off. And when the train had started to move -again I could easily have beaten the engine to the top of the grade, in -a running walk. But that would not Tiave been what I had been taken on -the engine for, in town. I walked, or trotted slowly, ahead of the train -pretty close to the creeping engine, shooing grasshoppers off the rails. -After the 1874 invasion of grasshoppers freight trains could not make -that grade until the rails were cleared of hoppers—and I had to stay -close to the engine so that the hoppers would not fly around me and -settle on the rails again. I was always “Johnny on the spot” to catch -those rides. To ride the engine was a thrilling experience for a -twelve-year-old boy. - -While eating our lunch that day, a covey of half-grown quail came out -from between the rows at the end of a cornfield. Myrtle said they were -so cute that it was a shame to kill them. “And if you shoot any more -of them,” she declared, “I will not cook them for you.” I said that I -guessed I could cook them myself—that I had roasted them suspended on a -stick over a fire in the woods. - -“Well,” she said, “I’ll cook them, of course—but I promise you that -I will never eat any more of them.” I tried her out on six birds. She -cooked them, of course—and kept her promise. And then, in due time, I -also thought they were too cute to be killed. But I continued carrying -feed to the quail, in snowy times. - -While Wolfley said I was a good squirrel hunter, quail was really my -game. I trapped them in my younger days, and shot them when old enough -to be trusted with a gun. I “potted” them. In the old days quail -sold for 5-cents each and no one would think of wasting a charge of -ammunition on a single bird, especially while on the wing; though I did -once shoot a lone quail sitting on top my figure-four cornstalk trap, -under which were twenty live birds. We made our traps then with any old -thing we could pick up and bind together. The twenty trapped quail had -followed a tramped out path in deep snow, baited with a thin scattering -of shelled corn, with a more generous supply of kernels under the -trap—thus to engage the lead birds while the others were coming up, lest -an impatient bird might go after the nubbin on the treadle and spring -the trap too soon. I think trapping and “potting” were legal then. I -winged them in later years, same as other sportsmen were wont to do. - -One time while coming home from the farm on a Sunday morning about -eleven o’clock, three teen-age boys caught up with me. They said they -were from Fresno, California. I questioned them a little about Fresno, -and decided they were telling me the truth. Also, I knew they were -not professional tramps—and that they were hungry. I took them to the -Wetmore hotel, and told Bill Cordon to give them their dinners, fill -them up with double orders. One of the boys had about worn out his -shoes—the sole of the left shoe was dragging, making it hard for the boy -to keep up with his pals. While they were waiting in the hotel for the -dinner call, I went to my home and hunted up a pair of shoes—almost new -shoes, which pinched my feet—and took them, with a pair of clean socks, -to the little fellow, and started them on their way back to Fresno, -walking of course. On parting, the boy wearing my shoes, asked me -why had I taken so much interest in them? I told them that I might be -tramping myself someday, maybe even get as far away from home as Fresno, -and in that event I hoped to meet them all again. This is what I told -the boys. For the correct answer—it is enough to know that my people -live in Fresno. One of the older boys said, “Never doubt, we’ll be -there—if we ever do get back home.” And though I have been in Fresno a -number of times since, I never had the pleasure of meeting any of them. -I lost their names. - -Now—the $64 question! - -A real honest-to-goodness professional tramp had hurriedly passed me by -before the boys had caught up with me. I had a couple pork sandwiches -in my pocket. My first thought was to offer them to this fellow—then -thought that maybe he was not a tramp. A tractor had been running on a -farm east of my place, and this fellow was just about smeary enough -to have been the driver. I let him pass—and later saw him go into the -depot. The wife and I were preparing to eat the sandwiches which were -on the table still wrapped in oil paper. Then, this professional tramp -showed up at our kitchen door, asking for a handout. Taking the two -wrapped sandwiches off the table, I said, “Here you are, my man—I’ve -been saving them for you.” I told him that had he not passed me by in -such hurry on the railroad tracks, that I would have offered them to him -then. He said he had been sick, and was hurrying to get in out of the -weather. It had been “spitting” snow—which, I imagine, had caused my -dinner guests at the hotel to wonder why did they leave their homes in -sunny California. My home was two blocks away from the depot—and this -was the tramp’s first call. Now—had this fellow “read my number” in -passing on the railroad track? Or, did he read the sign at my home? It -was said in the old days that tramps had a way of marking the favorable -houses. My wife never let an applicant go away without something, little -or much, to allay his hunger. - -I shall drop back a few years now and expand a bit on the trials and -tribulations of my wife’s family—before she was my wife, understand. -Married at the age of sixteen, and left a widow at the age of -thirty-three, with little more than the home and a houseful of kids—all -girls, at that — Kate Mercer found herself in a highly discouraging -predicament. Deprived of the bread-winner, the almost new five-room -house on an acre of ground down by the creek, on the “wrong side of the -tracks,” could now hardly be called a home. It had been ideally situated -for the husband and father, who had been section foreman here for eight -years. - -There was no county welfare aid here then, as there is now. There was, -however, in practice at that time the “good neighbor helping hand.” -It consisted of raising a temporary fund by the circulation of a -subscription paper. But when such a course was proposed by sympathetic -neighbors, Mrs. Mercer, strongly backed up by her oldest daughter, -declined to permit that. They would try somehow to get along without -charity. They would go out and work. Thus, an up-hill drag was in store -for them. - -Myrtle finished her schooling in May—though she said that with the -readjustment problem confronting the family, and consequent worries, she -feared she had made a rather poor job of it. Then she went out to work -as domestic, or maid—just plain “hired girl” it was termed then. She -worked two weeks in the home of the aristocratic Augusta Ann DeForest -during the illness of Miss Mary Randall, the regular long-time maid. -Myrtle said she could not have wished for a more congenial place to -work. She dined with the family, notwithstanding the traditional rumors -which said that such breaches of table etiquette were not tolerated in -that home. And she said Mr. Henry, whom gossip claimed never even got to -see the other cooks, was especially considerate, and told her not to try -to overdo. That would be Mr. Henry, all right. - -Myrtle worked for the eccentric Mrs. Draper, who was the mother-in-law -of Charley DeForest. And she worked for Mrs. R. A. DeForest—and as -chambermaid at the Wetmore hotel while her mother was the cook there. -Of all her domestic “positions” Myrtle said she felt more at ease, and -liked best to work for Linnie (Mrs. R. A.) DeForest. Linnie was the -sister of the gracious Alice McVay, mentioned in another article. And -Linnie was the mother of Harold DeForest, now living on a farm two miles -northeast of Wetmore. - -Myrtle worked five weeks that first year for a young married couple -who had come down from Granada to set up housekeeping in Wetmore with -scarcely more than their love to go on. She quit them before the man -had accumulated the money to pay her. The loss was only ten dollars, she -said—but ten dollars would have been something toward keeping the family -together. Myrtle said, “There ought to be a law preventing people from -marrying before they are financially prepared for it.” - -That was a statement worthy of a philosopher. - -In the early winter of that first year the family went back to Illinois, -the home of Mrs. Mercer’s people. Again Myrtle worked out at her -enforced occupation as “hired girl.” Jennie, the second girl, went -temporarily to an aunt, Mrs. Esther Noble—her father’s sister—in -Bloomington. Georgia stayed with her aunt, Mrs. Henry Ham, in Bureau -Junction. Kathy and Jessie remained with their mother in the home of -Mrs. Mercer’s father, John Leonard, in Bureau—which railroad town was -the home of the Mercers before they came to Kansas. They were all back -in Wetmore within a few years. - -James F. Noyes, a well-to-do retired farmer, living in Wetmore, adopted -Georgia. He and his wife Jennie could — and did — give her a good -home. But after the novelty of the new life for the child had worn off, -Georgia would “run away”—and go back home. The several occasions when -she did this, made sorrowful times for the family. When matters became -really serious, Georgia’s foster parents took her on an extended trip to -visit Mrs. Noyes’ brother, George Scott, in Oregon, hoping to cure her -of her homesickness. Georgia married Don Cole and reared a family of two -boys and three girls in the Noyes home. She never lost contact with all -members of her mother’s family. - -Then there was an opportunity to have another of the girls adopted into -a childless home. I don’t think the matter was considered seriously -— not favorably, anyhow — but Myrtle said she “Threw a fit.” No more -adoptions, if she could help it. She’d just “bedarned” if anyone could -have Jessie, the baby. So it came to pass that she got the care of -Jessie herself—after her mother had married John Hall, and gone to live -on a farm one mile west of Powhattan. - -Mr. Hall’s first wife, and mother of his four children, had stayed -several months in Mrs. Mercer’s home while taking treatments of Dr. -Haigh for the chronic ailment which caused her death. He had come -over weekly to pay the bills. And he therefore knew just where to find -himself another wife—provided. - -Graduate Wetmore Public Schools—Class 1899. - -image8 - -No, Girls—It’s not her Graduation Dress. - -Artist’s Idea—1904. - -Mother of Virginia, Ruth, John, and Betty. - -The deliberating period was another trying time for the girls — but -after thorough consideration, mother and daughters were in complete -agreement. It would perhaps be best for all of them, especially for the -overburdened mother. And it was really good for all of them—the Halls -included. - -The Mercer girls all finished their schooling in Wetmore. The two -younger girls could have gone with their mother—it was so arranged—but -they preferred to remain in Wetmore, most of the time. Jennie was -offered the chance to work for her keep in Conductor Carlin’s home in -Atchison, while taking a course in the Atchison Business College. She -soon switched to the home of her uncle Stewart Mercer (a tailor) and his -wife Mina, to act as baby sitter for little Esther, their first born. -The Spectator, by virtue of some timely solicitation by Jennie’s older -sister, and an advertising contract, contributed the tuition fee. Then -Jennie went to work for a grain commission company in the Kansas City -Board of Trade building. She worked in that one building as secretary -and bookkeeper for different grain firms for the remainder of her -life—more than thirty-five years. She never married. - -Not that Jennie never had the chance. She turned down Danny Cromwell, -a Kansas City boy, after he had secured the license. His sister Kate, a -true friend and a very sensible girl, told Jennie that he had nothing, -that he was sickly, without prospects—and that she would do well to sack -him. - -Then, too, Jennie had prospects of marrying her boss. But, after years -of happy anticipation — you could see it written all over both their -faces when they spent a vacation week with her relatives in Wetmore—it -developed that this romance also was fraught with intolerable aspects. -Her Romeo lived with, and was the sole support of an aristocratic mother -who was allergic to working girls. Oh, those aristocratic mothers! -A wise Nineteenth Century girl needed no advice. What think you a -Twentieth Century girl would have done? - -Jennie was helpful in securing positions in Kansas City for her younger -sisters. Kathy worked as cashier and bookkeeper for the B. F. Coombs -Produce Company down by the market, at Fifth and Main. She married -Luther P. Hyre — and reared a family of three girls and one boy, in -Kansas City. - -I think Kathy was the only one of the girls to inherit in a high degree -her mother’s Irish wit. I don’t care if she was my mother-in-law, Kate -Leonard - Mercer - Hall was a witty woman. And what’s more, I never -could understand the why of so much criticism of the mother-in-law. - -Also, little Virginia Hyre, Kathy’s first born, was a bright kid. Note -this. Percy Worthy had gone to the farm with me to get a load of -posts. Little Virginia, my wife’s short three-year-old niece, tiny and -talkative, was taken along. The posts were in a small depression on the -edge of a cornfield. I lifted the little girl out of the wagon and stood -her on higher ground. She remained quiet while we loaded the posts. -When Percy started to pull out, the front wheels of the wagon hit soft -ground, sinking to the hubs, stalling his big bay team. He lashed the -horses—mildly of course—and yelled fearsome notes of encouragement. -Virginia set up a howl—screamed as if the lashes and frightening words -were falling on her little tender person. Percy climbed down off the -wagon to investigate. Virginia stopped her howling and said with broken -sobs, puncturing each word with her little right hand swinging up -and down, “I know what’s the matter, Uncle John. -You-just-got-too-many-posts!” - -And again, nearly a year earlier, after the child had spent a month in -our home, Virginia’s mother had come out from Kansas City to take her -baby home. At the last minute, when they were seated in the passenger -coach, Virginia decided she did not want to leave us, and she tearfully -argued the matter with her mother—to no avail. As the train started to -move the little girl, tiny and tearful, standing up in the seat, thrust -her head and outstretched arms out an open window, and sobbed, “Uncle -John, don’t you want me?” That did something to me. The fact was, we -did want her. And I could have made the flying catch all right—but her -wardrobe would have gone on to Kansas City. Virginia came back to our -home, later, and started to school here, but she “fell out” with her -teacher—and was carted back to Kansas City again. “I just don’t like -Miss Peters” is all we could get her to say. Miss Myra Peters was the -primary teacher who had for many years been adored by the little tots. - -After a brief spell as Kathy’s assistant with the Coombs Company, -Jessie came back to try country life again. She married Will Hall, her -step-father’s son. One time when Myrtle and I were visiting the Halls -they took us to a Masonic program and supper in Powhattan. I was sitting -with Mr. Hall when a friend of his from Hiawatha asked, “Who is that -pretty girl in red over there with your son?” Mr. Hall said, drolly—he -was a slow talker when he wanted to be impressive—”Well, she is my -wife’s daughter; and my son’s wife.” The friend looked puzzled for a few -seconds, then said, “I get it.” - -I shall now have to drop back once more. At this time Myrtle Mercer was -working in my printing office, and she and Jessie were living in the -home place down by the creek. My brother Theodore and his wife Mattie, -living on my Bancroft farm, had given Myrtle a Great Dane puppy. It grew -into a very large dog. With Vic as protector, the girls felt secure in -their rather isolated home between the timber and the tracks. Hoboes -were numerous along the railroad in those days. The girls were not -bothered by tramps, with Vic around. - -Historically noted, the pup’s mother, aided by a visiting male dog of -like breed from over near Hiawatha, had got herself in bad repute by -taking down a stray cow that had come into the front yard where the -tender spring grass made better pickings than were obtainable on the -roadside. After being poorly wintered, roadside pickings were the cow’s -only chance for sustenance. The cow was the property of a roving family -consisting of father, mother, and five kids, that had wintered in the -Jake Brian farm house a half mile away. The cow was trespassing, of -course—but there were the kids to be considered. My brother paid the man -for the cow. He already had possession of her. She was still down in his -front yard. But in time, she got up—and was driven with other stock six -miles to Uncle Bill Porter’s pasture for a summer’s outing. She never -got back. - -When the pup was brought to town, the record of the old dogs -followed—and as he grew to be a monstrous dog he was feared by some -people who knew him only by his breeding. Then the town got a mad-dog -scare. Vic was reportedly seen fighting with the suspected mad-dog -down in the lower part of town—on “Smoky Row.” The informer recanted -later—but that did not help matters after Vic had been killed by order -of the City Marshal. I think the dog’s overly-advertised ancestry had -marked him for annihilation. Thus, “the sins of the parents were visited -upon the son” to the extent of needless distrust. - -Vic was a good dog. - -Myrtle said she couldn’t believe her dog was seen fighting with another -dog on the town-side of the tracks, as he was never known to leave the -home alone. But she felt that it was best to be on the safe side. And -then too an order was an order. She wished that it had come a week -earlier, so as to have saved her the dollar tax she had paid the City -Marshal for the privilege of keeping Vic another year. It was a tragedy -that the girls’ watchdog was to be killed because of that false alarm. - -Here I will put in a word on my own hook. I knew Ed Lazelere had stuck -the pup headfirst into a rubber boot and given him a treatment designed -to keep the dog at home. It really worked. In his mature years Vic was -never known to leave the premises alone, and seldom with either of the -girls. His one mistake in his puppy days was when he followed Myrtle, -unbidden, to the Lazelere home. - -Frosty Shuemaker was detailed to do the shooting. I went along to help -get the dog away from the house. Vic was in the back yard in the shade -of an apple tree. He wouldn’t budge for us. Myrtle came to the back -door, and said she would have Jessie lead him over to the creek bank -west of the house. Frosty and I went around to the front of the house, -and then west on the outside of the yard fence to where there was an -opening in the enclosure. - -Jessie and the dog came running. Vic stopped broadside opposite the -opening, and was knocked down with a single charge from Frosty’s -double-barreled shotgun—when Jessie was halfway back to the house. She -did not look back. She held in until the booming report of the shotgun — -then let out a terrific squawk. We dragged the dead dog outside the -yard fence and left it in a weed patch. Vic was now the City’s dog. The -Marshal would get a dollar for burying him. - -Back at the house Myrtle, red-eyed and sorrowful, asked me what had -become of Jessie? I found the kid in a patch of marijuana over by the -east line of the grounds, lying face down—crying her heart out. And I -think I dropped a few tears, too. You know, there are times when you -can’t fight them back. - -COMPLIMENTARY TO THE “KIDS” Here, I wish to pay my respects to the -“Kids” — all “Kids.” And especially the children born of parents living -in my home—separate apartment—with whom I have had close and pleasant -association. - -Complimentary to MY LITTLE PAL - -image1 - -Also, I was brought up with kids—ten in my father’s family; eight of -them younger than me; all boys but the last one. And then, too, after -my marriage, the wife’s nieces, Josephine, Donna, and Lucile Cole; -Virginia, Ruth, and Betty Hyre; and Mary Jane Hall, were in turn very -much in our home—which, altogether, has instilled in me a profound -respect for the kids. Girls preferred. - -Cloy spent the first five years of her life in my home—separate -apartment. When she was about one year old, I often carried her down -town and got her an ice cream cone. She was just beginning to walk, that -awkward period when a child has to spraddle and step fast to hold its -equilibrium. At times when she would be with her mother on the settee -at the north end of the 22-foot front porch when I might choose to come -around from my apartment to the south end, she would make known to her -mother her desire to be put down on the floor, and she would come cooing -with outstretched arms for me to pick her up. And while she could not -talk, her mind was, I’m sure, on a cone somewhere down town. I never -aimed to disappoint her — but one time when I had been working in my -Rose Garden and was plenty tired, I tried to talk her out of it, put her -off. She could not understand all I was saying, of course—but she caught -the general idea all right. Never again did she come a-cooing to me with -outstretched arms. This is not to say we did not get more cones. - - -When Cloy was about four years old, she had a line-up for me to -participate in a social activity of the family. I said, “No, Cloy, I -couldn’t do that—I don’t belong. She said, “Well, gee—you’re one of us, -ain’t you?” - - - -image5 - -When hardly five years old, Cloy found me, at night, standing on the old -National Bank corner. She asked me if I would give her a nickel—said she -had one nickel, and wanted to buy a 10-cent lipstick at the Wells store -for her mother. I said, “Cloy, your mother does not use lipstick.” “Oh -yes she does,” said Cloy, “the kind that don’t show.” I did not have a -nickel, and offered to go with her to the Wells store. She said, “Can’t -you get the change at the drugstore?” I said, “Come along, I’ll get -it for you,” and headed for the restaurant operated by her father and -mother and her aunt Genevieve Weaver. As we were passing the drugstore, -she said, “Get it in here.” I said, “No, let’s go to the restaurant.” -She said, “Well, bring it to me here”—and she sat down on a bench. -When I gave her the nickel, she skipped across the street to the Wells -store—and I went back to the restaurant. In a little while she came in -with her purchase, grinning. She opened it, and proceeded at once to -paint her fingernails right before her parents, still grinning. Nellie -said Cloy had “deviled” them for that extra nickel to get the nail -polish — and that they had turned her down. It was plain then why she -had said to me, “I knowed durn shore if I’d find you, I’d get it.” - -I could keep on writing about this kid until the “cows come home”—but I -won’t. This paragraph shall suffice. We were coming up from town, hand -in hand, when Cloy, fairly bubbling over with good cheer, said to me, -“You never did let me see in your rooms.” I said, “Well, come in now -and take a good look.” When inside, she said, “Gee, it stinks in here.” -Defendant pleads nolo contendere. - -These two fine little youngsters have been in my home—separate -apartment—since time began for them. And I’ve instilled in their heads -the ice cream cone habit. Their mother has told them that they must -not ask for the cones—but together we’ve worked out a way around that. -Whenever I meet Karen, bright-eyed and smiling, in my path, I say to -her, “Well, go in and tell your mother.” I never know how she gets it -over to Marjorie—but we are always off at once, usually with a mighty -active little trailer not far behind. When brought into my presence in -the yard, before she could talk, Karen, doubtless thinking of a cone, -would point the way down town and then run ahead for about a rod. When -this did not bring the desired results, she would take me by the hand -and lead the way, humming like a contented kitten sometimes purrs. - -When hardly three years old, Karen’s mother sent her, with an older -little girl from across the street, on an errand down to Hart’s store. -They both “fetched up” at the restaurant where I get my meals. They -found me “in” — but Karen, in the lead, did not give me so much as a -single look. They marched on past me, climbed — with much effort — onto -the counter stools. Charlie Shaffer asked them a couple of times what -they wanted — but they just stared. Charlie then glanced over toward me, -laughing, which was equivalent to saying, “You take ‘em, ” and then I -had gotten over my laughing spell, I called Karen over to me, and asked -her if they would like cones. - -Her little head went up and down a couple of times. They got their -cones, and went out pleased. And I was pleased, too. When the annual -Wetmore Fair was in progress I found Karen, slightly more than four -years old, sitting primly on a bench among strangers at the down-town -end of the block on which we lived, and I sat down by her. She proudly -told me she had on a new dress — a little yellow creation—which I -later suspected she had been told to keep clean. I told her she looked -nice—and this she accepted with true womanly grace. - -It also developed that she had been permitted to go thus far only in -advance, to await the coming of her mother and Harry—but she did not -take the trouble to tell me this. I asked her to go with me to the -drugstore for cones. She hesitated a moment as if she were remembering -something—and then declined to go, but she said, “I thank you for asking -me.” - -On my return from the post office, I observed the little yellow dress -was still on the bench—and, as Karen had been so nice about it, I -stepped into the drugstore and bought a couple of cones, aiming to -pick her up on my way home. Then, too late, I realized my mistake. The -children saw me with the cones as they turned the corner with their -mother enroute to the program on the Fair grounds in the next block. -With apologies, I gave the cones to Marjorie, thinking to make her -jointly responsible for messing up her children. - -Well, the next day when we were getting cones at the drugstore, I asked -Karen if she had gotten her new dress soiled with the cone last evening. -Karen laughed—and said, “You know something. Daddy and mamma ate the -cones—but mamma gave me one bite.” I did not hear from Harry on this -score, but assumed matters had been properly taken care of. The moral -is: Never give a kid a messy treat after mama has cleaned it up for -public appearance. - -ANOTHER BRIGHT LITTLE STAR The little Fresno, California miss was -ushered into my presence. My sister then went back outside to continue -with the watering of her flowers. Standing off at a reasonable distance, -Connie Jean Moser, from across the street at 1010 Ferger, said, “Aunt -Nannie told me to come in and get acquainted with Uncle John.” Attracted -at once by the little visitor’s proud carriage, pleasant expression of -face, and trim little body not burdened with too many clothes, I told -her that for me this should be a real pleasure. - -Little girls, from three to six, in all their innocence, have always -made a hit with me. This is not to say I do not appreciate them when -they are older. But in general they lose a lot when they get smart. -And here now was beauty and apparently innocence at its best. A little -reserved at first, Connie Jean declined my invitation for her to sit -with me on the sofa, where I had been writing on a tab. She climbed into -a chair, twisted, and got settled with her little bare feet sticking -straight out at me. She told me her name, her age, and where She -lived—and that she had a boy friend named David. - -Not wanting to lose an interrupted thought, I picked up the tab and -wrote a few lines. This done, I now found Connie Jean Moser, four years -old, sitting close up by my side, on the sofa. She asked me to read what -I had written. I said, “Oh, Connie, you wouldn’t understand it.” Then -she commanded, peremptorily, “Read it!” I told her I was writing a -book, and if she would promise to read every word of it when she got big -enough that I would send her the book. - -“Oh, a book,” she said, happily, a light breaking in upon her -understanding, “I could take it to school like Oralee.” Oralee Johnson, -ten years old, is Connie Jean’s next door neighbor. I told Connie that -Oralee, when four years old, had paid me several rather affectionate -visits when I was in Fresno six years ago—but Oralee was getting too big -for that now. - -“Yes,” she said, “Oralee is big. ” - -Connie Jean squirmed and twisted on the sofa, as children will, causing -the straps sustaining her little sun-suit to slip off her shoulders, -annoying her to the point of alarm. I said, “Don’t let the straps bother -you, Connie—you will not lose your suit.” She smiled, and her blue eyes -opened wide. “If I would lose ‘em,” she said, “it would be too bad—got -nothing under ‘em.” - -A very good man once said, “Suffer little children to come unto me.” - -LLEWELLYN CASTLE Published in Wetmore Spectator—Seneca Courier- -Tribune—Goff Advance—Topeka Daily Capital—October, 1931 - -By John T. Bristow - -A half century ago England got rid of some of her surplus inhabitants -by sending them over to this country to “root hog, or die” as the old -saying is. They drifted in here “like lost leaves from the annals of -men.” Colonies were planted in numerous sections of Kansas. Nemaha -County, with her great sweep of vacant rolling prairies, inviting, -snared one of those colonies. - -The settlement known as the old English colony was on section -twenty-five, in Harrison township, five miles northwest of Wetmore. The -section was purchased from the Union Pacific railroad company by the -Co-operative Colonization Company, of London, about 1870. - -The London Colonization Company had about six hundred members. They drew -lots to determine who would be the lucky—or unlucky—ones to come over -first, expenses paid. - -John Fuller, John Mollineaux, George Dutch, John Radford, Charles -McCarthy and John Stowell were the original six to enter upon the duties -of conquering this land—virgin wild land it was. Except John Stowell, -all these men had families, but they did not all bring their families -over at first. - -An eight-room house was built in the middle of the section and all -managed to live in it for a while. It was called Llewellyn Castle. -Later, lean-tos were built on two sides of the big house, and finally, -some smaller buildings were erected around the original house. The men -were supplied, meagerly, with funds to equip the farm. - -The idea of the Company at first was to make a town in the center of the -section, and cut the land up into 10-acre tracts. They seemed to think -that ten acres would make a respectable sized farm. The town of Goff, -a mile and a half away, got started and the Colony town project was -abandoned. Also the 10-acre farm plan was changed to forty acres. The -lumber for the improvements was unloaded at old Sother, a siding on -the railroad a mile and a half south of the Colony section. There was a -postoffice at old Sother. Nothing else. Not even a station agent. - -Later arrivals of the Colonists included the Wessels, Beebys, Perrys, -Coxes, Ashtons, Trents, McConwells, G ates, Morden, Hill, May, Conover, -Weston, Helsby, Weeks, Mrs. Terbit, and others. Still later, other -members of the Colonization Company come over after the local Company -had ceased to exist –gone bankrupt, it was charged, because of the -extravagant management of the non-producing misfits sent over here to -start operations. At this late date it could not be ascertained just what -was the text of the contracts between the parent company and the -members sent over here. But the impression is that if all had gone well -additional lands would have been acquired to accommodate other members. -The members, however, kept on coming regardless of the lack of advance -preparation. - -They scattered out on other lands, mostly around the Colony—usually -40-acre tracts. They were miserably poor. And the privations were many. -Mrs. Terbit, having no mode of conveyance, used to walk all the way in -from the Colony and carry home on her shoulder a 50-pound sack of flour. - -Isaac May settled on the 40-acre tract one mile south of Wetmore, which -is now the home of George W. Gill. May lived in a dug-out. John Stowell -settled on the north eighty of a quarter five miles southwest of -Wetmore—known as the Joe Board place, and still later owned by Charley -Krack. - -George Cox settled the south eighty, which is still in the Cox -family—now owned by George’s son Fred, of Goff. - -The Colony project was a glorious and ignominious failure from the very -first, with romance and intrigue ever in the ascendancy. Those poor -Englishmen were as green as the verdant prairies of springtime that lay -all about them. And the inexorable hand of Fate pressed down on them -heavily. They were besieged by droughts, grasshoppers, prairie fires, -blizzards, rattlesnakes—and, worst of all, an abiding ignorance of all -things American. When Llewellyn Castle was torn down in later years, a -den of rattlesnakes—twenty two in number—was found under the house. - -Tom Fish told me that the snakes were offer heard flopping against the -floor, underneath, while the house was occupied. - -Those poor misfits had not a chance. And it was little short of criminal -to send them over here so empty handed and so illy equipped for the -duties imposed upon them. But they were now all a part of the big, -sun-filled Golden West. And they were too poor to go back. - -Many are the causes advanced for the downfall of the Colony project, but -the one cause on which all seem to be unanimous, more or less, is that -“They were a bunch of rascals.” This is probably an error—or partly so, -at least. - -Internal friction with a very shady but treeless background undoubtedly -played its part. But I would rather suspect that the main cause was -ignorance, or to put it more kindly, a lack of knowledge. Tom Fish, our -faithful mixer of British-American juris-prudence—three times Justice of -the Peace backs me up in this contention. Says Tommy, “They just didn’t -knower anythink about farmin.” Our Tom attended their meetings back in -London at the Newman street-Market street headquarters. - -But whatever the facts, and admitting that there were among the -Colonists no replicas of the man who walked along the Galilean shores -two thousands years ago, still I do not subscribe to the general belief -that those Colonists were all rascals. - -Had they succeeded, handicapped as they were, it would have been a -miracle—and only in ancient history do miracles spring fullblown from -questionable beginnings. A condition soon developed among the Colonists -on section twenty-five where it was “every fellow for himself and may -the devil take the hindmost.” True, there was a lot of poor management -and some shady, if not to say crooked, transactions. And it appears one -man did rather “Lord” it over the others—took the lion’s share of -everything. - -George Cox, a carpenter—they were practically all tradesmen was sent -over to superintend fencing the Colony lands. And, very much to the -merriment of the natives, he did that fencing in the dead of winter, -when the ground was frozen. The postholes he and his countrymen dug that -winter cost the Company one dollar, each. Such frozen assets were, of -course, conducive to the downfall of the Company. - -But George Cox was not the fool that his ice-bound fence would indicate. -The real fault was on the other side of the big pond. The Company sent -Cox over here in midwinter to build a fence. He was without funds. The -larder at Llewellyn Castle was low—distressingly low. And his brother -Englishmen needed immediate succor. There was money for George Cox only -when he worked. And he couldn’t afford to put in all his time that -blizzardy, snowbound winter hanging onto the coat-tail of one of his -brother countrymen while the bunch of them played ring-round-the-stove -in that old Colony house to keep from freezing, as he once told me he -was compelled to do. So, then, what was really wrong with George’s -congealed fence idea? - -Like other Englishmen, after coming here, George Cox had a lot to learn, -of course. He was the complainant in a lawsuit involving the ownership -of a cow. John J. Ingalls was attorney for Theodore Wolfley, the -defendant. The illustrious John J. queried, “What color was your cow, -Mr. Cox?” - -“Bay,” said George. The court laughed, and told Cox to try again. -“Well,” said George, “I ‘ave a bay ‘orse, and my cow’s the same color as -my bay ‘orse.” - -Then, from over the seas, came the jovial Mr. Murray, clothed in -authority and a superabundance of ego—English to the core. He had been -sent over here to make an audit of the Company’s estate. Murray -stopped first at Wetmore and partook freely of Johnny Clifton’s -“alf-and-alf.” He was a free spender and made friends here readily. - -In pursuance of his duties, Mr. Murray said to those Colony delinquents, -“Wots the jolly old idea of all this reticence? Hits most happallin! I -want to see the books, by-jove.” One of those derelicts exclaimed with a -little more mirth than was becoming, “I-si, just listen to ‘im, fellow! -Wants to see the books, ‘e does! That’s rich! Si, mister we don’t keep -henny books!” - -Then in unison they shot words at Mr. Murray which were the same as -“You get the hell out of here.” Murray demurred, and not having read the -storm signals quite right, he bellowed, “Ave a care! Want that I should -report you for this hincolence? Hits very hunwise for you to hact this -wy!” - -But when the old shotgun was brought out from its hiding place an awful -doubt of his own wisdom assailed the jovial Mr. Murray. Those true sons -of Briton actually chased the auditor away with a shotgun. - -In employing the hit-and-miss English words here I am relaying them to -you as best I can from memory as I caught them from one, maybe two, of -the original six, many, many years ago. The quoted words are not my own. -If you could have known the men and could apply either the Stowell or -Radford pronunciation and accent you would improve it a lot. And don’t -forget to speed up a little. - -There are now few of the old-time typical English with us. And the -language of those who came over a long time ago has become Americanized -to such extent that the younger generation here have no conception of -just how delightfully funny was the talk of a fresh Englishman. However, -some of those who came over as children and Even some of the American -born who had good tutors retain a percentage Of the pronunciation, but -the inflection and speed which characterized their ancestors have been -lost. - -After the collapse of the Colony enterprise the unallotted part of -section twenty-five fell into the hands of Captain Wilson, of London. - -He was an officer in the Company. Later, Captain Wilson’s interest was -acquired by William Fish, also of London, and a member of the Company. -In England William Fish was superintendent of the Great Northern -railroad. He came over here in 1881. He was a pensioner, and did not -renounce his allegiance to the Crown. - -Captain Wilson thought a lot of the Colony scheme. He was to have given -his fortune at death to the first male child born on the Colony section. -That honor fell to Alfred Wilson Mollineaux, first son of John -Mollineaux, born 1874. While conversing with Alfred Mollineaux a few -days ago, he said to me, “But since I didn’t get me ‘eritage I’ve -dropped the Wilson part of it. Wot would be the good to bother -with it now?” - -The Mollineaux heirs are the only descendents of the originals holding -an interest in section twenty-five in recent years. Alfred now owns the -south 80 of the northwest quarter. Harry sold the north 80 two years ago -to Otto Krack. Otto paid $6,000 for it, including the growing crop. The -old house on the place, built more than a half century ago, is the -original John Mollineaux home. The other lands in the section have long -since passed to new owners. - -There are now only two of the old Colonists living. William Wessel, -familiarly called “Teddy,” came over in 1873. He is 89, and lives with -his daughter, Mrs. John Chase, in Goff. William Conover lives with his -son Edward, on a farm adjacent to the old Colony section. He is 89. - -I took a drive about the old Colony section a few days ago seeking to -refresh my memory and gather additional data for this article. At Goff I -found Teddy Wessel in the Sourk drug store. Still living over the broken -dreams of the past, Teddy exploded, first-off, “They were a bunch of -damned rascals.” - -In course of the interview I asked Teddy if he knew anything about a -racy romance at Llewellyn Castle many years ago. “I should say I do,” he -said. He had a momentary flash of it. That was all. Then his mind began -to fag. Laboriously, tantalizingly, the tired feelers of his mind went -fumbling into the dark pool of the past, trying desperately to capture -the lost details, but the whole works went under—ebbed away like a -fadeout in a movie. - -George Sourk, who was sitting by and coaching the old fellow a bit, -said, “You’ll have to give daddy a little time, John. He’ll remember it -all right.” - -Daddy swam up out of it all right and sure enough recollections were -upon him with a bang. But the main topic was still submerged and in its -place was an ugly memory that should have been dead long ago. “They were -damned rascals,” is all he said. - -It is assumed that my very fine old friend’s poisoned arrow was aimed -only at the shades of the original six, or, at most, only those who had -the actual management of the Colony affairs. - -Teddy Wessel’s run of hard luck started before he left London. It seems -he bought something—or thought he paid for something—he didn’t get. But -Teddy can thank his stars that there was at least one crooked countryman -in his close circle. Teddy trusted a friend to purchase first-class -passage for himself and family. The friend bought cheaper tickets on a -slower ship, and pocketed the difference. The fast ship passed the -slower one in midocean and was lost, together with all on board, when -one day out from New York. - -A happy—and I believe equitable—solution of the matter would allow -the reader who had a friend or relative among them the privilege of -exempting such one, and thus still leave Teddy some targets for his -arrows. For my own part, I think I should like to exempt that little -nineteen-year-old boy, John Stowell. In later years, after he had come -to Wetmore and engaged in business, I worked for John Stowell in his -lumber yard, and in his brick manufacturing plant, and finally, as -type-setter on his newspaper. He was not a crook. - -I grew up along with those bally English and I think I knew them pretty -well. They were not all rascals. The Colony section was only five miles -away from Wetmore as the crow flies. And as the crow flew then so did -I gallop my mustang along the prairie grass lane while carrying mail -between Wetmore and Seneca, passing Llewellyn Castle on the way. - -There were few fences in the way then. Just prairie grass and wild roses -and more prairie grass. And lots of prairie chickens. I have seen -acres of them at one time on the hillsides in the vicinity of Llewellyn -Castle. - -There was no blue-grass then. And no timber along the route anywhere -until the Nemaha was reached just this side of Seneca, at the old -Hazzard place. - -And later, in 1887, when I was a compositor on T. J. Wolfley’s Seneca -Tribune, and made drives home with Sandy Sterling’s livery team, -practically all of the twenty-six miles of road was still only a winding -trail. - -Willis J. Coburn, the contractor for that Star mail route, went with -me on the first trip. He took me to the home of his old friend, -John Radford, who had then left the Colony and was living on the old -Scrafford place adjoining Seneca on the south. I put up with “Old -Radidad”—as we afterwards called him when he came to live in Wetmore—for -about a month, and while they treated me kindly, I didn’t like their -English ways. - -And when I announced my intentions of throwing up my job Willis Coburn -said I should then put up at the old Fairchild Hotel, which was on a -side street north from the upper end of the main street. It was a stone -building. Besides being immaculately clean, the Fairchilds were related -to the Jay Powers family in Wetmore and that made a bond between us that -held for the duration of my mail carrying activities. There were two -stops on the way—one in the Abbey neighborhood, and one at old Lincoln. - -As compensation for my services as mail-carrier, I was paid fifty cents -each way, up one day and back the next—twice a week. And I was glad -to get that. Our mail-carriers here in Wetmore, covering about equal -distance, with only two hours on the road, draw about seven dollars a -day. - -When Willis Coburn offered me the job I was short of the required age, -sixteen, and I was wondering how I would get by without swearing to a -lie, when our good old postmaster, Alvin McCreery, solved the problem -for me. When he swore me in, he said, “Now, don’t tell me your age.” He -shook his head, negatively, and repeated, “Don’t tell me your age.” - -At the Radford home in Seneca, I learned enough about the old Colony -to make a book, but much of it is now shrouded in a fog of haze. On the -occasion of our first trip, Mr. Radford and Mr. Coburn discussed Colony -matters freely in my presence. It was July, and it was out on the border -of the big orchard which came right up to the back door, under the shade -of an early harvest apple tree, where they sat and talked. - -I have to admit that at the time I was more interested in the golden -fruit hanging on the apple tree than I was in the conversation, but I -got enough of it to know that there would be a good story in it, if I -could but remember more clearly. Mr. Radford’s agile mind ground out -astonishing facts as steadily as a grist mill that afternoon. Whatever -else may be said of John Radford, he was an educated man. And he had a -wonderful sense of humor. - -As I remember it, or partly remember it, the high light of the -afternoon’s conversation—the thing that tickled the men most—was a racy -romance that had budded, bloomed, and died at Llewellyn Castle. The male -participants were of course Wetmore men—one artisan, one professional. -But somewhere along the time-worn trail between that old apple tree and -my present quarters, separated by three and fifty years, the details of -that affair are lost. And like the characters who made it, that romance -has crumbled into dust—is now a part of the past. - -But the phantom of the bally old thing, elusive though as a half-formed -thought awakened by a stray wisp of forgotten fragrance, still hovers -over section twenty-five. And if memory were but a trifle more elastic -I could entertain you with something more than the tattered shreds of -Llewellyn Castle’s most charming romance—a jolly old love-spree staged -and destroyed by the heartless hand of Fate. - -MORE ABOUT THE COLONY FOLK Not Hitherto Published—1947. - -By John T. Bristow - -The Colony folk, men and women, came to Wetmore to do their trading—and -to sip ‘alf-an-’alf, beer and whisky. At that time there was quite a lot -of immigration from England, and Britons were scattered about over the -prairies in all directions—and in general they were all regarded as -Colonists. - -William Cawood, with his two sons, Walter and Prince, came direct to -Wetmore from Scarborough, England, in the spring of 1870. Other members -of the family—George, Charley, Emma, Kate, and their mother—followed in -the fall. - -William Cawood was a large man—a man of means, a man of dignity, ideas, -and mutton-chops. In England he was a contractor and builder—and a -good one, too, it was said. Here, he built his meat-market, and his -residence, his horse stable, his cow barn, and his pig sty, all under -one roof. The structure, founded upon pine studding set in the ground, -was on the alley end of four lots north of Third Street and west of -Kansas Avenue. The boys at school across the street to the east thought -a new telegraph line was coming to town. In later years, wondering if -my memory had served me well, I asked Prince Cawood if it were true that -those studding were set in the ground? He said, “Every one of them.” - -Walter Cawood was a large man like his father. He played an important -part in the making of this story—or rather this incident. An outstanding -episode of the early days was a free-for-all fight on the main street in -Wetmore, with Colonists predominating. It was the year 1870—maybe 1871. -Can’t be sure about the exact time. That brawl is recorded in local -history as “English Boxing Day”—though in England, the day after -Christmas is known as Boxing Day, This one occurred on a muggy summer -day. - -At this time Wetmore’s main street was flanked with three buildings on -the south side, and four on the north side, in blocks one and four—all -well toward the west end. Lush prairie grass still grew on the east -half of those two blocks. A long hitchrack was in the center of the -ungraded street. - -I do not recall what it was that started the fight. Perhaps it was the -old Colony hatred, refreshed by drink. Those Colonists were continually -fussing among themselves. A little fellow with a piping voice—I think -it might have been Bilby—led off by striking a brother Englishman on the -mug. He yelled, “Tike that, you bloody blighter!” They were on the south -side of the street in front of John Clifton’s saloon. The little fellow -started to run away. He dodged under the hitchrack and stumbled in the -street almost in front of my father’s shoeshop on the north side. The -big man who had taken the rap on the face was soon upon the little runt. -Then multitudinous inebriated Englishmen, and at least one German—Bill -Liebig—fell in without waiting for an invitation. - -It was a battle royal—everybody hitting somebody, anybody. Blood and -blasphemous epithets, in awkward delivery, flowed freely. When the -battle had run its course a dozen men, maybe more, were prone upon the -ground. A stocky little woman came out of the saloon and met the bruised -and bleeding aggressor. “Hi ‘opes,” she said, “you’re now sart-isfied—my -cocky little man. Been spoilin’ for a fight this long time.” - -Walter Cawood appeared to be the big shot of that melee. He was young, -powerful, and extremely handy with his fists. Those tipsy brawlers went -down before his punches as if they were babies. Walter was the big shot -in one more unsavory mixup—it really stunk—before going back to his -dear old England to stay. Single handed, he captured a whole family -of half-grown skunks. He brought them home for pets, with the view of -taking them back to England with him. - Walter said, “Aw, blemmy—the -bloody little ones, they -ad been eatin’ on summick quite putrid.” - -The next best skunk collector of that time also was a Britisher. Teddy -Masters, a diminutive Englishman who was farming the Jim Noyes place -over on the county line, with a man named Briggs, chanced to be helping -with the threshing on the John Thornburrow farm, when it rained and -stopped the work. Three of the threshing crew—Irve Hudson, Ice Gentry, -and “Zip” Bean—with Teddy, came to town in a spring wagon. On the way in -they saw a skunk by the roadside. One of the men told Teddy to jump out -and catch it—that skunks made fine pets. He carried the skunk to town in -his hat. Someone told Masters that Dr. John W. Graham would pay well for -that skunk. “Er, rippin’,” said the diminutive Englishman. “A chawnset -to grab a little lunch, rine or shine, eh? Could do myself well wiv a -bob now.” - -Dr. J. W. Graham owned a drugstore on the south side of the street. He -also owned a fine bird-dog named York. They were nearly always together. -With the skunk still in his hat, Teddy found Graham’s door locked. -Someone across the street told him to throw the skunk in at an open -window. He did so. A little later, on entering the store, Dr. John W. -sat himself down to work out some materia medica puzzles, sniffing a -little on the side, while York was nosing about a bit. When the dog -found the object of his search, a rising young physician literally -exploded. - -Teddy did not wait to collect his bob. - -Though John Stowell, the boy member of the original influx of Colonists, -did command me—I was in his employ at the time—to go out on a chicken -foraging expedition one bright moonlight night, neither he nor I was -troubled with conscientious scruples. We were both quite sure that we -would never have to answer to God or man for our actions — I hasten to -say, in this particular instance. - -Also, if Will Gill and Augustus Anderson were here they would tell you -that they not only saw me enter a closed but unlocked chicken house -and come out with six chickens, two at a time, and that they themselves -helped me carry those chickens to the rendezvous where they were to be -roasted — innards, feathers and all. - -In explanation, John Stowell “burned” the brick for his two-story -building across the street from the Worthy lumber office—the present -location of the Catholic recreation hall. The brickyard was on Stowell’s -land south of the creek just west of the town bridge. Old Hagen, an -experienced brick-maker, was brought here to burn brick for the John -Spencer building—with Masonic hall above—on the alley south of second -street, facing on Kansas Avenue; and the Ed Vilott building on the alley -south of the present McDaniel picture show location, also facing on -Kansas Avenue. For these two buildings, Hagen burned two kilns of brick -on the north side of the creek, west from the mineral spring, on the -present Don Cole land. - -My brother Sam and I worked on the Hagen brickyard — and learned a few -tricks. John Stowell said he believed we could do the brick-making -as well as Hagen, and if we were willing to tackle the job he would -“chawnsit.” Sam did the moulding, and I did the off-bearing, carried the -green brick to the drying yard—the same positions we held on the -Hagen yard. Together we set the brick in the kiln for burning. And we -plastered the kiln, top and sides, with mud before starting the fires. - -The material used in both yards was common top-soil mixed with -sand—ground in a horse-propelled mill. Sand for the Hagen yard came from -a pit about where Frank White’s barn-lot is, across the street from his -residence. Sand for the Stowell yard came from a pit on the north -side of the quarter section at the northeast corner of town. It was -a treacherous pit. It caved in one time between loads when I was -hauling—and it frightened me so badly that I drove back empty. And never -again did I go into that pit. - -Incidentally, I may say that it was claimed later a good brick-clay was -found on the John Thomas farm, a half mile east of town. A promoter made -the discovery. He planned to build a brick manufacturing plant at the -point of discovery, and have a railroad spur run out from town—provided, -however, that the town people foot the bill. Also he wanted to sell his -expert knowledge at a ridiculously high figure. When it was pointed out -to him that a couple of “greenhorn” boys had made fairly good brick from -ordinary dirt, without financial sweetening, he gave up the venture. - -At the Stowell yard I had the day shift and Sam headed the night shift -during the burning procedure. For fuel we used old fence rails—mostly. -And it took a lot of them. Rails fed into the five 16-foot fire tunnels -to better advantage than any other wood that could be had. Wherever so -many rails came from I do not recall. Likely from farms whose owners -were making the change over from the old worm-fence to barbed wire, -which came along about that time. Besides the firemen—three to the -12-hour shift — there were always crowds of spectators at the yard, in -the early evenings. - -Stowell was feeling pretty good over the splendid progress we were -making, and he said to me one evening, out loud so that all could hear, -“I think we ought to give the boys a chicken roast tonight.” Then, to -the crowd, “Wot you say, fellows? ‘Ere two of you boys go along with -John and bring back a ‘alf dozen chicks—I command John to go.” - -Will Gill and Gus Anderson fell in with me. The boys named a place in -the north part of town where they thought we might get the chickens -without incurring too much risk of being caught. We were now passing -John Stowell’s home on the corner where Cleve Battin lives. I said, -“Oh, that’s too far. Why not see what Laura (Stowell’s wife) has in -her chicken house here on the alley?” Will Gill said, “Why, this is -Stowell’s place. We ought not steal his chickens. He might recognize -them—and that would spoil all the fun.” - -And, by-golly, those two boys refused to put foot on the Stowell lot—and -I had to do all the dirty work. I couldn’t blame them though, because it -was bright moonlight and the door of the chicken house faced the Stowell -residence only a few rods to the south. But it was, probably, just as -well. They wouldn’t have known where to find the choice chicks, anyway. -And besides, I knew that, let ‘em squawk, Laura and the children were -going to stay put. Back at the yard, the word got around that we had -stolen Stowell’s chickens — and the whole gang broke into a “Chessy-cat” -grin which didn’t come off during the whole evening. Stowell busied -himself with the roasting, without outward signs of recognizing a chick. - -John Stowell was very methodical and punctual in the conduct of his -newspaper. He was reasonable in his demands of his help—and mighty fine -fellow to work for. He often paid me extra when particularly pleased -with our accomplishment. He insisted only that the forms be closed by -six o’clock on press days. We usually printed the paper after supper, so -that Stowell might address the papers for mailing—and then, too, in the -winter, we could get a better print while the office was warm. - -One time Stowell brought a roving printer upstairs to the composing -room, having promised the fellow $5 to show me how to print in two -colors from a solid cut. I told John that I thought I knew how it -was done. He said, “By-jingo, maybe you can learn something, anyway.” -Turning to the two-color man, he said, “Show ‘im, Mister.” But it was I -who did the showing. - -I looked up a cut of our then new frame school house — a carry over from -another ownership—and explained how I had printed the building in -brown, the yard in green, and the sky in blue, with a fleecy white cloud -overhead in the background, all done with three impressions, from the -solid cut. Stowell said, ‘“Ere, Mister, ‘ere’s your five dollars.” The -fellow said, “I think you ought to give this to your printer—he’s gone -me one better in the matter of colors.” Stowell said, “‘Ere John, I’ll -give you $5 too. It’s been worth it to me.” And I said, “I think you -ought to give this one to my brother Sam. He engraved the wood cut, -showed me how to mix colors, and was helpful in figuring out a way to -print it in three colors.” Sam was the artist in our family. Stowell -said, “By-jingo, I’ll give ‘im $5 too. ‘Ow’s our supply of boxwood?” He -had another three-color print in mind. - -At the time of this episode, I had only one helper — Stowell’s -sixteen-year-old daughter, Alice. Alex Hamel and John Kenoyer, part time -type-setters, were not working that week. Alice was that sort of girl -who would do pretty much as she pleased so long as her papa would -stay downstairs and attend strictly to his editorial, and his hardware -business. - -This day Stowell stayed downstairs until the thing happened—then he -rushed from the editorial office on the first floor in front, eighty -feet back to the rear, then up the stairs to the second floor, and back -again eighty feet to the composing room. Alice, who knew her father -better than I did, whispered, “Oh, Lordy, he’s mad as a wet hen. Don’t -give me away, please!” - -John wanted to know, “Oo was it that ‘ad offended little Miss ‘Utch?” -Neither of us had the answer. Coral Hutchison, a frequent and I may say -most welcome caller—preferably on any day but Thursday—and Alice had -put in a couple of hours visiting, as young girls will. And this was -Thursday afternoon, our press day. I asked Alice to speed up her work a -little so that we might make the deadline before six o’clock. It did no -good. I had to speak to Alice a second time, not harshly, however—and -Coral, apparently understanding the situation, left. But when she passed -the editorial office downstairs, Stowell said she was crying. - -After John Stowell had gone downstairs that day, Alice said, “If he asks -you again—and I know he will—tell him what you told me about Coral -after she had been up here last week. That would tickle him, and he will -forget all about her tears.” - -Well, John Stowell did ask me again. He really wanted to know. And I -told him, shielding Alice as much as I could. He said, “I understand. -You did right. Make ‘er pay attention to ‘er work. But I just didn’t -like to see a nice girl like little Miss ‘Utch leaving my place of -business, crying.” - -I squared myself with John by saying—and meaning — that it would be a -grievously short-sighted thing for any young fellow to knowingly offend -“Little Miss ‘Utch. Besides being “some” girl, she would likely some day -be an heiress. But, then, even so, this fact was something less than -a comforting thought to one very fine young local merchant who fancied -himself well entrenched in her future matrimonial plans. When he began -talking about what they could accomplish with her papa’s wealth—she quit -him, cold. - -“Little Miss ‘Utch” was the daughter of Charley Hutchison, but everybody -except Stowell called him “Hutch.” I knew Charley quite intimately for a -dozen years before I learned that his name was really Hutchison. - -What I had told Alice about Coral that day is not in itself worth -repeating here. But it offers a chance to introduce an outstanding -success story—a success in the redemption of waning manhood, as well -as in a financial way. Also, this injection does not strictly belong -in this story — but, in line with my adopted hop, skip, and jump -reminiscing technique, I shall try to make it fit. - -I told Alice that Coral was the only girl who had ever asked me to come -and see her sometime when her papa wasn’t around. And I might say she -was in deadly earnest about this. Her papa would not permit her -to entertain me in the manner she had in mind. It was not that he -disapproved of me. In fact, it was on his invitation that I was in the -presence of the girl at the moment. Also, her papa was at the time just -outside the hearing of the conspirators. - -My brother Charley, Clifford Ashton, and I, were cutting sumac for my -father’s tanyard on the Hutchison land south of the big barn. Charley -Hutchison had followed his four-year-old daughter out to the barn that -day to prevent her from going through her stunt—the thing she wanted me -to witness. Charley saw us in the sumac patch, and came out, bringing -Coral with him. He said he had a big watermelon patch close to the barn, -and invited us to help ourselves to the melons—then, and thereafter -whenever working in the vicinity. He also said he had to watch Coral -closely — that whenever she would get the chance she’d climb up to the -beams in the big barn and jump off into the hay. Hay hands were bringing -in the harvest at that time — and of course the barn was opened up. - -Bees were buzzing around broken melons in the patch, and the little -girl, apparently frightened of them, tried to hide her face against my -legs. Charley said that while they — the father, mother, and child—were -visiting his people in Ohio, after having attended the Centennial (1876) -in Philadelphia, Coral had sat down on a “live” beehive and got stung so -badly as to make her very sick; the swelling in her face almost closing -her eyes. - -Charley Hutchison’s father was a wealthy brewer back in Ohio. Charley -acquired the drink habit. When his family thought they had him shut off -from the liquor supply, he would sneak into the storage cellar, bore a -hole in a whisky barrel, and suck the stuff out through a straw. - -Charley was sent out here, in the hope of curing him of the drink habit. -He was given a section of land on Wolfley creek, three miles northwest -of Wetmore—and supplied with money to improve the land. I think he was -then left wholly on his own. I do not recall ever seeing any of his -people out here. - -Charley Hutchison came here in 1870, and was about 21 years old—a -modest, likeable young man. He spent most of his first year here, in -town. He lived at the Hugh Fortner Hotel—and while rooming there, lost -$500, which he had placed under his pillow. There was no bank here then. - -When Charley loafed downtown—which was much of the time that first -year—he made my father’s shoeshop his headquarters. The shop was on the -north side of the main street, opposite John Clifton’s saloon on the -south side. Charley was really trying to taper off in his drinking, -and seldom entered the saloon. He tried to avoid the amenities of the -drinking gentry. He would sometimes, when alone, take one drink, and -then come across to the shoeshop. - -Though not a relative of ours, John Clifton was the step-son of my Uncle -Nick Bristow, and he often dropped in at the shoeshop. My mother worked -with my father in the shop. She asked John Clifton to not encourage -Charley in his drinking. Clifton said “Hutch” was really doing fine, and -that he would help the boy all that he could. - -Then a girl came down from the prairie country in the neighborhood of -what is now Goff—”Pucker Brush” it was called then—to work in Peter -Shuemaker’s new hotel. Anna Mackey was a nice looking girl—too nice -looking, Charley said, to go out with the landlord’s “drunken” son. It -really worried Charley. He said one day, “I believe I’ll try to stop -it.” He did. He married Anna. And never again did he take a drink. My -mother and Clifton both took credit for helping him over the hump. But I -suspect it was the girl from the prairie country who had transformed him -short off into an abstainer. - -Charley Hutchison was the only one of several whom I knew that were sent -out here from the east, when this country was new, for a like purpose, -that made good. There was no finer man than Charley Hutchison—a -conscientious, upright Christian gentleman. Compared to “Jersey” -Campbell, a New Jersey drinking boy, located on the best half section of -land south of Goff, Charley Hutchison’s performance was phenomenal. -But then, maybe there never was an “Anna” in Jersey’s life. Charley -Hutchison sold his land to Fred Shumaker, and moved to Wetmore in the -early eighties. He built the home now owned by Mrs. James Grubb. - -Let me say here that Alice Stowell was an attentive little type-setter -when she worked for me after I had bought The Spectator—and that Coral -Hutchison still was a frequent and most welcome caller. Also, they had -learned that it was important that visitors be seen and not heard on -press days. Coral continued her visits to the office long after Alice -Stowell had married Marsh Younkman, and moved to Tulsa, Oklahoma—and -after Myrtle Mercer had taken Alice’s place in the printing office. -Coral seemed to like the smell of printer’s ink—and she continued her -regular visits long after she married Charley Locknane. - -While still quite young, Coral Hutchison was the town’s top pianist and -singer, a distinction she held throughout the years against all comers. -She even competed favorably, in song, with the girls from the Colony, -whose reputation as singers was widespread. The younger generation of -Colonists were superb entertainers, anxious at all times to compete -against or team up with the young people from town, at their lyceums -held in the Wolfley school house. Wetmore had a “literary” society, -which gave entertainments, usually charging twenty-five cents -admission—while the Colonists always gave their shows for free. - -Then, the time came when they combined in one big show, an epochal -achievement, at Wetmore—drawing two of the cast from the Colony. Ted -Fish was a specialty man, singing comical songs. His favorite rendition -had to do with the loan of a friend’s girl, the refrain running, “Hand -‘e wounted me to tike ‘is plice and do the best I cooud.” I’d heard him -sing it several times before at their lyceums. Coral Hutchison was also -a specialty singer—on a much higher and more pleasing musical plane, -however. John Stowell, long removed from the Colony, blacked his face, -rattled the bones—and played the concertina. - -Bill Dutch, of the Colony, was leading man — and a mighty good one too. -Our own Miss Jane Thomas was leading lady—equally good. The play was -a “heavy” drama. I might say the whole cast except myself, was -exceptionally good. As to my own part, you shall be the judge. It was -not a speaking part. Months before this, I had blundered in a speaking -part on the stage—carelessly called a word what, by all the ethics -of decency, it should not have been called. It provoked uproarious -laughter—at my expense. And on a subsequent appearance upon the literary -stage I drew a concerted giggle before I even had time to open my mouth. -It completely unnerved me—for all time. I was so “befuddled” that I -couldn’t say a word, and I didn’t have the gumption to graciously bow -myself off the stage. I bolted off. And that’s how I became a writer. -It’s safest, anyhow. - -When you blunder, you can always—if smart enough to detect it—scratch it -out. But spoken words, once said, can never be recalled. - -The director, “Lord” Richard Bingham, was an Englishman — not related, -and unknown to the Colonists—who had dropped in here from, nobody knew -where, or why. He seemed to have a perpetual thirst for strong drink—and -the money with which to provide it. He was a remittance man — which is -to say he was a scion of a wealthy old country family, sent over here on -a monthly allowance, as riddance of a costly nuisance. - -Director Bingham was apparently well educated, did not talk the -“Cockney” language of the Colonists — and had some dramatic ability. He -directed this home-talent show without pay—and did a pretty good job -of it. All he asked was a “little more McBriar,” his favorite brand -of whisky. And after he had “steamed up” on a generous quantity of the -nameless stuff from the local “speak-easy”—licensed saloons were out -here then—anything and everything was “good old McBriar.” - -The show went over so well in Wetmore that the management decided to -repeat it at Capioma—and maybe go on the road with it. But, in the nick -of time, it was recalled that Henry Clinkenbeard, our photographer—or -rather our taker of daguerreotypes—had sponsored an all home-talent -minstrel show which also had gone over big here, but when tried out on -the road, proved a financial failure—and the road idea was written off. - -All due to an outburst of alcoholic conviviality, Mr. Bingham saluted -Miss Jane on the takeoff for Capioma, assuring her that she would not -fail to “knock ‘em cold.” He did not go with the show. The management -willed that he remain in Wetmore where he could have ready access to -Charley McCarthy’s “blind-tiger” and enjoy to the full “a little more” -of his favorite “McBriar.” - -The day of our Capioma appearance was cold. There was bright sunshine, -with a foot of snow on the ground. The whole cast—including Henry -Clinkenbeard and his brass band—went in several lumber wagons, arriving -in Capioma in time for supper at the Van Brunt farm home. I believe his -name was Jerry. Anyway, he was the father of Tunis and Teeny. The show -was held in the hall over the Van Pelt store, in town, diagonally across -the road west from the Van Brunt farm home. - -I was taken along as assistant property man — and doubled in brass -(b-flat cornet)—but the cramped space for stage and dressing rooms in -the rather small Van Pelt hall developed a better spot for me. I was -made the custodian of the leading lady’s train—carried it in my two -hands just so from dressing room around sharp turns to the stage, and -paid out its many folds, at entrance, in a manner to avoid entanglement. - -The twelve mile ride in open wagon, with bright sunshine bearing down on -the reflecting white snow, had done things to the girls’ faces. However, -the wise ones had fetched along cosmetics to make themselves presentable -— but our leading lady said she never had, and by the eternal bonds of -respectability, she never would use make-up. Although conceded to be the -privilege of stage-women, nice girls didn’t paint their faces in that -period. And although our Jane did eventually make Hollywood, I suspect -the day never came when she would use make-up. - -Though a native of Wales, with maybe a dozen years in this country at -that time, Jane Thomas did not retain, markedly, the old country manner -of speech. She was endowed with a delightful little twist, all her -own—that is, something apart from that of other members of her family, -which was neither Welsh nor pure English. Jane was a pretty girl. Her -slight elegant body, draped in silk with something like six feet of the -train trailing in the wake as she moved majestically across the stage, -gave her a queenly quality. And she still looked lovely despite her -shiny nose. She was, or rather had been before his demise, my brother -Charley’s girl. - -HAPPY DAZE Published in Wetmore Spectator and - -Seneca Courier-Tribune — October 11, 1935 - -By John T. Bristow - -In glancing over the current issue of The Courier-Tribune I notice that -the good citizens of Seneca are putting on a Biblical show this week. -That’s fine. Whenever I hear of home talent aspiring to portray those -ancient characters on the stage I become interested right away. It -recalls to mind the time when I myself was, briefly, in the cast of a -local entertainment of that sort held in the old school house here in -Wetmore many, many years ago. - -It was a show the likes of which Wetmore had never had before, nor -since—a show that stands out in memory as the one classic of the times—a -show that rocked the whole countryside, rocked it with near volcanic -convulsions. - -Considering the extraordinary performers and the conduct of an audience -which ran wild, this little review is not offered as something worthy -of emulation. Nor is it to be construed as criticism. Rather, it -is something to be contrasted with the newer interpretations and -renditions, something to be compared with present-day reactions as -against old-time unbridled responses. - -As aforesaid, with other local talent—grownups, and some lesser lights, -including an injection of members of “that tanyard gang”—I was cast -for a minor part in that show. To give you the right slant on this last -mentioned group of my theatrical co-workers, I should say here that my -father operated a tannery in the old days, and “the gang” — frequenters -of the yard—included just about all the happy-go-lucky youth of -the town, vividly alive, and callow. Collectively, we made quite a -record—something short of enviable, it now pains me to relate. - -It was my dear old Sunday School superintendent who had selected me for -one of her characters in this Biblical show. I had been marvelous—so -she said—in her Sunday School, committing and reciting as many as twenty -Bible verses on a Sunday morning, for which I would sometimes be given a -little up-lift card. She said that my good work in her Sunday School -was guarantee enough for her that I would handle the part assigned me -creditably. I would not need to attend rehearsals. All that I should do -was to have my good mother make for me a heterogeneous coat according -to specifications. She would instruct me at the last minute so that I -wouldn’t forget. - -I was to take the part of Joseph—Joseph, the boy. And, although a -bit irregular, and I might say diabolically devised, to save the -stage-carpenter the trouble of making a pit to cast me into, one of my -Hebrew brothers—I think it would have been Judah, who, off stage, was -a big Swede — was to have batted me on the “bean” so that I couldn’t -protest when he and my other naughty brothers would sell me to the -Egyptians, and thus banish me to the Land of Bondage. I wouldn’t need to -rehearse? Oh, no, of course not! And as it turned out I didn’t perform, -either. - -The show was going strong. The audience applauded and yelled itself -hoarse. After a particularly exciting scene, Rolland Van Amburg, the -town clown, jumped up from his seat and yelled, “It’s the best thing -Wetmore ever had—I’ve had my money’s worth already! Come and get another -quarter!” Van was ably assisted in this demonstration by one William -Morris, leading merchant. - -The sponsoring lady was in high glee—happy daze. She said to her -puppets, “It’s taking! Oh, dear children, we must give them this one -again!” She flitted about from one to another, saying, “Oh, girls, -please do hurry!” - -The scene which had so excited Van was a tableau draped in naught but -thin mosquito bar and set off by the best soft mellowing light effect -that could be had with the oil-burning lamps, depicting some -Biblical event with strictly private and as time goes quite modern -interpretations. Embroidered beyond the original concept, it exhibited -in silhouette some of Wetmore’s fairest damsels—some who will read -this and blush—in an amazing state of dishabille. I should like to—and -probably will—hear from Montana and Idaho, and even faraway Hollywood, -on this statement. - -A wag in the audience who was not man enough to show himself, like Van, -yelled, “Take down the bars!” The audience roared! The sponsoring lady -beamed! Things got to going so good for the director that she began -pulling surprises on the performers. Wholly without warning, she ordered -Clifford Ashton to take off his shirt. That young Englishman, ever -obliging and obedient, had about completed the job when Dr. Thomas -Milam cried out in his most dramatic voice, “Put that shirt back on, you -idiot!” - - -The woman, who was my Sunday School superintendent, overhearing the -Doctor’s remark, forthwith gave another curt command: “Off with that -shirt, Clifford—off with that shirt!” The voice carried, full and -resonant, through the calico partitions to the rear of the auditorium. -That command became a phrase which was hurled at Clifford as long as he -lived here. He is now in Seattle, Washington. - -As already stated, I was to have taken the part of Joseph. I had a sort -of vague idea that my beautiful coat of variegated hues was to have been -torn from my person by my brothers to show to my old man as evidence of -a lie they were going to tell him. And not knowing what turn of mind the -now deliriously happy director would take next, I beat it—went outside -and thought I would see the show through the green shutters which -covered the old school house windows. - -Outside, I found that other deserters had preceded me. Bill McVay, a -grown young man, bewhiskered for the occasion, with a flowing white -beard the likes of which has seldom been seen on this earth since the -days of Moses, said, in his drawling voice, “I could drink all the -whisky the old town’s got and it wouldn’t faze me—but that thing has -bumped me off my feet. She’ll have to get someone else to take my part.” - -Actually, I was afraid to remain in the cast, fearing, the way things -were happening, fast and furious like, that I might be persuaded against -my will to appear before that hilariously responsive audience with -greatly reduced apparel. I really was in a dangerous spot. The plot -called for partial forced disrobement. Knowing the hyenas who posed as -my brothers, and knowing also that those brothers had caught the spirit -of the producer in a large way, I had the feeling that when they would -have finished with me, working in that free atmosphere, that it would -have been sans pants for little Johnny. - - -It should be borne in mind that the director of this very extraordinary -show was an extremely odd woman, very religious, and sincere—and, having -ideas of her own, she had the courage to mirror them bounteously in her -work. - -The show was all right, of course. Biblical, and all that. And, viewed -with an eye for the beautiful, it was all that Van said it was. -But coming as it did in an age of many clothes for women, it was a -revelation. - -ODD CHARACTERS — COLORFUL, PICTURESQUE Not Hitherto Published—1947. - -By John T. Bristow - -The discussion of odd characters was going strong when I entered the -corner grocery store one evening. I did not join in the discussion for -the simple reason that the range of observations did not go far enough -back to take in the really odd ones—as I knew them. Had I told what I’m -going to tell now, without supporting evidence it would, perhaps, have -branded me as a prevaricator, and I wouldn’t have liked that. But I’m -taking no chances now. Supporting evidence is at hand. - -Speaking of odd characters, Wetmore had ‘em in the old days—in numbers. -In truth, this assertion takes in just about everyone, except of course -Thee and Me—that is, if Thee are still living. The odd characters -dominating this story were Mr. O. Bates, Mr. Peter Shuemaker, and Mr. -Jim Riley. - -But first, an opening paragraph introducing a fourth character that -shall be nameless—that is, in spelled out letters. I think I shall call -my man Mr. June, and guarantee that I have not missed his real name -more than thirty days. Also, he had a brother in the business, and the -firm-name was June Bros.—only this is one month away from it, in the -springtime. - -Mr. June came into my printing office to arrange for some -advertising—and also to get a load of fire insurance. I wrote fire -insurance on the side. He was bringing a stock of clothing from his -store in Atchison, and putting it in the Bates grocery store below the -printing office, in the Bleisener block. - -Mr. June inquired of me about our fire fighting facilities, and as to -whether or not we had waterworks. When I told him we had no waterworks -and practically no fire protection, he almost let his portly Jewish -self fall off the chair. He promised, “The first thing you should have -waterworks when I come.” - -I told Mr. June that he was moving in with a man who had the agency for -a sure-shot fire fighting hand grenade. This seemed to hit him a little -off guard—but he rallied, and said he would investigate. It is presumed -that his investigation was satisfactory. He moved in right away. Also, -he might have heard about Mr. O. Bates’ ineffective demonstration with -his hand grenades. They had “fizzled” on him a while back. - -The clothing stock had been in the building only about sixty days when a -mysterious fire occurred at 11:45, in the night—old time. It started -in the oil room under the stairs leading up to my office. I was working -late that night, with a shaded coal oil lamp on my desk. When I looked -away from my work, I was startled by a solid wall of smoke which had -come up through a stovepipe hole in the rear end of the room and stood -only a few feet away from my desk. Alex Hamel had been working with me, -but he had left the office some time before that. Also, Myrtle Mercer -had been working that night, and I had gone out to take her home—leaving -the office in total darkness while I was away. - -Alex Hamel and Bill McAlester, a barber, were first to show up after -I had rushed out and yelled “Fire!” It was not long before a crowd had -assembled. Some gave their attention to the fire in the building, while -others rushed up stairs to my office, against my protest. There was no -fire in the printing office. “Chuck” Cawood dashed a bucket of water on -my shaded coal-oil lamp, and rushed out of the room, yelling, “I put it -out—I’ve put it out!” Chuck’s water had also ruined an order of printed -stationery ready for delivery. Others milled about in the dark and -“pied” several galleys of type we had set for the paper which was to -come out the next day. The clothing stock was carried to the street—and -the fire was put out before it had done much damage. Since there were -two occupants of the store room, no one could say with certainty whose -fire it might have been. - -The Jew’s insurance was canceled in due course. He said, “If I don’t -got insurance, I’ll not stay in a town which don’t got waterworks.” I -reminded him that he still had Mr. O. Bates, with his hand grenades. It -was but a short while before this that Mr. O. Bates had acquired the -agency for his hand grenades. He planned a demonstration in the public -square, by making a pyramid of wooden boxes, about ten feet high, early -in the afternoon as a sort of advertisement for the event to take -place after dark. This advertising stunt brought him humiliating -repercussions. - -The square was filled with people. Mr. O. Bates, a gabby auctioneer who -really knew how to make a spiel, gave them a good one. He said, “Ladies -and gentlemen. I have here the greatest fire extinguisher ever devised! -But you don’t have to take my word for this! You shall see with your own -eyes! Why, my friends, I wouldn’t hesitate one moment about building my -bonfire right up against my own home.” - -Then he backed off a few paces from the burning boxes and threw a -grenade at the fire—but it failed to connect with the solid bumpboard, -which had been placed in the center to break the glass bottles, and -passed through the mass as a dud. He then tried again, hitting the -bumpboard, but instead of quenching the fire, it made a decided spurt -upwards. Then, with a huge grunt, Bates, threw them in as fast as he -could, resulting in further spurts of blaze upward — up, up, and up! - -It was then boos for Mr. O. Bates. He was a sadly confused man, numb -with bewilderment. He stammered, “I’ll fetch a man here who’ll show -you that they will do the trick.” At a lesser publicized exhibition, -Bates—and his man—had extinguished the fire quickly. Rumor had it that -“Frosty” and “Cooney” had emptied the chemicals out of his grenades, and -had filled them with coal oil. - -Mr. O. Bates had unbounded faith in his grenades. He actually wanted -to build his bonfire almost smack-up against the frame hotel building -on the corner where Harry Cawood’s store is now. But “Uncle” Peter -Shuemaker wouldn’t stand for that. “Uncle” Peter was a wiry little man -of Pennsylvania Dutch ancestry—much set in his ways, with a quick tongue -with which to defend himself. He was always on the defense. - -“Frosty” Shuemaker had said, with reason, “Granddad, don’t you let that -old windjammer light his fire near the hotel. You don’t know what might -happen,” and “Uncle” Peter had snapped, “Goway, Forrest—who’s asking you -for advice?” But, I think, “Uncle” Peter had “smelled a mouse.” - -Mr. O. Bates — pompous, windy, and positive — told “Uncle” Peter that -the proposed demonstration would do his hotel no more harm than for him -to allow Jim Riley to ride his horse in and out of the hotel office—an -occurrence that still rankled. “Uncle” Peter flew off the handle, so to -speak, and spluttered, “It’s no-sicha-na-thing! I never permitted that -lousy drunken pie-stealing galoot to ride into my hotel! And just -who would pay me for my hotel if it should burn down? By-GODDIES, you -couldn’t do it—Mr. Bates!” - -Since I have quoted Peter Shuemaker detrimental to the character of -one Jim Riley, I shall now explain. Never like to leave any of the old -fellows out on a limb. Then, too, there is still another reason for this -elaboration. It is to keep the record straight. Some, I now learn, are -inclined to question if I have quoted “Uncle” Peter verbatim. That I -have you may be sure. I make no inventions. You can always bank on that. -Why, I ask, should I want to feed you figments of fiction, when memory -is stocked with so much of the real thing—spoken words by the old -fellows, a thousand times better than anything an antiquated mind could -conjure up now? And then there is always the little matter of accuracy -to be considered. “No-sicha-na-thing” and “by-goddies” were his exact -utterances. - -Not to be confused with the Soldier creek Jim Reilly, who built a house -in town on the site where E. W. Thornburrow’s home is now, this Irishman -owned land up in the Capioma neighborhood—a half section north of the -Patrick Hand land. Jim Riley was a substantial farmer and cattleman. He -was not married. Jim bached on the farm—but spent much of his spare time -in Wetmore, always pretty close to the dram shops. He was a periodical -hard drinker. And a prankster of the first order. - -But as time went on—and as he prospered—Jim decided that he could change -the baching situation for the better if his sister, whom he had left in -Ireland years before, were here to keep house for him. He made the trip -back to Ireland, but when he got there he learned that his sister was -married and lived in California. He then made a hurried trip to the west -coast—and in due time the sister, with her husband and several little -Ketchums, became members of the Jim Riley household on the farm here. -And through the hand of Fate title to the Riley lands later passed to -the Ketchums. - -As Bates had said, Jim Riley did ride his horse into Shuemaker’s hotel. -And as “Uncle” Peter had spluttered, Jim did swipe his pies—baked for a -big dance supper. Riley carted them out on the street in a wheelbarrow, -and passed them out to anyone who would take them. But he paid. Jim -always paid. His reputation for doing that was well established. Like -the time when someone went into Rising’s general store and said Jim -Riley was out in front smashing up a consignment of crockery that had -just been unloaded on the high front porch, giving a war-whoop every -time as the crocks he was throwing crashed in the street, Don Rising -said, “Let him have his fun. He’ll pay.” - -Also, Jim Riley did deliberately back his wagon up to the post -supporting Shuemaker’s prized birdhouse, hurriedly threw a logchain -around the post—and drove off, giving one of his famous war-whoops. -“Jim’s on another bender,” the oldtimers said—but I knew he was just -plain drunk. - -Jim Riley dearly loved to torment Peter Shuemaker. And he liked to play -hide-and-seek with the town marshal. But most of all, Jim loved his -drink. And it was while burdened with a mixture of the two that he met -his death — in 1887. While making a hurried getaway from the marshal his -team of mules, under lash, turned a street corner too quickly, threw Jim -out his spring-wagon—and broke his neck. - -And that bird-house—it was a three-decker, about a yard square, with -entrances on all four sides, perched on top of a 10-foot post out in -front of the hotel. Here the martins of that day nested and multiplied -in such numbers as to greatly overcrowd their living quarters. In the -late summer months the new broods would have to take to the roof. - -Jim’s log chain, applied at the height of the nesting season, broke up -all too many bird-nests to suit “Uncle” Peter—and it just about caused -his to lose his religion. “Uncle” Peter took his newly-found religion -seriously enough, but when suddenly angered he was a mite -forgetful. Lapsing back into pre-conversion times, his overworked -byword—by-goddies—was shortened up a bit, and with it went a blast of -other sulphurous words telling the world what he meant to do to that -scoundrel when and if he could ever lay hands on him. - -Peter Shuemaker was practically the sole support of the Baptist Church -here for a time, in the old days. The Church membership was poor, and -there came a lean time when the members wanted to close up shop—but -“Uncle” Peter said no, “By-goddies,” he’d pay the preacher himself. - -Having lost his wife, Shuemaker, in his late eighties, and always a bit -on the contrary side, was now, with descendents in his home, a little -hard to get along with. But he hit it off fine with his preacher. Then, -one Sunday morning, when a beautiful camaraderie between preacher and -parishioner was running high, the Reverend announced something special, -a surprise, for the evening services. That surprise proved to be “Uncle” -Peter going shakily down the aisle, altarward, with a feeble old woman, -an octogenarian from God only knew where, clinging to his arm. She was -an “importation.” Thus, one perceives, that in casting his bread upon -the waters it had indeed been returned to “Uncle” Peter manifold. And -for his descendents, who were keeping a watchful eye on his modest -savings, it was as a devastating bombshell topping a most disturbing -surprise. Son-in-law Don Rising “swore” the old gentleman had been “sold -down the river.” - -The marriage did not endure. - -But, at that, “Uncle” Peter fared better, spiritually, “than did the -preacher who showed him the way. The Reverend George Graham, evangelist, -had pitched his gospel tent on the triangular spot of vacant ground -across the street east of the Catholic Church in Wetmore back in the -middle 80’s. With him was a buxom woman, with rosy cheeks — who sang -quite well. And what with her good singing and George’s impassioned -pleas for repentance they garnered a good harvest—very good, indeed. - -The Reverend Graham invoked, with the wrath of Jehovah of old, all the -terrors of hell upon unbelievers. Together, they slew the sinners. Even -some quite good people were swayed into the belief that they ought to -make amends and strive to measure up to the high plane of this super -exhorter—and thus make sure of following through to the Great Beyond. -There were among them converts with Methodist leanings, and converts -with Baptist leanings — even one young lady was possessed of the gift -of tongues. When it was all over here, the converts went their several -ways, as the preacher had advised—or rather they began to map a course -by which they might make the takeoff for the long journey. Then, with -the second stand away from here — somewhere down around Lawrence — the -preacher and the lady were publicly exposed for unholy conduct. - -And yea, verily, the Reverend had a family somewhere abroad in the land. - -Repercussions hit hard back here. The one great wrong done our converts -was, as you might expect, heaped upon them by the unbelievers who had -been consigned to the everlasting fire of brimstone by the now fallen -preacher. As is usual with emotionally recruited converts there was some -immediate backsliding, or cooling off, but when “twitted”—that’s what -they called it then—by the ungodly, the stampede back to normal got -under way and was, in the days that followed, made complete—save one. -“Uncle” Peter was seemingly the only one of the many who could bring -himself to believe that religion was religion—something pure, and worth -keeping, even though it had been delivered to him through the channels -of a dirty carrier. - -There is an old saying that “one should give the devil his due.” I’m -sure that, regardless, the magnetic George did a power of good in -his revivals here. While, it is true, his converts did not choose to -“join-up” after the crash, until the backwash of that scandal had become -tempered by time, they did, however, accept the opportunity to come -into the fold under another standard bearer. And, unfortunately for -the Baptists, the Methodists were first to hold a revival—and reap the -harvest. And the girl who was “called” upon to babble in tongues, gave -up the pursuit when it was evident that she was fooling no one but -herself. - -At the time of the exposure, I was temporarily working for Bill Granger -on his Centralia Journal, and boarding at the old McCubbin House, down -by the tracks. Ed Murray — later, Mo. Pacific agent in Wetmore for -many years—was clerk at the hotel. Professor Roberts, principal of the -Centralia Public Schools, was the third person present when the Evening -Daily newspaper was brought in. After reading the exposure article, -I passed the paper to Mr. Roberts, with comment that I had attended -Graham’s revival meetings in Wetmore. Mr. Murray had his say about -preachers in general, and about one Reverend Locke in particular—of the -latter, quite complimentary, however. - -As he read, Mr. Roberts said, “Say—you, a newspaperman—here’s something -you ought to commit, for future use.” For future use? He meant, let us -hope, only as a model for phrase building to be used on occasion. That -Mr. Roberts, he was a mighty clever young man—quite young, then. It was -a long time ago, sixty-one years to be exact — but I still remember. - -The newspaper report was vague as to the exact nature of the preacher’s -misstep, and I shall not attempt to state it here lest I might do -someone an injustice. So, then, let’s let George do it. The paper -quoted him, thus: - -“I have the consolation, small though it be, of knowing that though my -bark goes down amid the turbid waters of Illicit love the shores of Time -are marked with many such wrecks.” - -Prettily phrased. But no further comment. - -NOTE — This is okayed, “No-sicha-na-thing.” “By-Goddies,” and all, by -Hettie Shuemaker-Kroulik, (70), granddaughter; and by Peter Cassity, -(80), grandson. And they go further, saying: The $1,000 he paid to rid -himself of the woman, plus what it had cost him to get her (preacher’s -reward) just about cleaned “Uncle” Peter. And Cassity says the pies -swiped by Riley numbered exactly forty. Jim paid double, as always—and -liked it. - -And now wouldn’t it be nice if I could say here that Cassity was one of -those converts? I’d say it, anyway—if I weren’t afraid Peter would tell -on me. - -MY BEST INVESTMENT Not Hitherto Published — 1947 - -By John T. Bristow - -Girls — Girls — Girls - -After mulling the old thing over, I know now that the boy who sat with -me in the reserved section at Evangelist George Graham’s meetings, as -intimated in the foregoing article, was not Peter Cassity. It was his -brother Bill. Pete tells me that he was farming at the time over on -Wolfley creek and did not attend the meetings regular—but don’t ever -think Pete did not remember his raising, when he did get in. - -Bill Cassity had the nerve and the Biblical knowledge to stand up in a -big way for his Maker. That boy had an almost irresistible line, and it -was, at times, questionable whether the minister, or the converts—with -Bill well out in the lead — were doing most in the matter of gathering -in the prospects. - -When my uncle, the Rev. Thomas S. Cullom, minister of a Methodist Church -in Nashville, Tennessee, with his wife Irene, and two daughters, -Lora and Clevie, paid a visit to their Wetmore relatives in 1908, the -Reverend told me that in his Church, and throughout the south, it -was customary during revivals to have “exhorters” stationed in the -congregation to give supplementary support to the minister’s pleas for -the redemption of lukewarm and tottering souls. - -I asked him if his exhorters ever broke in on his impassioned pleas in -a discordant manner—that is, a little off key? “Cert’nly,” he said, -with fine southern accent. “My exhorters are very devout workers for the -Lord, and sometimes when filled to overflowing with the Holy Ghost, they -say their lines and then keep right on exhorting and sometimes steal -the whole show.” This ungodly reference to his Church as a show was made -with a wink and a grin. - -And so, with the old time revivals here, the minister’s exhorters, under -another name of course, sometimes ran away with the show. This brings us -back to Bill Cassity, first born of Newton and Anne Shuemaker-Cassity. -Bill did just that on at least two occasions in the Evangelist’s revival -here. He had the Christian training to do it courageously. - -While still a young man, Bill Cassity went to Colorado, worked in the -mines and smelters, at high wages, and ordered the Spectator sent to him -there — and later to Los Angeles. Bill came home once, told me he liked -his work in Colorado, or rather the big wages—but he did not like the -characters he had to associate with. In California, still on the -right side of the laws of God and man, Bill pushed his penchant for -righteousness a little too far for his own good. As a detective, -self-appointed or otherwise, he learned much of the ways of the Los -Angeles underworld—and, it was said, the boys took him for a ride and -failed to bring him back. - -And again, some twenty-odd years ago, Than Gustafson, a former Wetmore -man, older brother of our Fred Gustafson — and in a legal way Fred’s -brother was also his brother-in-law, the two Gustafson boys having -married sisters, Adelia and Ophelia, daughters of S. M. Hawkins—is -supposed to have been taken for a one-way ride by the Rocky Mountain -crooks. He left his home in Denver, a wife and two children, one evening -in line of his duties — and was never heard of again. Than Gustafson -evidently knew too much for his own good. - -When in gangdom, it is wise to be dumb. - -Under the old system, in revivals, the first converts either appointed -themselves or were delegated to work among the congregation as boosters -for the minister—something like Uncle Tom’s “exhorters.” They would -go out in the audience, usually in pairs, and plead with you, cry, and -sniffle over you—an actual fact—in a manner that would - make you -feel mighty cheap. The boy who respected them, loved them through long -associations, was struck dumb. - -One particularly sanctified woman—no one could ever doubt her sincerity; -I had known her for years, and she was always so—with redoubled -sniffling tendencies as of the moment, accompanied by the prettiest girl -that ever walked down a church aisle or any other avenue in Wetmore, a -girl whom I had just about given up as lost to a certain rich man’s -son, on account of her papa’s preference for the other boy, and because -“papa” said I played poker, made a firm stand in front of me one night. -I knew before the old girl began to sniffle that, on account of the -young girl, I would, sooner or later, find myself in a front row. More -than one boy went forward in that meeting because he did not have the -heart to disappoint them—and maybe there was also the attraction of a -girl. Girls were more susceptible to the worker’s pleas. - -The older woman talked rapidly, between sniffles, in terms only partly -understood by me—but the girl’s radiant smile told me much. I would not -permit them to march me up to the front, as other workers were doing -with prospects, but I promised to sit with the young girl in the -reserved corner on the following night—and see what would happen. - -I hope the good people will pardon me for mixing my worldly activities -with the more decent church sittings — but this seems the opportune time -for me to ‘fess up. In this story I mean to come clean—tell everything, -and have as little of the old hero stuff in it as is consistent with the -making of a good story. - -I had been to church—Methodist protracted meeting — and then dropped in -on the boys in the DeForest store at the virtual close of a little poker -game. Even now I hate to think what Henry DeForest would have done to -us had he known his dry goods counter was serving as a poker table. One -man, Willard Lynch, dropped out while the deal was in progress, and said -I might play his hand. - -This was to be my first poker game. Also, it should have been my -last—but it wasn’t. Not that it ever became an obsession with me. But, -in general, it is not an elevating attainment—and it is something which -any self-respecting young man can very well do without. It was, however, -my last game in Mr. Henry’s store. I wanted to retain, at all costs, his -respectful opinion of me. And the other boys finally saw the error of -their ways — and changed their meeting place. On the cleaner side, I -will say that I never learned to shoot craps, never bet on elections, -ball games, or the horses; never drank or caroused, wouldn’t feel “at -“home” at the popular cocktail party; was never in court as complainant -or defendant—and was only once in my whole life in court as a witness, -at which time, had I told the Whole Truth as I was sworn to do, I could -have been jailed for my ignorance. I was an untutored member of the -Kansas Grain Dealers Association, which was under investigation. Also, I -want to say in the outset that this poker stigma was not the thing -which had lowered me in the opinion of “Papa.” It was the more powerful -evil—money—of which I had none. But there was one bright spot in the -clouded picture. The rich man’s son looked a lot better to “Papa” than -he did to the girl. - -Well, in this, my first poker game, I picked up four natural aces, and -if you know only as much as I knew then, you would consider it a top -hand. No one had told me they were playing the joker wild, “cut and -slash.” I bet a nickel. Alfred Anderson called, and raised me a dime. -Two of the other boys called Alfred’s fifteen-cent bet—and the dealer, -Sidney Loop, (clerk in the store), dropped out of the play. I thought my -four aces were good for ten cents more, and not possessing a loose dime, -I dug up a five-dollar bill. Alfred was up on his toes, and said, “You -aiming to bet all that?” I replied, “No—only aiming to call your -dime raise.” Still upon his toes, a little higher now, he said rather -anxiously, “If you want to bet it all, I’ll call it—you can’t bluff me.” -I took one more look at my hand—and not one of the aces had gotten away. -And then I said, “All right, I’ll just bet it all.” - -Now, if you know the game, you are maybe expecting to hear that he had -a set of fives, including the joker of course. But it was not Alfred who -held them. His four kings were not good. It was the dealer, the man who -had dropped out because I had dropped in, who had five fives. - -But this I did not know until two days later, not until after I had gone -to church again and contributed $5.00 to Mrs. Draper’s fund for buying -Christmas candies for her Sunday School kiddies. Alfred’s sister Phoeba, -as personal representative of our dear old Sunday School Superintendent, -took my contribution with gracious acknowledgment, as though it were -not tainted money. And Mrs. Draper—the less chivalrous boys called -her “Mother Corkscrew” because she wore her gray hair in ringlets at -shoulder length—came to me on the double quick, shrieking her praise of -me, and intimated that this generous gift might get me places. - -Alfred said that inasmuch as he surmised he had been cold-decked out of -the five—thankfully with no aspersion attachment—that I should have at -least given the donation in both our names. But that would have been -risky. Alfred was a rather white “black sheep” in a very religious -family, and Sis would most likely have wanted to know how come? The fact -that Sidney and Willard were keeping company with sisters at that time -may have had nothing to do with the introduction of that cold deck. And -then again it might have. Sidney said the fellow needed “taking down” a -bit — and that it was planned to give the losers back their money. A fat -chance they would have of getting their money back now. - -Until now I had only stood, by and watched a penny-ante game in the new -opera house over the Morris store, where the clerks — Dave Clements, -Bill McKibbon, George and Chuck Cawood, Bob Graham—and some younger fry, -congregated on Sundays. And then, too, as a kid, I had been present on -several occasions at a somewhat bigger game in the Neville residence on -this same corner. But here I did not have a chance to closely observe -the technique of the game—for I was under the table most of the time. -The men played altogether then with “shinplaster” money — undersized -ten, twenty-five, and fifty cent pieces of U. S. paper currency, and the -breeze caused from shuffling the cards would sometimes blow the money -off the table. Mr. Jim Neville said I might keep all I could get my -hands on — and I think it was a sort of house rule that the players were -not to contend roughly with me for the fluttering pieces. Still I think -I got more kicks than the law allowed. - -Also, I once saw the women playing poker in this same home—and they were -using “shinplaster” too—but they were not generous enough to invite me -to go down under. I do not wish to name them. Nor would I have mentioned -the boys’ names but for the fact all of them have now gone to their -reward. And, besides, despite the undercurrent that it was not -considered strictly genteel, everybody, more or less, played poker -then—even, it was said, Father Bagley, our first High Priest, would take -a hand occasionally. There was a regular fellow. For him it was Mass -of a Sunday morning, then base ball or horse-racing in the afternoon, -without fail. - -With this slow and awkward beginning it was a long, long time before I -got nerve enough to sit in a private poker game as guest of a friend, in -Kansas City, with a player who afterwards became President of the United -States. He did not impress me as likely timber then. But, may I say, -that when once in the running, he showed ‘em that he was truly from -Missouri—and that, surprisingly, he could, in a pinch, run like a scared -rabbit. Politics was his forte. - -In explanation of the Girl-Papa-Richboy incident: I had sent a boy with -a note asking the girl for her company for a dance, a private dance to -be given by our select crowd, of which she was a favorite. The boy came -back without a written reply—but he said she told him to tell me that -she would go with me. This being rather unusual, I asked the -boy if -that was all she said? “Well,” he said, “her mother said, ‘Now, girlie, -you know what your father will say’ — and the girl said, ‘I don’t care, -I’m going with him anyway’.” I had not known about the rich man’s son -trying to edge in, and this indicated slap by her papa was a grievous -blow to my ego. - -I sent the girl another note, telling her in simple words—I always made -‘em simple now since having once, to no avail, slopped over ridiculously -— that I had wormed out of the boy the remarks between mother and -daughter, and that in consequence thereof I deemed it wise for me to -cancel the date, until I could find out what it was all about. I may say -I never sent but one formally phrased note to a girl in all my life—and -that got me exactly nothing. That literary boy, Ecky Hamel, dictated -it for me, and to make matters worse, it was to his girl. And he -really wanted it to click—to ward off, in his absence, some dangerous -competition. - -However, I once got a neatly written acceptance to an ultra-formal and -gorgeously phrased note bearing my name, which I didn’t write. I was a -new boy in Seneca at the time. I met a lot of girls at the skating rink -in the old Armory building on upper Main Street. Ena Burbery, pretty -and agreeably alert, was good on roller skates. Ena and four other girls -worked as trimmers in the millinery department of the Cohen store. Ena -talked. And the girls, all but one, joined in mailing her a note bearing -my forged signature requesting her company for a swank party three days -hence. Ella Murphy, one of the five, boarded and roomed at the Theodore -Wolfley home, same as I did while working on Wolfley’s newspaper, The -Tribune. Ella said the note was formal and softly silly, and so did Ena -say it was awful — but, she giggled, “I was not going to let that spoil -a date, especially for a party like that.” Now, the ridiculous part of -it all is, that it was an exclusive party to be given by Seneca’s upper -crust, to which I had no invitation. But, even so, it gave me elevated -status for a little while, in a limited way. We compromised on the rink. -And the girls, whom I never did meet, sent me an apology, through Ella -Murphy, for recklessly abusing my name—and getting the girl a date. Ena -was the section foreman’s daughter, but that was no handicap. I myself -married a section foreman’s daughter, picked her for a winner from a -sizable field of promising prospects. - -Naturally, I wanted to know more about the status of the rich man’s -son—and I got it too, back at the gospel tent the next night. The girl -said nothing at all about my poker-playing proclivities. She was too -sensible to try to reform a boy. Her idea was to pick ‘em as suited her -fancy—and trust to luck. Indeed, she said in rebuttal of her father’s -expressed opinion of me, that if her mamma only could have kept her -mouth shut everything would have been all right, and that I would have -never known. “And besides,” she said, “You don’t drink, and papa does—a -little; and you don’t smoke, and papa does, though he does not smoke -cigarettes.” A cigarette smoker in those days was considered cheap. How -times have changed. The girl had overlooked one of “Papa’s” weaknesses, -but for me to have mentioned it to her then would have got me nothing -that I was not now likely to get anyway. - -This exchange of ideas took place in the reserved corner of the arena in -advance of the regular session while other congregated young people were -likely thinking of an afar off haven having streets paved with jasper -and gold. Something about streets and jasper and gold ran in the lines -of the old song books. Also, I dare say, some of the converts might have -cringed a little at the thought of an everlasting fire of brimstone—this -idea emanating from George, the Evangelist—which the wayward and -lukewarm alike might, if they didn’t watch out, fall into in a -last-minute rush for that afar off haven. - -Every evening during his meetings Reverend Graham would institute a -two-minute session of silent prayer. In - view of George’s admitted -downfall at a later stand, I trust it will not now be considered -sacrilegious for me to hazard an opinion that those silent periods -offered the preacher an excellent opportunity to pray for grace. - -It was not required by custom then for those seeking salvation to come -clear down to earth, and some merely bowed their heads, rested them on -the backs of deserted chairs, and whispered when so inclined. The girl -and I, we did not desecrate the hallowed moment. We didn’t have to. -Silence was golden. I was conceited enough just then to believe that -this beautiful girl, thoroughly repentant or no, would have gone through -George’s pictured purgatory for me. - -And nothing happened that could be chalked up as material gain for the -better life. Well, I ask you, how in the name of high heaven, could it? -I’m not particularly proud of it, though. But, you know, if your chariot -does not come along, you can’t take a ride. I certainly do not wish -to cast reflection on the Church. The Church, as a Church, is really a -grand institution. I should hate to think where we would be in a world -without it. Henry DeForest, Yale graduate, said the tent doings was -proselytizing. - -Perhaps you would like to know how I fared in the days to come with this -renewed lease on life which the Evangelist’s revival had brought me? -Well, “Papa” shelved his dislike of my poker-playing, and both he and -“mama” greeted me as a friend ever after. They were really fine people—I -might say the very BEST, with capitals. - -“Papa” had played a little poker himself—and that too, by-gosh, in -our penny-ante game—and his wish for a switch in the matter of his -daughter’s company was based on too slim premise to set store by, now -that the girl had told him with flat-footed finality that it would not -work. - -And the girl? Well, I had to go away, first to Centralia, then to Seneca -to help Theodore Wolfley print his newly purchased Tribune, and I turned -her over to my best poker-playing friend to keep for me against the time -when I might return. - -Now, to do me this small favor my friend had to drop another girl with -whom he had been keeping company steadily for two years. He probably -saw possibilities in the change, but he was really too fine—and too ably -assisted by the girl—to take advantage of a friend’s absence. - -As my trusted friend and my girl in escrow were already lined up for the -party that first night after my return, it was mutually agreed that—just -for once—I should line up with my friend’s discarded girl, who was still -free. It worked out all right—and it was wonderful to be back with the -old crowd again. - -Now, don’t jump at conclusions. Though she was a mighty fine girl, and -good looking too, I did not find her preferable to the other girl. Just -why I made it a regular habit for nearly a year, was quite a different -matter. - -We all belonged to an exclusive clique known as The Silver Stockings. -Why so named I never learned. One unalterable requirement for the men -was that each had to bring a girl—or a wife. No “stags” were permitted -at our parties. This was because a certain unwanted young man had the -disturbing habit of sneaking in at public gatherings and monopolizing -our girls. - -The thoughtful young man of that period did not think of marriage the -first time he went out with a girl. In our community none but the rich -man’s four sons were financially (in prospect) able to indulge in such -dreams. And, besides, by this time I had had a change of heart—resolved -to consider the future of the girl. After all “Papa” might have had the -right idea. I figured that an attractive girl like she, would not be -justified in playing along with me until I could make my stake. - -And again, were I to pursue my chances—which at this time were, I -flattered myself, in a high bracket—who could say with certainty that -“Papa” would not someday become afflicted with a recurrent attack of -that silly notion the first time that the favored son, or maybe another -of the RM’s sons might strut his stuff in the presence of the girl. -Then, too, something fine—alas, something very fine, was now gone out of -the picture that could never be returned. I reluctantly decided to let -matters drift along as temporarily planned the first night back home—and -see what would happen. It was my hardest decision. - -I had seen too many people trying to make a stake and raise a family -at the same time. My father made more money than most—but with ten -children, it was slavery for him. He worked sixteen hours a day at his -trade as shoemaker—and even then he had to skimp, and work and skimp. -But he took a philosophical view of matters, and on the whole his was -a rather contented life. One time when he was complaining about the -difficulty of getting ahead, I suggested that maybe he had erred in -first taking on the responsibility of raising a big family. - -He said, “Well, they kept coming and I couldn’t knock ‘em in the head.” - -I said, “They didn’t start coming until after you were married—” - -He yelped, as if something had stung him, “Of course not, you young -upstart!” That was a time when he would have been justified in applying -the kneestrap, his ever ready implement of correction, to my posterior. -But my father was a forbearing man. - -I said, “Gosh, Dad—I only meant to say if you had waited until after you -had made your stake, you would not now be bothered with this burdensome -load.” - -He said, quickly, “If I had waited longer where do you think you’d be -now, young man?” - -Well, that was something to think about. It might have upset the whole -continuity. I think we older boys reminded him too often of the excess -baggage he was struggling along with—only, however, when he would begin -his lamenting, usually about the high tariff. - -I can think of nothing more disturbing than to be caught short-handed -(otherwise broke) in a community marked by a dearth of opportunity to -earn a living—-With dependents to care for. Such was our country in the -early days. My parents had rubbed up against this situation on numerous -occasions. However, unlike some of our neighbors, the time never came -when we did not have enough to eat. But that “hand to mouth” rule of -living could not rub out the anxiety. - -It was an era when the ambitious young fellow was of necessity compelled -early in life to begin laying-by for the “rainy day” if he did not wish -to run the risk of becoming an object of charity—and who did in the old -days? It was then considered about the last straw. It took a long time -to lay-by a competence in the old days. The average wage-earner gets as -much per hour now as was paid for a whole day’s work then—when ten hours -was a day. This is not to say the young “sprout” could not marry before -he had a competence. He did—recklessly. And paid the price. - -It was to avoid such conditions as this that I made a firm resolve to -defer marriage until I could make a stake. - -I set my goal at $10,000, and when things got going good I kept right -on going until this goal was more than doubled — and in subsequent years -learned that it was none too much: - -However, in strict honesty, I think this cautious streak was inherited -rather than instilled in me by observations. My father had entertained -the same cautious notions. Orphaned early in life, he made his own -way—saved, and had what he called a nice nest-egg at the age of 25. He -went from Kentucky over into Tennessee to visit relatives, met my mother -while there—and married her the next time he came into her back-woods -community. And had it not been for the cruel Civil War—and the -guerillas—I am pretty sure: that I would have had a rich Dad regardless -of his super-abundance of kids. - -However, conditions changed for the better for father. When his boys got -big enough to lessen the burden, and then in time lift it altogether, he -had an easy life. My brother Frank worked with him in the shoeshop, -and at the same time conducted a shoe store in the front end of the -building, with our sister Nannie in charge. When Frank decided to go to -California to join his brother Dave in business, he gave them the shoe -stock. I had written insurance in the sum of $1,000 for Frank, and when -the assigned policy was about to expire I mentioned the matter one day -at the dinner table. Father said, “Oh, I don’t need any insurance.” - -I renewed the policy anyway, paid the premium myself, and said no more -about it. Then, some months later, a fire destroyed the old Logue frame -store building across the street, in early evening—and the town was out -in numbers. There was little chance of the blaze reaching my father’s -shop, but he and several excited volunteers were making ready to remove -the shoe stock to the street. I told him that he better just get his -books and records where he could put his hands on them in case of need, -and to leave the stock in the building for a while, at least. Thinking -to ease his fears, I said, “You’ve got a thousand dollar insurance -policy on the stock.” He exclaimed, excitedly, “Oh, that’s not enough!” - -By this time—we are now back again on the matter of girls, mostly — the -girl’s papa had been elevated to the Mayorality, and the family was now -operating the Wetmore hotel. On one of my trips home from Seneca, after -spending a pleasant hour with the girl, I dropped in on the poker -game, just to greet the boys, and watch the play. I had reformed then -— mostly, I think, on account of the girl. Incidentally, I may say I -reformed more times than a backslider ever confessed his sins—every -time, I think, on account of a girl—before finally realizing that it was -not the way to build character. - -The game then was in the Billy Buzan residence—af ter his wife’s -death—on the corner where Bob Cress’ residence is now, west of the -telephone office. It was the original William Cawood location, with -the west portion of the high fence (seven-foot up and down pine boards) -still standing. That high fence had enclosed four lots, and held in -captivity a “pet” deer for several years. When the Mayor and a guest of -the hotel came in at the front door, I slipped out the back door, as I -thought unobserved by His Honor, and streaked it, in bright moonlight, -to the fence and went over almost without touching. The next day the -Mayor said to me, “Young fellow, I saw your shirt-tail going over that -high board fence last night.” But he hadn’t. It was before the young -sports had begun to wear their shirt-tails on the outside of their -pants. And then again I never was guilty of that slovenly habit. - -About that deer. It finally jumped over the gate at the southeast corner -of the enclosed grounds—and was gone for several days. But it came back -and jumped in again. Then, it made a game of jumping out and jumping in -— with periodic trips to the country. Then, one morning there were -two deer in the enclosure. I think the “pet” deer tried its best to -domesticate the visitor — but after three days, the call of the wilds -claimed them both. - -Some years later—after he had spent a couple of years in Arkansas, and -was now back in the hotel again, in Wetmore—”Papa” was in a tight spot -at Enid, Oklahoma, the third day after the opening of the Cherokee -Strip, September 16,1893. He had made the run, staked a claim, and was -in line—a very long line—at the Land Office, waiting his turn to file. -I had already filed on my claim. While in line, I observed soldiers, who -were supposed to be on hand to see that everyone would get a fair deal, -were running in people ahead of me—and a little later, a man I shall -simply call Eddie—apparently in the role of chief grafter—whom I had -known in Wetmore, approached me with a proposition to advance me in line -for $5. I was too near the door to be interested—and besides, my brother -Dave who held a filing number next to mine, promised to “wipe the earth -up” with Ed if we should be delayed further. Might say here that the -gang followed this remunerative activity with another dirty practice. -They filed contests on claims, so that the rightful locators would, in -many instances, buy them off rather than stand the expense of fighting -the case. Then Dave had to give Mr. Ed that promised thrashing. It got -Dave a prompt withdrawal of the contest. I was the only one of our -party of four who did not have to fight a contest. My friendship, or -co-operation with the crooks, whichever way you choose to look at it, -had, I presume, saved me. - -After I had filed on my claim, I carried the “good” news of Mr. Eddie’s -activities to “Papa.” I knew he was anxious to get back home to his -hotel business, where he was trying hard to re-establish himself after -returning from Arkansas. He asked me to contact Mr. Eddie for him—and -said, “I’ll be your uncle.” - -The soldiers advanced him to near the door—and there the line became -static once more, as other advancements were being pushed in ahead -of him. Then Ed told me that for $10 more the soldiers would put him -through the door without delay. “Papa” dug up the $10, and said, “Do -this for me Son, and I’ll dance at your wedding.” Now he could call me -“Son” and offer to dance at my wedding. - -There are three girls prominently featured in this story, whose names I -do not wish to divulge. Substituting, I maybe should call the first one -Miss Beautiful, for she was all that. But from here on, until further -notice, I shall refer to them as My Best Girl, The Old Girl, and The -Kid. - -In all too short time my nemesis, in the person of a certain rich man’s -son, an older brother of that other boy, got on my trail. I do not think -it was to avenge his disappointed brother, but it could have been that. -He told the boys it was to prove that he was “man enough” to “bump” me. - -Well, just for once, it was not a bad guess. He would be working on -fertile ground. I didn’t care too much for the Old Girl anyway. She was -my senior by four or five years, and naturally she would welcome a -good “catch.” It was understood between us that she was only filling a -vacancy, and thereby providing a way to keep us in the Silver Stocking -circle. The thing I didn’t like was to be “bumped” just for the fun of -it, as viewed by the RM’s son. - -Mike Norton, clerk in the DeForest store, saw the rich man’s son write -a letter to the Old Girl, and he thought this would be the time when the -RM’s son would try to make good his boast. Three days hence there was to -be a picnic in a grove south of Netawaka, and the Silver Stocking boys -and girls were lining up to go in a body. Mike and other members of the -circle put in two hours looking for me. The boys, and the girls too, -were all for me, in this instance — but not even the King’s Horses -could have stopped that boy in his purpose. The postmaster showed me the -letter with the OG’s name spelled out in bold relief—and I was off at -once, thinking I would now show this RM’s son that he could not do this -to me. - -The Old Girl said she was awfully sorry—that she had promised another, -naming the rich man’s son. I said, in substance—though really not -sore at the OG, I think I was not in a frame of mind to phrase it just -so—”Let’s see where we stand. The way things are shaped up now, I’m -out—that is, barred from the Silver Stocking crowd by the rules of my -own helpful making.” - -She suggested that I go back to the girl I have designated as My Best -Girl—said, “I KNOW you can, if you will just spunk up a little.” I had -never “spunked” much with the OG. - -“But,” I said, “if I should succeed in dating her, someone else would -be out, and that someone is your old beau. Likely timber maybe. Then, in -case your date does not choose to repeat, you might still have a chance -to get back with the old crowd.” - -She laughed — the OG was feeling pretty good, just then—and said, “I -hadn’t thought of it that way.” Now she giggled, “But, you know, I could -always be a hanger-on, maybe even go with you and your girl—just in -case.” A boy was permitted to take more than one girl—even a flock of -them if he were unlucky enough. - -Now the atmosphere around the OG’s home had changed, with exultant -spirits taking a nose-dive. That letter was for the purpose of calling -off a date. She was really too nice a girl to be buffed around like that -— but please note that I did not hold with any such buffings. She had -forfeited her chance to go with the crowd to the picnic. Now, more than -ever, she wanted to go. She first took her troubles to her bosom friend, -Bessie Campfield, wife of Judge Elwin Campfield. She wanted to know how -could she, with propriety, get word to me that after all she would be -free to go with me to the picnic. Bessie had spent some anxious moments -trying to round up a courier to apprise me of that letter. She said to -the OG, “I don’t know about that now. I could have told you about that -fellow’s egotistical designs.” - -The Old Girl lived with her aged parents, and when they would go away -for the night, as they often did to visit another daughter in the -country, she would have a young neighbor girl—not too young, but much -younger than she-stay the night with her. The old folks were away now, -and the young girl had been called in for the night. - -The Old Girl was still worried. I’m now almost sorry that I ever started -this “Old Girl” differential, as it smacks of disrespect — and I do not -want the reader to form any such ideas. The OG first asked the young -girl to come up town with her—then, remembering that her best friend had -dropped a hint that the ground upon which she now stood was insecure, -she decided that she was not constitutionally able to face me just then -with her problem. She sent the young girl, alone. - -But the Kid—that’s what they called her when we went together to the -picnic, and thereafter as a member of the Silver Stocking crowd—said, -“If you go with her now, you will be the biggest fool in the world. All -she wants to go with you for, is to see who he takes,” naming the RM’s -son. - -The Kid was smart. - -But please do not think the so-called Kid was betraying a trust. She was -really a woman now. And, besides, she had reason to believe that, to -use a homely expression, she were very soon going to get the OG’s goat, -anyway. - -And moreover, the Old Girl later told the “Kid,” perhaps in a gesture of -discouragement, that I had gone with her steadily for nearly a year, and -had never tried to kiss her. Had that not been the truth it would have -been libel. -In the old days, the prudent young man did not dare kiss an -old girl who was only filling a vacancy. - -Prior to this, the “Kid” and I had “starred” in a local entertainment -entitled “Beauty and Beelzebub” — and mutual admiration had blossomed -then. She was the Angel and I was the Devil. In the tableau, the Devil, -encased in a tight-fitting black sateen cover-all, with horns and a -four-foot forked tail, was suspended on wires about four feet off the -floor when the curtain went up. Then the Angel, up in the clouds, began -the descent with song, the singing increasing in volume as she came -down bare feet first, with outstretched wings, settling in front of the -Devil. The “Kid” made a pretty picture, with her abundant dark hair — -which, I happen to know, came down nearly to her ankles — spread over -the white flowing covering whose traditional folds parted in front just -enough to indicate that she dwelt in a place where shoes and stockings -were taboo. The Angel departed by the same route—wire and windlass -mechanism—went up into the clouds from whence she had come, with more -singing, at first in full voice, then fading, fading, fading away in a -manner denoting distance. In her young budding womanhood the “Kid” made -a beautiful Angel — and the clear, sweet singing was out of this world. - -Coral Hutchison was at first considered for the Angel. She was a -beautiful girl, and a beautiful singer—and while she had a wonderful -head of hair, quite as long as the “Kid’s,” its rather too blonde shade -ruled her out. So the “Kid,” with the requisite dark hair, was given a -place in the spot-light—and Coral did the singing behind the scenes. - -Sorry, I can’t tell you what event or setting that tableau portrayed. -There was much more to the show, speaking parts and superb acting. And -though clearly the “Kid” and I were “it,” the whole show was titled -“Beauty and Beelzebub.” - -At the picnic, my adversary, the rich man’s son, said to me, “I see -you’ve got a new girl. How come?” I said, “Yeah—likewise you. Thanks -for the assist.” After I had started to walk on, he called, “Hey, John, -whatsha mean by that?” - -He was with Lou Kern. Hattie and Lou Kern, and Nina and Emma Bolman, -were four Netawaka girls that were popular with our Silver Stocking -crowd; as were also Caroline Emery, living in the country northeast of -Wetmore, and her visiting friend, Mamie Blakeslee, a former neighbor -whose home was now in Savannah, Mo. - -Mamie Blakeslee was a strikingly pretty girl. - -I shall now dwell a bit on a personal incident in connection with this -beautiful girl. It was away back in 1884. I don’t think the girl was -on my mind that day when I went to St. Joe. But, in St. Joe, I ran onto -Bill (Hickorynut) Bradley who was on his way to Savannah, and he asked -me to go along with him. One Oliver Bateman was to be hanged for the -murder of two little girls who had caught him in an embarrassing act. -The railroad was offering excursion rates, and the sleepy old Missouri -town was decked out in celebration colors, with refreshment stands all -along the lane from the jail to the gallows in an amphitheater in the -nearby woods—everybody on the make. - -Unlike Hickorynut, the hanging did not interest me, but the thought of -seeing Mamie did. I called at the Blakeslee home on the outskirts of -Savannah — it was a farm traded by G. N. Paige for the Blakeslee farm -near Wetmore—on the pretense of wanting to see Mamie’s brother Edwin, -who had been my schoolmate in Wetmore. He was not at home. I remained -a reasonable time with Mamie, aiming to work up a little courage, and -maybe ask her to go places with me—but lost my nerve. - -Two hours later I met Mamie, with another girl, on a downtown street -near the St. Charles hotel. Mamie said there was to be skating at the -rink that night, and would I like to go? I certainly would. So now, -after all, we would be going places together. - -I called at the Blakeslee home for the two girls, and the ‘skating was -going fine. Then, of a sudden, Miss West told me that Mamie was in a -jam. Her steady, a traveling salesman, had unexpectedly dropped in on -her — and, for some reason, likely well founded, Mamie had not intended -to let him know about her going out with another fellow. - -I told Miss West that we could fix that all right, if she herself did -not have a steady sticking around somewhere. Miss West laughed, and -assured me she did not have a steady. “If agreeable,” I said, “you -shall now be my company, and, to all appearances, Mamie shall be the -hanger-on, free to desert me for her steady.” Miss West laughed again, -though she looked as if she were a little concerned about my reference -to Mamie as the new hanger-on. Well, it was a slip. It was a term often -applied to the extra girls in our Silver Stocking circle. - -While visiting in Wetmore before this, Mamie had gone to a dance in -Netawaka with a local man who proved to be not to her liking, and she -had quit him cold at the dance hall door. Though it would hardly cause -a ripple now, it was then considered about the worst thing that could -happen to a young fellow’s social standing. I do not wish to identify -him—yet I must give him a name to be used in Mamie’s pay-off to me for -liberating her at the Savannah rink. - -In the substitution of names, one is liable to innocently hit upon -somebody’s real name, and to avoid the possibility of making this error, -I shall give him the surname of his business partner, and go through -the customary formality of saying that any similarity in names is purely -coincidental. The man was half-owner of the livery stable from which -we all got our “rigs” that night. And, anyway, the partners left here -together for the state of Washington many, many years ago, and there -should be no chance for repercussions now. - -Mamie knew that I was familiar with the Netawaka incident—in fact, it -was I who did the shifting with Sidney Loop to get her back home. When -Miss West had delivered my message, Mamie broke away from her steady, -rolled gracefully around the hall, and plumped herself down by my side, -saying, “Thank you so much! It gets me out of an awful jam! And I want -you to know that this is no Dr. Fisher deal!” I wondered? You know a -girl, in competition with other girls, might strive for long to vamp a -certain good catch—which is always a girl’s privilege—and then when the -chance offers, find herself tied up for the time being with someone that -right away stinks. - -The Blakeslee family formerly lived on a farm four miles northeast of -Wetmore, directly north of the old Ham Lynn farm. Mamie’s father, Nelson -Blakeslee, often called at my father’s shoeshop for a visit. One time -they planned on chartering a car together and shipping to California. I -did not know Mamie then—but have since wondered what might have happened -had they gone through with their plans. - -Evidently Mamie did not make the most of the opportunity afforded her -that night back in Savannah. She married Frank Schilling, of Hiawatha. -There were some dark surmises that she stole Caroline Emery’s beau. -“Stole” is an ugly word to be written in connection with this sweet, -conscientious girl—as I knew her then. I would rather believe that Miss -Emery’s beau was a man of rare good judgment. I have not seen Mamie -since that night at the skating rink in Savannah. Now widowed, she lives -in Fairview — thirty minutes away from Wetmore. - -Back again on the main theme: In the days which followed, I said to -myself—thought it with vengeance, anyway—that I would like to see the -color of the hair of any d—d RM’s son that could make me give up this -one, meaning the “Kid,” of course. And may I say that for once I now -believed I had my girl matters well in hand. - -But, believe it or not, still another son of that same rich man tried -his darndest to edge in. At this time the younger boys had the habit of -lining up on the outside of the church, at Epworth League meetings, and -grab themselves a girl, with a polite, and sometimes not so polite, “May -I “see you home?” After the third “No, thank you,” from the “Kid,” the -RM’s son told her to go to that place which is sometimes politely called -hades. - -Mrs. Pheme Wood, a well meaning soul who had been an intimate friend of -our family since the first day we came here in 1869, and who apparently -took a special interest in my welfare, stopped me one day while passing -her home, and said, “There’s something I want to ask you. Of course I -don’t believe it, but I’ll ask anyway. Were you out sleigh-riding with -Myrtle Mercer the day her father lay dead in the home?” - -Myrtle was the afore-mentioned “Kid.” - -I had not intended to name her just yet, but her identity would have to -come out soon anyway, as she figures in this story to the end. And then -some. - -“Well,” I said—but got no further. Pheme broke in, “It came to me pretty -straight, and one would think—” I stopped her with a promise to ‘fess -up, if she would not run to my mother with it. “Oh that,” she laughed, -remembering a kindred incident, “was for your own good.” She had gone -to my mother on an errand of mercy. That she had her wires badly crossed -did not deter her. She said she had it on good authority that I was -about to marry the aforesaid Old Girl, who was much too old for me; and -that my mother ought to use her influence to prevent it. - -Myrtle’s father, John W. Mercer, section foreman, aged 39, had died -suddenly of a heart attack while milking his cow one morning in -February, 1888. And naturally, the family—the mother and five girls—had -to make preparations for the funeral. Myrtle had a badly sprained ankle -— acquired while ice-skating with George Peters on the creek near her -home—but she managed to hobble up town, taking her baby sister Jessie -with her. I followed them into the store, told Myrtle that I would get -a sleigh from the livery stable and take them home. After driving the -girls three blocks directly to their home, I picked up the Old Girl and -we drove for an hour or more. I knew that Frank Fisher would charge me -$2.00 anyway, and I wanted to get my money’s worth. I was seen picking -up the “Kid” at the store and later seen driving with the Old Girl, -and someone had imagined that the two girls were one and the same — and -that’s how the story got started. - -When explained, Pheme could have no criticism of Myrtle, nor of me -either for driving her home. But, being a woman of the old school, she -was bound to have her say. She said, “It looks like you should have had -more respect for Myrtle than to go joy-riding with that other girl at a -time like that.” I was not sure that she didn’t have something there. I -said, “Remember, not a word to my mother.” - -“Ah, go on,” she laughed. - -I might say here, before passing this incident, that after the family -had split up a few years later, Myrtle was sister and mother too, -as well as guardian, for Jessie. And speaking of pretty girls, this -attractive little one had the makings of a real beauty that in later -years just about topped them all. - -The rich man’s sons were all fine boys—I think—but in view of their -penchant for camping on my trail, the only compliment I wish to pay them -now is to say: They did not play poker. - -My trusted friend did not marry the girl I loaned him. She went with -her parents and three brothers to Arkansas — and married down there. The -trusted friend went to the Far West, made his stake, and married into a -quite well-to-do family—and lived at Yakima, Washington. - -The Old Girl got her man too—an out-of-town man — after she had quit -fooling around with the younger fry, and went with Davey Todd to -Kansas City to live. She became a helpless invalid—and then, not -having prepared himself in a financial way for such eventuality, Davey -literally and figuratively had his hands full. But, to the best of his -ability, he was good to her—carried her around as if she were a baby. -How do I know? Well, the “Kid’s” sisters, -Jennie and Kathy, neighbors -while here, helped him a lot in giving her needed attention. - -And now Euphema Wood speaks again. Commenting on this unfortunate -affair, she said to me, “Now you can maybe appreciate all the grief I -saved you.” - -Many years later, I met the mother of the girl whom I designated for -this writing as My Best Girl, on the train out of Kansas City going to -Atchison, her home at that time. I knew the girl had married a man whom -the family were pleased to call a Southern aristocrat, living at Bald -Knob, Arkansas. He was a merchant who carried the sharecroppers—mostly -descendants of Ham—on his books until harvest time, virtually owning -them. This gave him status in his home community, particularly with -the colored folk — and in traveling North this mark of distinction was -greatly exaggerated. From what the girl told me, while on a visit -back home, I think Mr. Walker was a worthy man—but that aristocracy -appendage, I liked it even less than I liked the means that had been -employed to push me out of the picture. It is a word that should never -have been coined. I was pleased that the girl herself made no use of it. - -In the course of our talking over old times in Wetmore, the mother said, -“I never could understand why those two did not marry,” meaning her -daughter and the boy who had succeeded me. I said, “If you really want -to know,- I can tell you why. He just didn’t have the money to do it the -way she insisted on having it done, an expensive wedding, and all that.” -She, the mother, already knew why I had first gracefully tapered off, -and then backed away from it all—for the girl had told me that her -penitent mother had wanted to kick herself for speaking out of turn. - -And the “Kid?” Well, wait and see. Might have to skip a few years, -though. I had not yet made that stake. In reminiscing, one is permitted -to wander about over all creation—provided, always, that he carries -along for blending purposes at least one principal character already -introduced: and makes sure to come back “home” before becoming -hopelessly entangled in a wilderness of clearly unrelated matter. - -The “Kid” figures prominently in this episode. - -While in Kansas City, I ran onto a street hawker selling fake “diamonds” -for one dollar each. Just for the fun of it, I bought one of the things, -brought it home and presented it to Myrtle Mercer, who was now working -in my printing office, merely to see how a diamond would affect a girl. - -After showing me that her heart was in the right place, she darted out -the door before I could stop her, ran down the steps to the Means store, -and showed it to Lizzie Means; then beat it out the back door and ran -across to show it to Mamma Alma. This lady was the wife of Dr. J. W. -Graham. - -Mamma Alma was sharp as all getout. Lizzie Means was a shrewd business -woman, but she had a less inquisitive mind. And I guess Myrtle was -pretty sharp too, after the first ecstatic shock had passed. - - -Myrtle came bounding back up to the office, and bawled me out: “Mr. -Smartie, that is going to cost you a real diamond—and a good one, too! -And I want it right now!” She had reason to believe I was holding out on -her. - -I said, “All right, all right—but you can’t have it now.” - -Cloy Weaver, my printer, who had been out on an errand, had come into -the office by this time. He stood there with his mouth open, wondering -what it was all about. Cloy had a girl in Stockton, California, and was -aiming to leave the next day for California to marry her. As I needed -him, and as he had told me he had a wife in the Philippines — he was a -veteran of the Spanish American War—I tried to show him that this would -be a bigamous trick. He agreed. Cloy was always agreeable. He remained -with me a while longer—and married Edna Hudson. - -Lizzie told me later in the day that the bogus diamond had her fooled, -too. She laughed, “By golly, it did sparkle real prettily, didn’t it? -But it’s going to cost you a real diamond—don’t forget that. Mamma Alma -and I are not going to let Myrtle forget it either, Ough,” she shrugged, -- “that was about the dirtiest trick imaginable. And Myrtle was so -pleased! It was a shame!” And Mamma Alma had told Myrtle that it was -high time anyway for me to be giving her a “real” diamond. - -The next morning Coral Locknane—Myrtle’s best friend — came to the -office, and I don’t know what all passed between the two, but it is -pretty certain they didn’t discuss trifles. The three of us went to -Kansas City on the noon train. I said to the girls, “Shall we go to -Cady & Olmstead’s or to Jaccard’s?” I had been to both places on my last -trip, and I knew they had just the right quality of sparklers to tickle -a girl’s heart—now that I knew how a girl would react. But Myrtle, -feeling pretty sure of herself, and in high good humor, said quite -emphatically, “Neither.” She looked down the street and said, “We are -going to Mercer’s on Petticoat Lane. It’s a name I believe I can trust. -You don’t think I’d let you steer me to a place like where you got that -other thing?” - -When we went into the Mercer Store, Mr. Waddington, the diamond -salesman, as it happened, pushed his portly self forward, and asked, -“What will it be, please?” - -I said, pretty loudly, “A diamond ring for Miss Mercer!” That claimed -the attention of the whole house—the proprietor included. - -Coral had several pretty good diamonds of her own. She took a seat with -Myrtle at the salestable in the little black velvet-lined cubby corner, -while I stood back and looked on. When Mr. Waddington told them the -price of the one they had selected, Myrtle exclaimed, “Whe-e-ew!” - -Then she looked to me for approval. The modest, one carat blue white -stone was in good taste, plenty big enough for a girl. Coral’s largest -diamond—at that time—was also an even carat, and she was a great help to -Myrtle in making the selection. Coral said, “It’s not good taste to have -them too big.” Later, Myrtle said earnestly and very softly, as if the -thing had taken her breath away, “Do you really think you want to stand -that much?” Mercer’s was the highest priced shop in Kansas City—but in a -case of this kind I figured that a girl must have what she wants. - -Then we separated, and I went over to the Cady & Olmstead store on the -corner of 11th and Walnut, and bought for myself—or rather paid for what -I had already bought — the beautiful blue white diamond, nearly twice as -large, which Myrtle’s sister Jennie had helped me select only three days -before. Jennie had warned me not to spring that fake diamond on Myrtle. -Said it might not set just right with her. But I knew that Myrtle was -too smart a girl to let anything make her mad at me for long. - -Mr. Cady said, “You are a day early—where’s the lady?” “Yes,” I said, -“I’m early. Got pushed around a little. Never mind the lady now. Though -you may still make it a Tiffany setting, but make it for this hand right -here.” He gave me a sympathetic look. Mr. Cady was such a nice man that -I felt duty bound to tell him, as nearly as I could, what had happened -to the lady. - -Sometimes even quality folk didn’t get to see Mr. Cady, in person. Well, -I did—just like I said. I still have the sales ticket, dated May 12, -1903, bearing his notation, “Will exchange Tif. Belcher mounting without -cost—or diamond for other goods any time without discount.” Signed, -“Cady.” - -All this was too much for Coral. A woman with money of her own can -stand only so much. She went over to Norton’s—and bought herself another -diamond, nearly twice as big as Myrtle’s. The satisfied expression on -her lovely face was something to behold. My first thoughts were -that this might call for me to do some swapping with Myrtle. But, no -sir—she’d not part with hers. If pressed, she’d claim them both. Trust a -woman! - -We had to stay the night in Kansas City with Myrtle’s sisters, Jennie -and Kathy. When she got the chance, Jennie asked me, “How did it work?” -meaning the bogus diamond. - -“Well,” I replied, “it looks like it hasn’t blown the top off anything -yet.” She said, “It surely does look that way now, but I wouldn’t be so -sure of it after she sees the beauty we picked out for her.” - -The two country girls had talked nothing but diamonds from the time they -had entered the apartment. - -The next morning the three of us started out three ways to get our -diamonds—only we didn’t do it just that way. We went the rounds in -a group. Mr. Mercer told Miss Mercer that she had selected the best -one-carat blue-white flawless diamond in his store. And he wondered if -they might not be related. Myrtle came home pretty pleased for keeps -that time. - -I’ve always counted it my best investment. - -THE VIGILANTES Published in Wetmore Spectator, - -August 28, 1931 - -By John T. Bristow - -There was, assuredly, need for the vigilantes at one time in the Far -West, where the idea originated and here there were no laws and no -courts other than “miner’s courts”—impromptu courts set up by the -people on the spot. But, with all the machinery of organized government -functioning normally and in most instances efficiently there in Nemaha -County, there was, seemingly, no call here for the vigilantes when they -hanged Charley Manley. - -The courier-tribune - -(Semi-weekly) - -Geo. C. Adriance Dora Adriance - -SENECA KANSAS - -Aug. 28, 1931 - -Mr. John T. Bristow, Wetmore, Kansas. - -My dear Mr. Bristow: - -We have just read with a great deal of interest your article in the -Wetmore Spectator dealing with the hanging of Charley Manley. This is -the first time I have ever heard of this act of the vigilantes. We are -going to check through our files of April 1877 and see if we can find -anything relating to it. In any event, I write to ask permission to -reproduce this article in a much special issue of the Tribune we are -putting out next year to celebrate Seneca’s 75th anniversary. - -The article is so well written and deals with so early history of our -county that I consider it admirably adapted to our purpose. The -next time you are in ‘Seneca I should like to have you call at The -Courier-Tribune office. I have no doubt you have a fund of other stories -that would be just as interesting. - -Sincerely yours, - -Geo. C. Adriance - -It is a tragic story — the hanging of Manley by the vigilantes. It was -Mar. 31, 1877. I was a small boy when I first knew Charley Manley, just -about big enough to turn a grindstone, with effort. There is purpose in -this reference to the grindstone. - -I remember the time very distinctly. And, with all due respect to the -memory of my departed elders—the vigilantes—if, after so many years, -I may be permitted to express myself freely and fully, I would say God -seemed to be terribly far away from the scene that night. Before going -into the details of the hanging, let us have a look into the workings of -the vigilantes—that organization of men who set itself up as judge and -jury and executioner. There was tactful veiling of the identity of the -individual members, and little is known of the inside workings of the -local vigilantes. - -This much is known, however. There was one little slip — a bungle—that -was, in time, the means of disclosing the identity of the local -operators, but that secret was also carefully guarded until practically -the last one of the vigilantes has passed on to another world beyond the -reach of wagging tongues and the strong arm of organized law. There is -now only one—possibly two—of the originals left. - -The vigilante organization or “Committee,” as it was called, had its -birth in the Far West, for the specific purpose of dealing with “road -agents”—banded highwaymen and murderers. The idea traveled East and the -farther it got away from the home of its origin the farther it seems to -have gotten away from its original purpose. - -In the sixties and seventies vigilante committees were in evidence the -full length of the old Overland Trail, from California to Kansas, and -the fact that Wetmore and Granada had as residents a half dozen or so of -the old stage-drivers, express messengers, and pony express riders, may -account, in some measure, for the local organization of vigilantes. -And, if so, by the irony of fate, it was in the home of a former express -messenger that the vigilantes claimed their first and only victim. It is -known that at least two of the old stage employees were vigilantes. - -Without question, the idea filtered in from the West. The almost -constant stream of returning gold-seekers passing through Granada over -the Old Trail at a time when the vigilantes were very active in the West -— particularly in Montana—may have scattered the seed. - -While I was out in the western mining district, a quarter of a century -ago, chasing fickle fortune—which was always just a few jumps ahead of -me—I heard much about the exploits of road agents, and the work of the -vigilantes. - -In the Old West, at Bannack, Virginia City, and Nevada, in the Alder -Gulch section of Montana, where a hundred million dollars in placer gold -was recovered in the early sixties, road agents plundered and killed, -without mercy. - -Placer gold, as many know, is free gold that has been eroded from -exposed gold-bearing ledges and deposited in the sands and gravel along -the water courses. It was the first form of gold-mining in the West—the -lure that caused the great stampede to California in 1849. It has -rightfully been called “the poor man’s gold,” because of the comparative -ease in which it is recovered. - -The flush times in the Alder Gulch section, which contained about twenty -thousand eager gold diggers, made rich pickings for the road agents. -They preyed upon individual miners, on express companies, on anyone, -anywhere they could grab gold-dust, or minted gold, the money of the -times. And they were killers, every one of them. - -The Montana vigilantes, sworn to secrecy and loyalty, with a by-law -boldly asserting, “The only punishment that shall be inflicted by this -committee is Death,” undertook the job of exterminating the road agents. -And in one month’s time twenty-one of the notorious Henry Plummer gang -were hung. The job was pepped up a bit when the first victims squealed -on the others. This is history of the Montana vigilantes. They patterned -after the California vigilantes. And it is to be assumed that vigilantes -everywhere were organized along the same lines. - -There was a vigilante committee in Nemaha County at least nine years -prior to the hanging of Manley. In September, 1868, Melvin Baughn, a -horse-thief, was legally hanged at Seneca for killing Jesse Dennis, one -of the deputized men who helped capture him. In writing of that hanging -George Adriance said there was a vigilante committee at the time, and it -wanted the officers to turn Baughn over to the committee. - -Charley Manley and Joe Brown were charged with being implicated in -stealing John O’Brien’s horse. O’Brien lived on the Dave Ralston place -west of Granada and Brown lived on a quarter section of land west of the -Charley Green farm in the Granada neighborhood, about two miles from the -O’Brien farm. Charley Manley lived with the family of W. W. Letson at -Netawaka. He had lived with the Letsons at Granada and at Wetmore before -they moved to Netawaka. Letson and Spencer kept a general store here in -the old corner building now owned by Cawood Brothers, originally built -by Rising and Son. - -At one of their meetings, it appears, the vigilantes decided to hang -Manley and Brown. One member who lived close to Brown pleaded for -the life of his neighbor. Brown had a family of small children. The -discussion waxed hot — and there was a great rift in the personnel of -the organization. They did not agree in the matter. The determined ones, -however, went ahead with their plans for the hanging. And on the night -of the execution some of the vigilantes, not in accord with the -plan, spent the night at the homes of their neighbors so as to clear -themselves of suspected participation in the hanging. - -Charley Manley was arrested at Netawaka and was to have been given a -preliminary trial in Justice H. J. Crist’s court at Granada. He was -brought to Wetmore early the day of his execution and held under -guard in the office of the old Wetmore House until evening. The delay -supposedly was occasioned in order to bring Joe Brown to the bar of -“justice” at the same time. Later it appeared the proceedings had been -delayed, waiting for nightfall. - -Robert Sewell, constable, liveryman, ex-stage driver and Indian fighter, -was the arresting officer. On the plains, and here, he was known as “Bob -Ridley.” George G. Gill was deputized as assistant constable. Dr. J. -W. Graham, a Justice of the Peace in Wetmore at the time, was appointed -special prosecutor by County Attorney Simon Conwell. Sewell, Gill, and -Graham, with Manley, drove to Granada in a spring wagon. - -On the way to Granada, all unconscious of what was in the air, Dr. -Graham, seeing a tree by the roadside with a large overhanging limb, -jokingly said, “Whoa, stop the team, Bob—-we might just as well hang -Charley right here.” Manley laughed and said, “Oh, no—let’s all have a -drink.” He passed his bottle. - -Court was to have been held in the Hudson hotel at Granada. But before -proceedings had started, the vigilantes, in black-face, with coats -turned insideout, appeared upon the scene and began shooting up the -place — with blanks. They seized Manley and rushed him away—to his -doom. Pandemonium reigned, and in the excitement the president of the -vigilante committee, it is said, raised a window and told Brown to “beat -it.” So, it would seem, the neighbor’s plea for Brown’s life, while very -costly to himself, as you shall see later, had made its impression. - -Earlier in the evening, one high up in vigilantic officialdom, had -taken the precaution to relieve the three constables and the prosecuting -attorney of their revolvers—borrowed them “for a few minutes.” Dr. -Graham says he never did get his back. - -Charley Manley was taken to a big tree down on the creek west of -Granada, and strung up. The tree was on the old Terrill place, now owned -by the Achtens. Monoah H. Terrill, a store-keeper at Granada, was a -brother-in-law of Manley. Terrill had died a long time before the Manley -hanging. - -Manley was buried on the Terrill place—or rather what afterwards proved -to be the roadside—by the grave of his brother-in-law. Later the bodies -were removed. Terrill was placed in the Letson lot in the Netawaka -cemetery. Some say the body of Manley was also taken there. The Letson -lot has no such marker. Others say he was re-buried in the northeast -corner of the Granada cemetery. There is no marker or other visible -evidence of his grave there. His grave now seems to be as irredeemably -lost as was his life on that fatal March night fifty-four years ago. - -It is said by those who were in a position to speak at the time, that -Manley made no protest, spoke not a word when the mob took him from the -room. Whether it was sheer shock that robbed him of all power to speak, -to think, to feel, no one knows. Dr. Graham says that after they started -away with the prisoner someone fired a gun, and he heard Manley say, -“Don’t do that boys, it’s not fair.” Just what happened after that was -never made public. The knowing ones didn’t seem to want to talk. There -were, however, many conflicting rumors afloat—sub rosa reports, you -understand. One rumor was that Manley was dead before they left the main -street with him—died from fright and rough handling. - -On the way out one of the vigilantes lost his cap. Someone picked it up. -The same man who had “borrowed” the officers guns, acting as rear guard, -rode back and took the cap. He said to the people who had followed from -the court room, “We don’t want to hurt anyone—but keep back.” - -Some of the men in that mob were recognized, but, as one old timer -aptly puts it, no one at that time seemed to care a “helluva” lot about -knowing who they were. However, as the veiling gradually lifted, it -became known that the major portion of the respectable adult male -citizens — and a few bad eggs—were numbered among the vigilantes. They -were, mostly, fair-minded and just men. But, even fair-minded men, under -stress, can sometimes be auto-hypnotized into doing strange things—and -it would seem some of the vigilantes got terribly out of hand that -night. From all accounts the performance was a rather disgusting -exhibition of mob passion. Later criticism of the vigilantes was based -very largely on the inexcusable savage demonstration attending the -Manley hanging. And mistake not, there was criticism—criticism that -stirred the whole countryside. - -Vigilantes did not tell their wives everything. It might have been -better if they had. And if the Manley demonstration had met with the -approval of the good wives and mothers of the participating vigilantes, -the women might have taken a hand in the general clean-up and scrubbed -the burnt-cork, or whatever it was that blackened their faces, from back -of the men’s ears and thus obliterated the telltale marks that lingered, -like the itch, with some of the boys for several days. The women -generally deprecated the hanging. - -Just what evidence the vigilantes had against Charley Manley, and how -authentic or damaging it was, never was made public. Nor will it ever -be. Had the vigilantes permitted the trial to progress far enough to -establish the prisoner’s guilt, their actions would, no doubt, have -received less criticism. The friends of the vigilantes—the vigilantes -themselves never talked, as vigilantes—said that it would have been -difficult to produce convicting evidence as Manley was too good at -“covering up.” He was credited with being the “brains” of the gang. - -Two business men in Netawaka were also suspected. They evaporated. In -fact, there were a dozen or more men scattered about over the country -who were under suspicion. - -It was rather a hard proposition to handle. The farmers—the vigilantes -and the farmers, with a sprinkling of town people, were practically the -same—were terribly incensed because of the thefts of their horses, and -they were determined, at any cost, to put a stop to it. And while the -convicted horse-thief did not draw a death sentence, the courts were -efficient enough and willing enough to impose ample punishment on -offenders. But the real trouble was in getting convicting evidence. And -the courts could not, of course, play “hunches” in so serious a matter. - -And where convicting evidence was lacking, it would seem about the -best—or worst—the vigilantes could do, was to make an example of some -one of those under suspicion, and hope that they had hanged the right -man — a rather dangerous procedure, and hardly sufficient excuse for -taking a life. - -But one thing that worked then against bringing suspects into court was, -that in case of failure to convict, the court costs were assessed to -the complaining witness, and that meant a lot to the pioneer -farmer—especially to one who had just lost his horses. At least, that is -the way the John O’Brien complaint was handled. - -The old court record shows that Constable Sewell traveled twenty-four -miles in making the arrest of Manley, for which he received $2.40. -George G. Gill, as deputy, received a like sum. The attorney received -$7.50. There was also a charge of $1.00 for the keep of the prisoner, -and another $1.00 for guarding him. Isaiah Hudson traveled only six -miles, three miles out and three miles back, in making the arrest of -Joseph Brown, for which he received $1.20. One witness, J. W. Duvall, -was subpoenaed in the Brown case. None in the Manley case. And, -presumably, because of the disrupted court proceedings and the loss of -the prisoners, it was “considered and adjudged” by the court that the -costs in both cases be charged to John O’Brien, the complaining witness. - -Then, after the hanging of Manley, someone made a mistake—a very serious -mistake—which, coupled with the previous disagreement, came very close -to disrupting the vigilante organization. A letter, purporting to come -from the vigilantes, was sent to the rebellious member. It gave the man -ten days to leave the country, and warned him that if he failed to do so -he would be given the same treatment as was meted out to Manley. - -This was a hard jolt to the obstreperous member. And it was a harder -jolt for the man’s wife. The woman opened and read the letter first, and -only for that she might never have known what it was that caused her man -to so suddenly develop a bad case of ague. Then, every day, for weeks, -as the gathering shades of night began to fall upon his home, this man, -with his wife and three small children, trailed off through the woods, -across lots, to the home of a relative to spend the night. - -That letter was the cause of much mental and even physical misery for -the woman. She suffered heart attacks at the time: And in the weeks that -followed she suffered the mental torments of the damned. In relating the -matter to me very recently, she said, “Every time the dog barked I would -have a fit.” According to her version of it, those were the blackest -days of her life. And, like a scar, she will carry its horrors to her -dying day—to the grave. She knew what a crazed mob was capable of -doing. As a matter of fact, she knew what a guerilla mob had done to my -father’s family. - -Many, many were the times that my mother—sweet, patient, administering -angel—was called upon to be with that woman in her hours of great -distress. And once, when the insidious thing was about to consume her, -my mother brought the woman home with her for a week. - -The marked member finally took the matter up with other vigilantes, and -to save the sanity of the man’s wife — and no doubt to appease the man’s -fears also — after all denying knowledge of the letter, the vigilantes -signed a paper pledging protection to the man. The marked man — and his -friends in the organization—however, had a pretty good idea who wrote -that letter. - -With such a document in evidence the identity of the vigilantes, which -had been so closely guarded up to this time, was no longer cloaked. At -least the veil of secrecy now had a big rip in it. - -The hanging of Manley had a tendency to slow up activities, but it did -not stop the horse-stealing. And once more the Committee set out to make -an example of an accused man. Frank Gage, charged with stealing a horse -from Washie Lynn, was being tried in a Justice court somewhere over -in the Powhattan neighborhood — probably Charley Smith’s court. The -vigilantes were in readiness to “storm” the court and take the prisoner, -as they had done in the Manley case at Granada, but the plan was -abandoned at the last minute. - -Two horsemen, young and daring, with a whiff of what was in the air, -made a hurried run to the scene. They told the vigilantes that they were -about to make a mistake—that they, the informers, knew positively -that Gage was elsewhere the night the Lynn horse was stolen. The -high-stepping modern Paul Revere of that heroic dash still lives. The -other has gone to his reward. - -Gage, of course, was acquitted, for lack of evidence. Later, the real -thief, convicted for stealing wheat, confessed to stealing the Lynn -horse, and told where it was. Washie reclaimed the animal. - -The man who was credited with being the president of the vigilante -committee afterwards became a very popular and efficient peace officer -of Nemaha county. And, if I understood the man rightly, I think he would -have fought forty wildcats, and maybe a buzz-saw or two, before he would -have surrendered, for unlawful handling, a charge of his to any set of -men—vigilantes, clan, mob extraordinary, or even a regiment of soldiers. - -Soon after the Manley hanging a branch of the Kansas Peoples Detective -Association was organized here. Unlike the vigilantes, its purpose was -not to override the law, but to assist it in capturing and convicting -horse-thieves. W. D. Frazey was president and E. J. Woodman was -secretary. - -Now a line about the Old Overland Trail. Besides carrying a faint flavor -of Manley handiwork, it was the avenue by which I myself came into this -country. But I did not ride the old Concord coach drawn by its four -spirited horses. I came by the slower mode of the ox-team. - -The Old Overland Trail, or military road, as it was sometimes called, -was vastly different from the good roads of the present time—very, very -much different from the elaborate specifications for Number Nine, now -building through Wetmore. It was little more than a wide rut worn deep -by the constant movement of horse-drawn vehicles, including, of course, -mules and oxen. There were stage-lines, pony-express riders, and heavy -freighting outfits. The commerce of the West was handled over the Old -Trail. - -Starting at Atchison, the Old Trail came into the Pow~ hattan ridge -settlement at the southwest corner of the Kickapoo Indian reservation, -and, keeping to the high ridges as much as practical, it passed -through Granada, Log Chain and Seneca, and on westward to Oroville and -Sacramento, in California. The stage company maintained a change station -on the old Collingwood C. Grubb farm—called Powhattan. Noble H. Rising -was in charge of the station after it had been moved three miles -north, and the name changed to Kickapoo. His son, Don C. Rising, was a -pony-express rider. W. W. Letson was express messenger. Bill Evans, Lon -Huff, and Bob Sewell, oldtimers here, were stage drivers. - -The road made a sharp turn to the north before reaching Granada. Peter -Shuemaker lived on the farm now owned and occupied by Charley Zabel, -west of the turn. Shuemaker wanted the road to pass by his farm, and, -at his own expense, built a cut-off in the hope that traffic would be -diverted that way. - -Roads in those days were built, mostly, by the simple process of going -out with a plow and running a couple of parallel furrows, with the -proper spacing to accommodate all anticipated traffic. Peter Shuemaker’s -cut-off veered off to the northwest, across the prairies just anywhere -the going seemed to be good, until it intersected the Old Trail again. -And though as simple as that, road building in those days was not -without difficulties. Some would want the road and some wouldn’t want -it. - -“Uncle” Peter’s road bumped into a circumstance when his engineer -projected the cut-off across the farm of a certain female importation -from the Emerald Isle. And right there Irish wit and Missouri temper -mixed. William Porter, not so very long removed from the Rushville -hills, was chief engineer and contractor for the prairie division of -“Uncle” Peter’s cut-off. Mrs. Flannigan met the Missourian head-on, with -an old horse-pistol wrapped in her apron. “Off with you, I’ll not have -the place torn up,” she commanded. - -Entirely unaware of the ominous clouds rolling up in the sky of his -destiny, the wily William squared himself in an attitude of defiance, -squinted his eyes in the peculiar manner of his people, spat out his -tobacco, and said, “I carkilate I’m running this road.” Whereupon Mrs. -Flannigan unbound her pistol, and replied, “It’s a fine young man you -are, but I’m sorry to tell you that you’ll never see your old mother -again.” - -Contractor Porter decided to take fate in his own hands and change the -plans of destiny as decreed by Mrs. Flannigan. He took another chew of -tobacco and then meekly backtracked for a mile over the perfectly good -road he had just built—and ran some more furrows. You couldn’t block -a road project with a horse-pistol, or even with injunctions, in those -days. There was too much open land. - -The generous spacings and fine appointments of Peter Shuemaker’s -cut-off—it had a corduroy bridge, over Muddy Creek, with nigger-head -trimmings—were out of all proportion to the scanty travel that passed -his way. And when “Uncle” Peter found that he couldn’t bring the -traffic to him, he, like Mahomet, went to it. Shuemaker built a hotel in -Granada. - -Recollections are now about as dim as the Old Trail itself, but there -is one oldtimer who asserts that it is his belief that Ice Gentry -and Charley Manley were credited with being the axe-men who made the -slashings on the timber division of “Uncle” Peter’s cut-off. But, says -another, that may have been before Manley came into the neighborhood. -Nothing certain about that, though. So many of the old fellows have -their biographies so scrambled that it is hard to get at the truth. The -suggestion was, nevertheless, timely. And, anyway, Charley Manley spent -his last day on earth in Peter Shuemaker’s hotel at Wetmore. - -As I remember him, Charley Manley was a rather quiet, pleasant mannered -man. And, although a matured man himself — he was about forty, and -unmarried — he made friends of the youngsters about town and seemed to -enjoy their company. He could always find a way to help a boy with a few -dimes. - -Early in his career here in Wetmore it was settled that I was to have -the job of turning the grindstone for Charley Manley whenever he needed -help to grind his axe. Since that time I have often wondered why he -had so much axe-grinding to do. But I thoroughly enjoyed, with all the -thankfulness of a growing young boy’s” healthy heart, the dimes and -quarters he gave me. And sometimes I have thought that maybe he ran in a -few extra and needless grindings solely to gladden my heart. - -Then came the time when Charley Manley fitted his grindstone with foot -pedals. I used to sit by and watch him do the grinding without my help, -and long for the dime I was being cheated out of by the introduction of -that new labor-saving device. One time Charley Manley let me pour water -on the grindstone while he ran it with foot-power. He said the tin can -suspended over the stone, which was releasing a steady stream of water -where it was needed, did not do the work so satisfactorily. He gave me a -quarter for that. - -With all his axe-grinding, I never knew Charley Manley to do more than -chop wood on the Letson wood-pile. No coal was burned here in that -axe-grinding period. Wood was brought in from the timber, a wagon-load -at a time, in the pole, or in cord-wood lengths. It was chopped into -stove lengths as needed, enough to cook a meal at a time. And sometimes -the chopper would make the supply very scanty, or even renege on the job -altogether. Then the cook would have to go out and scrape up chips. How -well I know that. Aside from my axe-grinding activities I spent some -time on the Bristow wood-pile in my younger days. And I am now sorry to -say there were times when my patient mother would have to gather in the -chips. - -The last words Charley Manley ever said to me were, “Come over to -Netawaka and see me sometimes, Johnny, and I’ll let you turn the -grindstone for me.” He smiled pleasantly. That was while he was held -in custody here the day of his execution. Poor fellow, he did not then -suspect what was to be his fate. Naturally, I felt badly about the -hanging—and the loss of my opportunity to make another honest dime. And -the worst that I could now wish for the shades of his executioners, is -that they be compelled to take turns in turning Manley’s grindstone, -over there in the vast beyond, until his axe is made sharp, sharp, -sharp—and then, that Charley’s ghost be licensed by Him who judges -all things, to use it—provided, of course, that he didn’t steal their -horses. - -MOUNT ERICKSON Published in Wetmore Spectator— - -March 27, 1936 - -By John T. Bristow - -It was sixty-two years ago. Our quiet little village, surrounded by -almost continuous open country, with grazing herds all bedded down for -the night, slumbered. A gentle rain was falling. - -The night train brought to Wetmore a man bent upon a desperate -undertaking. Jim Erickson was a resident of these parts, but had been -absent for some time. He did not seek lodgings in town. Under cover -of the night he walked west on the railroad track for two miles, then -turned off to the timber on the south. He spent the remainder of the -night in a hay stack at the timber’s edge. Here he loaded his revolver -for the cold-blooded murder of his neighbor and supposedly his friend, -Adolph Marquardt. - -With the coming of dawn on that spring morning, May 10, 1873, Jim -Erickson-plodded on foot through the wet grass from his hay-stack bed -to the Marquardt home two miles to the southwest. He knocked for -admittance. The door was opened. Erickson’s gun flashed, and Marquardt -fell dead by the side of the door. - -Just what all happened after that is mere conjecture — but rumor had it -that the whole abominable affair rested with Erickson’s burning desire -to break the Tenth Commandment; and as expedient to this insane impulse -he deemed it important for him to break also the Sixth Commandment. -And as it turned out, he just about smashed the whole category of “Thou -shall nots.” - -Jim Erickson took the two small Marquardt children over to the home of -Peter Nelson about a quarter of a mile away. He told Nelson that he -had killed Marquardt; that he had shot Mrs. Marquardt in the thigh, -crippling her, so that she could not get away, and that he intended to -kill her when he returned to the home. Erickson also told Nelson that he -had intended to take Mrs. Marquardt away with him, but she had refused -to go. - -It was never definitely established that there had been any promises or -understanding between Erickson and Mrs. Marquardt. If there had been any -clandestine meetings, they had the good sense, or more likely the -good luck, to keep it well under cover. The one certain thing is that -Erickson coveted his neighbor’s wife — and that was bad business. - -The Marquardt children were too young to realize what had happened. The -older child, a boy of four, could say nothing but “Boom!” The younger -child died two years later in the home of William Morris. - -The older boy — now Adolph Nissen — still lives. He was taken into the -home of Christian C. Nissen. Or rather, the Nissens came to the boy’s -home, acquiring the right through due process of law. And they adopted -the boy. - -The Marquardts were regarded as fine people, and if there had ever been -any rifts in the family, the world did not know it. Jim Erickson was a -rather quiet and apparently honorable man who owned a homestead north -of the Marquardt home. The Marquardt land is now owned by Mrs. C. C. -Nissen, Christian’s second wife, mother of Frits Nissen, and C. C.’s -other four children—Bill, Homer, George, and Mrs. Charley Love. Peter -Nelson owned the intervening eighty then. Erickson was a bachelor. The -residents of that settlement were all countrymen. That is, they or their -ancestors had immigrated to this country from that little corner of -the old world known as the land of the midnight sun—Sweden, Norway, and -Denmark. - -There were no telephones then and the process of summoning the law was -necessarily slow. William Liebig was constable. He was reputedly a very -brave man, but that was one time when he displayed more caution than |. -bravery. With a posse of deputized men, Liebig went to the scene of the -murder—that is, they went near it. For long hours the men hung around on -the fringe of the premises, watching and waiting. Finally Liebig crept -noiselessly up to the house and very cautiously pushed the door open. -His tension relaxed a bit. All occupants of the house were dead. Jim -Erickson had killed Mrs. Marquardt while in bed. He then sent a bullet -through his own head. - -At that time there was a small publication at Netawaka whose outspoken -editor believed in calling “a spade a spade.” His printed version of the -affair, purporting to be based on revealments in the house on entry of -the officers, was, to say the least, racily rotten. - -Erickson’s body was brought to town and rested for a while in the -wareroom of the DeForest store building. The doctors sawed Erickson’s -head open, and decided that he had an “abnormal brain.” But evidently -they were not satisfied with their findings. Anyhow, it would seem they -craved another whack at him, as will be observed later. In making the -post-mortem the doctors used a common carpenter’s hand saw. I saw them -do it. - -Marquardt and his wife were buried in the Wetmore cemetery. Marquardt -was a Union soldier. His grave is marked with a slab bearing only his -name. - -There was no one here to claim Jim Erickson’s body. Neil Erickson, a -cousin, lived in that neighborhood—but the crime was too horrible for -him to have any part in the disposal of the murderer. Neil Erickson was -a respected citizen. Neil later married Peter Pope’s widow. She was the -sister of a Wetmore shoemaker named Reuter. Pope gave Reuter a cow -for bringing his sister here—as a prospective bride—besides paying the -woman’s way from Germany. She took with her into the Erickson home one -child — Charley. I do not know if Charley was her son, or Peter Pope’s -by his first wife. Likely the former. Pope had a daughter—Louise. She -was old enough at her father’s death to make her own way. She worked in -Dr. J. W. Graham’s home for several years. Neil Erickson was the father -of Dick Erickson. Jim Erickson’s brother George came later, and lived -here many years. He was an honorable man. - -The town people decided that they did not want a murderer buried in -the cemetery, so what was left of Jim Erickson after the doctors had -finished with him, was dumped into a packing box, and he was buried on -top of a high hill just south of town. This hill, then regarded as “no -man’s land,” is now a part of the Bartley farm. It has been locally -known ever since as Mount Erickson. - -On the night following the planting of Erickson, two groups of doctors, -with numerous assistants, started out to recover the body. But, as it -turned out, the corpse was left undistributed—at least, for that night. -Rumor had it that it did not remain long on the hill-top. - -The Wetmore group, led by Dr. W. F. Troughton, was first in the field. -Close on their heels came the Netawaka group. Dusk was upon them. One of -the Netawaka men rode a white horse. That rider and his companions moved -silently across the slough-grass swamp skirting the big hill, steadily -gaining on the Wetmore men who had halted at the base of the hill. -One of the local hirsute sentinels — they nearly all wore whiskers -then—exclaimed, “It’s a ghost!” That was enough. The Wetmore group -stampeded. The Netawaka group followed suit. And the cattle which had -bedded down for the night at the base of the hill stampeded. The cattle -bellowed, and what with terrified men and frightened beasts running this -way and that way, pandemonium reigned supreme for quite a spell. Perhaps -the cattle, too, had seen Erickson’s ghost. - -TURNING BACK THE PAGES Published in Wetmore Spectator and - -Horton Headlight—1936. - -By John T. Bristow - -The Old Overland Trail - -STATEMENT BY CHARLES H. BROWNE - -Editor Horton Headlight - -EDITOR’S NOTE—Nearly a year ago, J. T. Bristow, pioneer resident of -Wetmore and former editor of the Wetmore Spectator, promised Charles H. -Browne, editor of The Headlight at Horton, Kansas, he would prepare -an article dealing with early history of this corner of Kansas, -particularly as it was affected by the Old Military Road, which became -the Overland Stage route to the Far West and also the Pony Express -route. - -It was hoped Mr. Bristow would have the article ready for the 50th -Anniversary edition of The Headlight, published on October 29, 1936, -but this he was unable to do. However, he furnished the article several -months later, and The Headlight published it in seven installments. - -The article is so unusually well written, so authentic, and of such -absorbing interest that the editor has taken the liberty of reproducing -it in a small booklet in order that it may better be preserved for its -historical importance. - -Kansas pioneers living in south-central Nemaha and southern Brown -counties a little more than three-quarters of a century ago, witnessed -the inauguration of a stage line over an old trail passing their very -doors, so to speak. - -That road, thick with horse and mule drawn vehicles and long ox-drawn -wagon trains, grew quickly into the greatest thoroughfare of its kind -on the face of the earth. Simply a winding trail, ungraded and almost -wholly without bridges, it was by far the greatest line of vehicular -traffic of all times. It was a road with a golden background. It is the -major topic of this article. - -At that time there were no railroads or telegraph lines west of the -Missouri river. A vast wilderness, uninhabited except for Indians and a -few isolated white settlements, all territory between the river and the -Rocky mountains was designated as “The Great American Desert.” By many -it was considered the most worthless stretch of country in the western -world. An error, of course, and one agreeably noted by those living here -now—notwithstanding the New Deal brain trust’s prophecy that much of -this land is to revert to the desert. - -WANTS INFORMATION W. F. Turrentine, in Spectator - -A few days ago J. T. Bristow received a letter from Albert T. Reid, -national vice-chairman of The American Artists Professional League, -Incorporated, complimenting him on his article, “The Overland Trail,” -and asking for information regarding “Old Bob Ridley,” a famous -frontiersman well known to what few of the old settlers are left in this -vicinity. “Old Bob Ridley” was Robert Sewell who lived in this part of -Kansas in an early day and had a lot of vivid experiences, some of which -Mr. Bristow recorded in the article mentioned. Robert Sewell’s wife, -several years his junior, was a sister of Mrs. V. O. Hough. We quote the -following from Mr. Reid’s letter to Mr. Bristow: - -16 Georgia Ave., Long Beach, N. Y., November 14, 1937. - -Dear Mr. Bristow: - -Ralph Tennal of Sabetha sent me your story, “The Old Overland Trail,” a -few days ago and I read it from kiver to kiver without stopping to catch -my breath. It is very fascinating and a swell job. - -I was particularly interested in it because I had done a sketch which -I intended painting sometime. I made the sketch about two years ago -and from my memory of the incident which fascinated me particularly. I -called it “Old Bob Ridley Brings in the Mall.” - -Recently I put a mural in place in the Post Office at Sabetha which -was called “The Coming of the New Fast Mail.” It is of the Pony Express -rider passing the old Mail Stage. It has made a hit far beyond my -wildest hopes and leads me to believe this is the sort of thing the -public likes, and particularly our Kansas people—they like something -which is out of their past, realistic, romantic, colorful. - -Possibly you may remember me as the fellow who published the Leavenworth -Daily Post for 18 1/2 years and the Kansas Farmer for almost eleven -years during that period. I started to stick type on the Clyde papers. -Was born up in Concordia and I never saw a railroad train until I was -well up to six — just my father’s old stages which ran from Concordia to -Waterville and Marysville. - -So you see why the painting of our old past particularly interests me -and why I have a considerable first hand knowledge and feeling for it. -The details are most important to me. I made a most careful research for -my Pony Express and I want to be very accurate with Old Bob when I start -in to paint it. There are a few details I want to get straightened out, -so I am imposing on you to help me, thinking you may have some interest -in seeing the incident preserved. - -I gave Mr. Reid the information he desired, but I do not know if he ever -finished a canvass of “Old Bob.” Probably not—for it was my impression -(from reading between the lines) that if and when it should be completed -that I would be expected to approve it, in return for his compliment -to me. Bob’s home town would have been the natural place to exhibit it. -Albert was concerned most as to whether the stage-team driven by Bob -at the time of the Indian attack near Cottonwood Springs, in which he -killed three Redskins and wounded a dozen more, were horses or mules. I -said in my story that “Ben Holladay gave him a gold watch for saving -the stage and the four mules.” And this was Bob’s version of it. So I -gathered that Mr. Reid had this incident in mind for his painting. Only -recently, Dec. 10, 1950, the Topeka Daily Capital ran a story, with -illustration of a canvass by Albert T. Reid, “Main Street—1873” of the -Artist’s old home town, featuring his father’s four-horse stage coach -on the takeoff from Concordia. The Capital article said the women’s -organizations of Concordia were raising a fund of $1,500 to purchase the -canvass. - -Bob Ridley (Robert Sewall) brought his colorful record with him when -he came to Wetmore. Here, he was just like everyone else—maybe a little -more so. He took life easy, did not brag overly much about his past -exploits. Early in his career as stage driver on the Overland Trail, he -fell into the habit of helping a red headed girl wait table at Mrs. D. -M. Locknane’s celebrated eating house just west of Granada, grabbing -bites now and again from his plate in the kitchen, as he worked, all -through the twenty minute stops—and when this got monotonous he pepped -up matters by grabbing the redhead, all in one take. He married Cicily -Locknane—and established her in an eating house of their own at a -station in the Little Blue valley west of Marysville, while he himself -continued driving stage. But the frequent Indian raids in that section -soon sent Cicily back to her mother at Granada. Then, when there was no -more stage driving, Bob and Cicily moved down from Granada to Wetmore. -Their activities here have been noted in other articles. Robert Sewell -died in 1884. - -J. T. B. - -The Overland Trail, along which the mighty traffic of the plains moved, -was first laid out from Fort Leavenworth to Fort Kearney in 1849. The -road was definitely established in 1858, with a weekly mail route from -Saint Joseph to Salt Lake. In its settled state, the line ran daily from -Atchison to Placerville, and Sacramento, California. - -Prior to that the route through this section was used by gold-seekers, -following the discovery of gold in California in 1849. It was used by -emigrants, trappers, and adventurers coming from the East. Military -stores from Fort Leavenworth to the posts in the northwest were handled -over this trail. Also, freighting by ox-train was carried on extensively -from Leavenworth to the Mormon settlements in the Salt Lake valley. - -Mormons, too, may have traveled the road. And, as has been asserted in -print, Mormons there might have been who camped in a clump of timber a -few miles west of Atchison, causing it to be locally known as “Mormon -Grove.” Straggling Mormons, maybe. But not the main exodus. Contrary to -fixed assumption, the great migration of Mormons to the Salt Lake valley -in 1847 did not pass this way. Driven out of Missouri, they went to -Illinois; and again driven out of Illinois, they traveled through Iowa, -crossed the Missouri river at Council Bluffs and did not touch ground on -which the Old Trail was subsequently established until they reached the -Platte valley at or near Fort Kearney. The offense that had so incensed -the righteous citizens of Missouri and Illinois was flagrant polygamy. - -The main group of Mormons camped for nearly two years in Iowa while -Brigham Young, with a few of his disciples, went on farther west is -search of a place outside the United States where he hoped they could -carry on without interference. The Salt Lake valley was then in Mexican -territory. But almost before Brigham’s people had become settled the -war with Mexico was over and Brigham’s refuge was ceded to the “hated” -United States. Then for years the enormous migration across the plains -to California poured through the land of mormon. - -Brigham didn’t relish that—and in the following decade he kicked up -quite a disturbance. On every hand, he showed his hatred of all peoples -not Mormon. He climaxed matters with the Meadow Mountain massacre. In -1857 the Mormons plundered and murdered an emigrant train numbering -nearly 150 people. To be exact—a historical fact—120 men and women were -slaughtered. Seventeen children under seven years of age were taken -alive into Mormon camp. Also rumors, and some overt acts, indicated -that the Mormons were planning rebellion. This bit of history is related -merely to clarify statements which follow. - -Now the Old Trail through this section came into active use again. -General Albert Sidney Johnson’s army of 5,000 men, with a long ox-train -bearing military supplies, was sent out from Fort Leavenworth to put -down the so-called Mormon uprising. And, incidentally, that new mail -route through here was to give quicker service between Washington and -General Johnson. Prior to that, mail went to Salt Lake and the northwest -forts monthly, out of Independence, up the Kaw valley. - -All this business about the Old Trail happened of course before my day. -True, I came into this country over the Old Trail—when traffic was at -its peak—but I was too young to note much. Therefore, in compiling this -article I must draw from memory of what I have read, of what was told in -my presence, by old-timers after the closing years, together with what I -have been able to pick up at this late date—and from what I really know -about subsequent incidents that shall be given consideration. It is not -alone the story of the Old Trail. - -I know of no old-timer from whom I could have obtained more reliable -information than from my Uncle Nick Bristow. His first-hand knowledge -of the Old Trail, and of the early history of the West, is reflected -throughout this article. - -My uncle, Nicholas Bristow, who died here November 12, 1890, age 69 -years, came to Kansas before the Old Trail was in active existence—just -how early, I do not know. When my father wrote his brother from their -old home in Tennessee, he would send his letters in care of the Floyds -at old Doniphan, a steamboat landing on the Missouri river about five -miles north of Atchison. How often my uncle would get his mail depended -upon how often he drove his lumbering ox-team across the forty mile -stretch of intervening prairies to the river for supplies. Uncle Nick -kept that yoke of oxen a long time. I remember seeing him break prairie -with old Buck and Jerry, two rangy Texas steers with long spreading -horns tipped with brass knobs. - -And when my Uncle Nick wrote his cousin, Stephen Sersene, in California -to ask, in substance, if he were really finding the gold—the lure that -had snatched the said relative from his old Kentucky home and sent him -scampering across the plains to the Pacific slope in 1849—and could he -himself, should he go out there, stand a reasonable show of filling his -own poke with gold-nuggets, he posted that letter at old Doniphan and it -went to California by way of the Isthmus of Panama. - -Had Uncle Nick been so fortunate as to get that letter in the mails so -as to reach the Atlantic seaboard in time to connect with a semi-monthly -sailing it would have reached his cousin Steven in about thirty days. -With the inauguration of the Central Overland Stage Line, letters mailed -at Granada or old Powhattan were taken through to the western coast in -seventeen days—and later, by Pony Express, in ten days. Now, if he -were living, my uncle could have his letters delivered in California by -air-mail in ten hours. Thus have we progressed! Now, too, as all know, -with three enabling devices, one can telegraph, talk, and sing to -California, at will—and, if your photograph is of importance to the news -service, it can, within certain bounds, be wired to California at the -rate of an inch a minute for the breadth of the finished picture. - -And had my uncle decided to go to California, the Isthmus route would -have been his quickest and best way, if not the only safe way. However, -notwithstanding the perils and delays of overland travel, more than a -hundred thousand people crossed the plains in the first two years of the -gold rush—many of them passing this way. - -Our former townsman, Sneathen Vilott, whose home was then in Illinois, -and who came to Kansas in 1855, went to California by way of the Isthmus -of Panama during the gold excitement. I have often heard him talk -entertainingly about that experience. Also, William J. Oliphant, father -of Mrs. Robert T. Bruner, of Granada, went overland to California in -1849, and returned by way of the Isthmus. However, the goddess of gold -did not smile upon either of these men. Indeed, they both worked in -menial pursuits to earn return passage. - -Like nearly every one else in those days, Uncle Nick was gold-minded. He -coveted some of that gold. In fact, we all did in our day—uncle, father, -brother, and I. - -With sails all set for California and the placers, my father, William -Bristow, actually got out as far as Kansas in 1856. But someone in old -Doniphan, a relative of the Floyds who had been to California, took -the wind out of his sails with a negative report. My father was then -twenty-one years old. He visited his brother here, then went back to -Nashville, got married, and came out here again with his family in 1865. -He finally went to California to live out his last years. He died at -Fresno in 1908. - -In California, my father did not take up the hunt for gold—though, on -one occasion when I was visiting him, he drove with me over to the old -site of Millerton, which was one of the rich placers in the early days. -It is where the San Joaquin river comes down out of the mountains. -The only remaining evidence of that once hell-roaring town of 10,000 -inhabitants is the old territorial jail, a large stone building with -heavily barred windows and three foot walls — a relic of the wicked -past. - -While standing on the west bank of that swift flowing stream, watching -the foaming waters among the boulders rush past, my father, pulling -at his own whiskers in a sort of meditative way, said, with apparent -regret, “If it hadn’t been for that old long-whiskered cuss back there -at Old Doniphan, I might have been out here when there was something -doing; and probably”—he glanced toward the old jail which was then -closed to the public—”have gotten to see the inside of that building.” - -While at old Millerton my father told me that my brother Dave, then -in business in Fresno, had sent a representative and $5,000 into the -Klondike country. In passing, I may say here that my brother’s five -“grand” found a permanent home in the frozen north. Also, the miner -sent to Alaska on a grubstake agreement got back within two years with -nothing more than a sizable tale of hardships—and ten frosted toes. -Julius Pohl, from Horton; Col. Ed. Post, from Atchison; and Sam -Ebelmesser, formerly of Wetmore, now living in Los Angeles, were in -that frenzied, frozen, Alaskan gold rush. Also, my brother Dave had some -non-productive experience in seeking “black gold” in the Bakersfield -oilfield—$15,000 worth of it. - -My Uncle Nick was a Union soldier in the Civil war, and before that a -soldier in the Mexican war of 1848—the war that dashed the heaven out of -Brigham’s haven. Also, in a way, he was a soldier of fortune. He hunted -gold, and he hunted mountain lions in the Rockies. - -But Uncle Nick did not go to California. Almost before he had had time -to hear from his cousin Steve, he got his chance to dig for gold—and -strange as it may appear, it was in Kansas! My uncle was among the -first at the sensational Cherry c reek gold diggings—the present site of -Denver—in 1858, advertised at the time in the East as the gold-fields of -western Kansas. For want of a better known landmark, probably, the scene -of that gold strike was inaccurately laid in the shadow of Pike’s Peak. -Though visible on clear days, through the sun-drenched haze that lies -always, like a pall, over the mountain fastness, Pike’s Peak is a good -hundred miles south of Denver. But that gold find was truly in Kansas. -At that time Kansas territory extended west to the backbone of the Rocky -mountains. The city of Denver—first called Auraria—scene of the Cherry -creek placers, was named after the territorial Governor of Kansas—James -W. Denver. - -Uncle Nick located a claim at the Cherry creek diggings and sent home -to my aunt Hulda a small bottle of gold-dust, saying in a letter to -her that she was “no longer a poor man’s wife!” That was, as my aunt -afterwards said, a “sorry” thing to do—like giving a reprieve to a -condemned man, and then revoking it. My uncle brought home no gold. He -must have neglected his claim for the more hazardous business of hunting -mountain lions. - -That ferocious beast, if you don’t know, is the big cat with four -names. In the East and South he is the panther. In the Rockies he is -the mountain lion. In Arizona and on the Pacific slope he is the cougar. -Somewhere he is the puma. And everywhere he is the killer! - -No Government bounty was paid on cougars then, as there is now; but the -pelts were much in demand for rugs. Hunters went after the lions for the -same reason that early-day trappers sought the beaver. I recall that the -lion rug in my uncle’s home, measuring eight feet from tip to tip, with -stuffed head and artificial eyes—a trophy of his Rocky mountain hunts, -killed at the risk of his own life, was a scary thing. The great beast -was shot in the nick of time — in mid-air, after that two hundred pounds -of destruction had made the spring for my uncle from an overhanging limb -of a great pine. - -And, incidentally, I might say my father had some terrifying experience -with that killer, the panther. He was walking through the dark woods -in his native Tennessee, nearing his home, when a night prowler fell in -behind him, coming so close that he could feel the animal’s breath on -his swinging hands, and he thought nothing of it—just then. Likely one -of his dogs come to meet him. But in the yard, he could see by the light -of the lamp in the window, which my mother was always careful to put -there to show him that he would not be trespassing on the home of a -wicked woman living in a lonely cabin in the nearby deep wood—a witch, -they called her; but there was suspicion that she was more than that to -some of the menfolk—he could see that his trailer was a panther. It had -feasted on the offals from the day’s hog-killing, or butchering—and, -with a bellyful, was in a rather composed mood. Not so my Dad. Did he -run? He did not. He had learned from old hunters to not show fright when -in a tight spot with that ugly animal. However, he said his stimulated -mind reached the door about twenty “shakes of a sheep’s tail” ahead of -his paralyzed legs. - -Uncle Nick’s recounted experiences with the lions were enough to fire -the hunting blood in his young nephew. Later, however, the nephew going -over the same ground said to himself, “To hell with the lions—me for the -gold!” The contagion had gotten me. Recounting the great wealth of the -five major placers, I “cussed” myself—mildly, of course — for not having -been born earlier. - -Too late for the placers, and thoroughly imbued with the idea, I took a -dip at hard-rock mining—and, paradoxically, “cussed” myself again. Less -mildly, however. Ah, that delving for gold—it is a dramatic game, a -business wherein the element of chance runs rampant and the imagination -is given unbridled play. - -Bedeviled by Indians and highwaymen, there were perils and hardships in -travel along the Overland Trail in those days—but nothing, absolutely -nothing, slowed up the westward march. The race to acquire new wealth -was on! “Pike’s Peak, or Bust,” was the slogan! In swinging up through -Nebraska the Old Trail made a wide rainbow circle to reach Denver. -There was literally “a pot of gold” at the end of the rainbow! Gold, -glittering yellow gold! Nothing else in the wide world has ever stirred -men more deeply, driven them to greater tests of endurance, or robbed -them more swiftly of reason. - -Still, gold changed the whole history of the country. It sent a mighty -migration of people across the continent, built a trans-continental -railroad, and established an American empire on the Pacific coast. And -gold—magic gold — was the life-stream of the old Overland Trail! - -The Cherry creek placers were the first after the California discoveries -to attract the throngs of that gold-mad era. It was gold here in -mid-continent! Gold in Kansas! It was new business for the Old Trail. -The great bulk of western travel, with attending heavy commerce, was to -the goldfields. - -Again, in 1863, when placer gold was discovered in the Alder Gulch -section of Montana, traffic on the old line became enormously heavy. -The three principal camps—Bannock, Virginia City, and Nevada—yielded -a hundred million dollars in placer gold. Twenty thousand gold-hungry -miners frantically worked the streams for the yellow metal, while -thousands more men were on the road to and from that Eldorado. They were -mostly from the East—men who had traveled the Old Trail through here. - -Indians have been mentioned. They were notably troublesome at times, -especially in the buffalo country west of the Blue river. In that -territory there were four hostile tribes—Sioux, Cheyenne, Comanche, and -Pawnee. The Indians had the Overland Stage line between the Blue and -Julesburg blocked for six weeks in 1864. Station-keepers, stage-drivers, -and travelers were killed; stations were burned and stage-stock stolen. -The congestion along the line extended back to Atchison. Numerous -itinerant outfits were detained at Granada. - -Even in my time, on this side of the Blue, the sight of a red blanket -out in the open was enough to send a spasm of fear surging through -children, and adults did not feel any too comfortable. Always there -was that feeling that approaching Indians in numbers might not be our -Kickapoos, but hostiles from the other side of the Blue. Then there came -a day when our citizens were sure of it—no mistaking that band of four -hundred redskins for the peaceful Kickapoos! - -It was a queer looking cavalcade — tall braves and Indians squatty, -squaws fat and greasy, bronze maidens passably “fair”; children, -papooses, ponies, and dogs galore — with luggage lashed on long poles -hitched to ponies in buggy-shaft fashion, with the rear ends dragging on -the ground. The Indian travois. - -At four o’clock of a rather hot summer day, those Indians, unannounced, -made camp at the old ford near the edge of town. Two of our influential -townsmen—one professional, one artisan — invaded the Indian camp, and -through speech, signs, or somehow, gleaned the information that -the Indians were from Nebraska and were on their way to the Indian -Territory. - -Come early bonfire-light that night, those two white men re-entered -the Indian camp. They took along a Scotsman’s “wee bit” of the Indian’s -“firewater,” but whether they unlawfully gave it to the braves or -drank it themselves, was cloaked in silence. The charitable townspeople -preferred to believe they drank it themselves—hence the mess. But the -best “kid” analysis at the time favored the belief that the trouble had -all come about through the white man’s ignorance of Indian etiquette—as -with respect to bronze maidens passably “fair.” - -Those two white men were ejected from the Indian camp—not exactly thrown -out on their ears, but definitely dismissed. Expressed in Indian terms, -here was a tribe whose braves “no like paleface put nose in Indian’s -business.” In the telling, those two rebuffed men themselves did not -seem to care very much—but all through the night the town waited in -suspense. No exaggeration, there was needless apprehension. And may I -add that this episode did not react unfavorably against the future high -standing of those two influentials. - -Traffic on the old dirt road, known as the Overland Trail, began in a -big way in 1859, when the powerful freighting firm of Russell, Majors, -and Waddell acquired the stage and mail business of John M. Hockaday, -who held the first mail contract. The road was given another big -boost when Ben Holladay, with his famous Concord coaches and four and -six-horse teams, came onto the line in 1861. Holladay took over the -stage and mail business of Russell, Majors, and Waddell. - -About three thousand horses and mules were in the stage service. Eight -to twelve animals were kept at each station, which were spaced on an -average of twelve miles apart. At its highest the stage fare to Denver -was $125, and to Sacramento $225. - -The Russell, Majors, and Waddell firm, with headquarters at Atchison and -Leavenworth, continued in the freighting business. This company employed -8,000 men, and was equipped with 6,000 heavy wagons, and 75,000 oxen. -At the same time there were about twenty other firms and individuals -freighting out of Atchison. - -The Russell firm, with other interests, established the Pony Express in -1860. The route from St. Joseph to Sacramento, 1920 miles, was covered -in ten days—semi-weekly, at first. When the Civil war commenced, it was -changed to daily. In the service were eighty riders and 500 horses — not -ponies of the Indian class, but the best blooded horses that money -could buy. They had to be fast to outrace the hostile Indians. The -Pony Express, carrying first-class letters and telegrams only, lasted -eighteen months. Telegraph connection with the Far West was established -then. For a half-ounce letter a 10-cent Government postage stamp and -a dollar Pony Express stamp were required. The Pony Express charge was -much more at first. - -Riders starting from St. Joseph and Sacramento simultaneously every -morning kept a constant stream going both ways—day and night. Like the -stage drivers, each rider had a given territory to make, with a change -of horses every twelve miles. The first lap was from St. Joseph to -Seneca. Lightweight riders only were used—mere boys they were. Don C. -Rising was a Pony Express rider. He made his home in Wetmore after the -close of the staging days. - -The old road, with St. Joseph and Leavenworth as initial starting -points, had a junction at Kennekuk, one and one-half miles south of the -present site of Horton. On the St. Joseph branch were three stations — -Wathena, Troy, and Lewis. - -Later, Atchison was made the starting point for the stage and mails. At -this time railroad service was extended from St. Joseph to Atchison—and, -on the west end, river service was had from Sacramento to San Francisco. -The first station out of Atchison was Lancaster, 11 miles. Then -Kennekuk, 24 miles; Kickapoo, 36 miles; Log Chain, 49 miles; Seneca, 60 -miles. - -From Seneca the line continued westward to Marysville. It crossed the -Big Blue river at Marysville, went up the Little Blue valley, crossed -over to the Platte valley, then up the Platte to Fort Kearney. At -Julesburg one branch turned south into Denver. The main line crossed the -South Platte at Julesburg, touched at Fort Larimer and Fort Bridger -in Wyoming. From Salt Lake it took a western course across Nevada to -Virginia City; thence over the Sierra Nevada mountains to Placerville -and Sacramento. - -Considerable attention is given to the routing through Nemaha and Brown -counties. For historical purposes, it is important that this should be -done now while it is yet possible to trace the route with some degree -of accuracy. Only slight evidences of the Old Trail remain. Practically -everything obtainable now is a carry over from another generation, -hearsay. In a few years more all information pertaining to the old road -will have been relayed to a third and fourth generation, if not, indeed, -forgotten altogether, locally. There are people here now, some living -almost atop the Old Trail, who have never heard of it. There are none -living now who were adults then, and even very few who were children. -Albert Pitman, of Sabetha, aged 90, is probably the oldest person now -living who was in the Powhattan-Granada neighborhood during staging -days. Mrs. Martha Hart, E. J. Woodman, Volley Hough, Edwin Smith, and -Ed. Vilott, now living at McAlister, Oklahoma, were children. - -Tracing the Old Trail, locally, we find: The road at first came almost -due west from Kennekuk across the Kickapoo Indian reservation, but -probably bent over into what is now Brown County, as it followed the -ridges. It crossed the Delaware at a point about eighty rods upstream -from the crooked bridge on the present south line of the reservation—the -Jackson-Brown County line. The Kickapoo reservation at that time -contained about 150,000 acres. It has since been diminished three times. -Now it is a block five by six miles in extent, thirty sections, 19,200 -acres — with much of the land owned by the whites. - -The first mission, built in 1856, was located on Horton Heights, inside -the present city limits of Horton. The site was marked by a red glacial -boulder on December 1, 1936 — 80 years after the Indian school was -established by E. M. Hubbard—the first school of any kind in Brown -County. - -Also, there is confusion about the name of the stream spanned by the -crooked bridge. Some call it the Grasshopper, and others refer to it as -Walnut creek. It is neither. Lewis and Clark, explorers, named it the -Grasshopper in 1804. It was changed to the Delaware in 1875 by an act of -the Kansas legislature. - -From that creek crossing, the trail followed the ridge to the old town -of Powhattan in section 33, Powhattan township—the same section on which -the East Powhattan school house is located, at the present intersection -of U. S. 75 and the new graveled highway now running 11 miles straight -east to Horton. The change station was on the northeast quarter, owned -by Henry Gotchell, who had charge of the station, and also the post -office. - -My mother got her first letter written by relatives in Tennessee, at -the Powhattan post office. Her cousin, Gaius Cullom, a school teacher, -wrote: “Powhattan—why, that’s an Indian name! I am grieved to believe -my dear cousin Martha is residing dangerously close to wild Indians. Be -careful, my favorite, and don’t let those accursed aborigines get your -scalp!” Alone for the day with her three small children in her country -home, a year later, some such fears must have gripped my mother, when, -on approach of a meandering band of blanketed Kickapoos, she hurriedly -gathered up her brood and made a dash for the cornfield. - -The old town of Powhattan—not to be confused with the present town of -Powhattan farther over in Brown county—which was established 11 miles -northeast when the Rock Island railway went through in 1886 — was in the -center of the northwest quarter of section 33. There was a store, hotel, -blacksmith shop, and numerous dwellings. Although regularly surveyed in -town lots, nobody really owned the land on which the town was located -at the time. It was held by “quatter’s rights,” in succession, by three -men—Peter Shavey, Riley Woodman, and C. C. Grubb. It is now a cornfield, -owned by Mrs. James Grubb. - -From Powhattan, the line ran west across the Timber-lake and Cassity -lands. The Timberlake land is now owned by Mrs. Cora Jenkins. The road -then followed the ridge to Granada, passing from Brown county to Nemaha -county at that point. - -In 1860 the Powhattan change station was moved to a point three miles -north. The change was made to take out a big curve and save mileage. -The new station was called Kickapoo. It was on Indian land near the -new mission on the west edge of the reservation. Noble H. Rising was in -charge. Later, he was a merchant in Wetmore; as was also W. W. Letson, -Express messenger. - -Going back to the Grasshopper-Delaware crossing, the new line ran -northwest to the mission, crossing Gregg’s creek—now Walnut creek—about -midway. From the mission, the road crossed the Bill Garvin lands and -went almost due west to Granada, crossing Gregg’s (Walnut) creek again -downstream from the present bridge east of Granada. Joe Plankington -recently found a cache of rough “diamonds” in a hollow at the base of a -tree near this crossing. The “rocks” were supposedly hidden there by a -returning traveler, back in the sixties—probably a prospector afraid to -chance crossing the Kickapoo reservation, carrying his precious find. - -NOTE—Since this article was printed in 1936, Joe Plankington tells me -that one of the old Kickapoos—Pas-co-nan-te, father of John “Butler -” —told him the Indians were stalking the traveler and that he, -Pas-co-nan-te, watched the wayfarer hide the rocks in that tree, many -moons ago. And Joe said the old Indian accurately traced the way — on -paper—tree by tree, from the Trail to the right tree. - -And furthermore, Joe believes he has seen the scalp of the former -possessor of his rocks—and at the same time had his own hair standing -on end. Because of a slight favor by Joe, Pas-co-nan-te asked him if he -would like to see a scalp, and at the same time told a young Indian whom -Joe thinks was a grandson, to fetch one. When the scalp was laid down -where Joe could get a good look at it, Pas-co-nan-te grabbed Joe by the -“topknot” saying, “Maybe me show you how.” The knife the Indian held in -his other hand cut Joe to the quick—but the blood froze in his veins, -and not a drop was spilled. Then the old Indian said, “Me foolin.’ Me -know better now.” The young Indian told Joe, later, that he was pretty -sure the old Indians had killed the traveler. - -Joe also says he sent one of the “diamonds” to a niece in Boise, Idaho, -and that the cutter who dressed the stone—for $25—pronounced it a -high-quality pigeon blood ruby. - -The old stage drivers “bumped” into many exciting and some amusing -incidents. In the Far West “Hank Monk” held the record for fast driving -and tall stories. And fictitious or not, “Hank” was the ranking driver -in the West. Here it was Bob Ridley, Bill Evans, and Lon Huff—with Bob -well out in front. My cousin, Bill Porter, says his uncle Bill Evans -told this one. His run took him across the Kickapoo reservation. -Whenever his stage would pass the Indian Mission the young Indians would -put on a demonstration — race their ponies around the stage, compelling -him to stop. Then they would ask for tobacco. Bill was always prepared -for them. On one trip out of Saint Joseph he had only two passengers -— mere boys, from the East. They said they were going West to fight -Indians, and they had the guns strapped on them to do it. Knowing how -the young Indian bucks would perform, Bill told his passengers that he -was now coming into Indian country, and was liable to be attacked—but -they, the boys, must not start shooting until he gave the word. It would -be suicidal for them to start the fight. He told them other reasonable -and some* highly unreasonable stories about the Indians. The boys were -expecting the worst. The young Indian bucks appeared as usual, and -circled the stage—yelling, screaming, yelling like assassins pouring out -of bedlam. Bill tossed his plug of tobacco out to them—then climbed -down from his high seat and looked in on the boys. They were down on the -floor, hiding. Before completing his run, the boys told Evans that they -were going to abandon the notion of fighting Indians. Bill said, “I told -them that I was sure they would change their minds after having one good -look at the Indians.” One of the boys said, “We didn’t really get a good -look at them—.” but we heard their blood-curdling yells, and that was -enough. The other boy said, “What I want to know is—how do we happen to -be alive?” - -After the removal of the Powhattan change station, Henry Gotchell sold -to Riley Woodman. Woodman sold to C. C. Grubb, who came to section 33 -in 1857. Grubb was postmaster after Gotchell. Mail was carried down from -Granada. Later, the Powhattan postoffice was moved to Wetmore. - -Riley Woodman, father of E. J. Woodman, came in 1863. While the mail and -stage now went on the north road, some traffic still followed the old -line. In December, 1863, an ox-train transporting Government supplies -was snowed in at the Woodman place and remained there until March. In -the outfit were seventeen men, two saddle horses, and ninety-six oxen. - -The Government paid Woodman one dollar a- bushel for corn—not an -excessive price, under prevailing conditions. But often freighters and -travelers were compelled, in emergencies, to pay ruinous prices for -feed. Scarcity and the high cost of provisions at times, also taxed the -travelers’ slender resources. - -In 1860, the driest of all years in Kansas since the first efforts at -farming, nothing was produced. Potatoes, Mrs. Martha Hart tells me, did -not grow as large as hazelnuts. That year William Porter yoked up four -steers to his lumber wagon and drove them over into Missouri, where he -traded one yoke of oxen for provisions—and he didn’t get a burdensome -return load, at that. There was a little short slough-grass in the -lowlands, which the farmers cut with cradles and sold to overland -travelers at twenty cents a pound. - -From Granada, the road went past the cemetery, touched at the Sneathen -Vilott farm, section 24, Capioma township; thence northwest to Log Chain -in section 19. From Log Chain the line ran northwest to old Lincoln, -section 13, Mitchell township—about one mile northeast of the State -lake—thence to Seneca. Granada and Lincoln were not change stations. - -If the hills about old Log Chain could talk, doubtless one could find -a lot of story material there. While to my knowledge the only thing -to distinguish that station was the mud-hole that gave it its name, it -really has a colorful background. Rich in legendary lore and historical -fact, there is no telling what an enterprising artist might do in -painting the old picture over. It is said Abe Lincoln got as far west as -Log Chain. The land is now owned by Dr. Sam Murdock. - -Nearly all the old-timers here took one or more turns at bull-whacking -across the plains. It was the only sure money “crop” for the pioneer -farmer. Usually one trip was enough. Fred Liebig, Henry McCreery, and -John Williams made several trips. - -Fred Shumaker, father of Roy and “Hank,” who came here in 1856, was a -driver for the freighting firm that transported the stores for General -Johnson’s army. After the army had reached Fort Bridger, where it was -detained through the first winter, Shumaker was detailed as driver for -a guard sent on beyond Salt Lake to meet the army payroll coming in from -California. The safe containing the money was transferred to his -wagon. On that trip he saw, scattered about on either side of the road, -bleaching in the desert sun, the bones of those ill-fated emigrants who -lost their lives in the Meadow Mountain massacre. Fred Shumaker earned -enough money on that trip to pay for his first farm, which cost him -$1.25 an acre. He married Rachel Jennings, the sister of Zeke Jennings -who lived on a farm northeast of Wetmore for many years. She was -employed in the Perry hotel at Kennekuk. - -Bill and Ben Porter, who came here first in 1856—left, and came again in -1858, drove oxen for a transport company hauling Government supplies. On -one trip, the company feed supplies ran short out in Wyoming and most of -the stock died. The train was hauling corn to the northwest forts, but -it could not be used, even in emergencies like that. A guard was left -with the train while waiting for fresh oxen to move it. The weak cattle, -still able to travel, were taken back to Leavenworth. It was a bitter -cold winter. The drivers protected themselves as best they could from -the Arctic blasts in snow drifts. - -Wagon trains of the larger outfits consisted of twenty-five wagons, five -yoke of oxen and a driver for each wagon — with wagon-boss, assistant -boss, and herder. - -My Uncle Nick Bristow and Green Campbell took a turn at bull-whacking -for that major freighting firm—Russell, Majors, and Waddell. But imbued -with the spirit of the times, they forsook the bulls for the more -exciting business of panning gold. My uncle’s exploits have been -mentioned. In other articles I have referred, with no little degree of -pride, to the Campbell mining success—he having gone from here into the -West in company with my uncle—and then, too, he “schooled” one connected -with my own efforts in the mining game. That we failed to duplicate his -enviable success was no reflection on that able tutor. - -This, however, has never been in print. Green Campbell made his first -money at mining in the Cherry creek diggings — $60,000. He spent most of -it while in that camp. He told my mining partner, Frank Williams, that -he spent his money rather too freely, in the customary way of that -period, at old Auraria. It was money he very much needed later. With -only $1,500 of his stake remaining, he went to the Alder Gulch diggings -in Montana. At Bannock he and a partner, Mart Walsh, located claims -which sold for $80,000. Walsh, a merchant at Muscotah in the early days, -at one time owned 600 acres of land north of that town. He died in a -county home in Oklahoma, penniless. He was a brother-in-law of Mrs. -William Maxwell, of Wetmore. - -Later, Green Campbell made his big fortune, millions, in lode mining in -Utah and Nevada, which, since his death has, largely, been kept intact -by his wife and two sons, Allen and Byram — his second family — now -living at 705 Camden Drive, Beverly Hills, California. The first boy was -named for his father, who, in the halls of Congress, was the Honorable -Allen G. Campbell. The other boy was named for Campbell’s partner in -the famous Horn Silver mine—August Byram, of Atchison. There was a girl, -Caroline. - -Given space, I could make of this in itself a very interesting story. -Green Campbell’s second wife was Eleanor Young, a reporter on a Salt -Lake newspaper, and daughter-in-law of the famous old Brigham himself, -who hated all peoples not of the Mormon faith. It is not recorded that -the lady said to her man, like Ruth of old, “Thy people shall be my -people, and thy God my God.” But the inference is, she did. Campbell did -not go Mormon. Indeed, he was poison to the saints after he contested -the election of his Mormon opponent, Bishop Cannon, and took unto -himself the Canadian’s seat in Congress after it had been occupied by -the alien for nearly two years. - -Several of the old stage drivers, after closing days, married and -settled down in Wetmore. Robert Sewell married Cicily Locknane; Lon -Huff married Clara Rising; Bill Evans married Kate Porter. Through -their activities on the stage line, and breathing the free atmosphere -of frontier life, these men were all moulded pretty much into a like -pattern. Good story-tellers all, they lent themselves to the occupation -without stint. Jovial and courteous at all times, they shunned -work—unless it be with horses. Lon Huff drove the hearse for the local -undertaker. He had a black team for adults, and a team of white horses -for children. - -Robert Sewell, the outstanding character, known on the plains as “Bob -Ridley,” owned a livery stable here. Shall I tell the auto-minded young -sprouts that the livery stable, now in the discard, was an enterprise of -the horse-and-buggy days—a place where rigs were kept for hire? -Sewell’s wife, Cicily, ran a hotel. Her mother, Mrs. D. M. Locknane, -had conducted a famous eating house just west of Granada during overland -days. Those two early-day enterprises of the Sewells were known as the -“Overland Livery Stable,” and the “Overland Hotel.” Bob Sewell had a -record of killing three Indians and wounding a dozen more in a running -fight near Cottonwood Springs. Ben Holladay gave him a gold watch for -saving the stage and four mules. - -About the Old Trail, I have heard my uncle say that in the flush times -of 1865 and 1866, when traffic was at its peak, there was hardly an hour -of the day when one could not see the road lined for miles—one seeming -endless procession moving westward. No other road ever had such a -promiscuous, persevering throng—a weary plodding throng, whose way was -fraught with many hardships, whose dead were left all along the Old -Trail from the Missouri river to the Golden Gate. Other stage lines -threaded the West and the Southwest—but the Overland has gone down in -history as the greatest of them all. - -Three score and ten years have now gone by since the last Concord stage -coach made its final run from Atchison, through Granada. All equipment -was at that time moved west to the end of steel—leaving the eastern end -of the great Overland Trail abandoned and waiting, a lost ghost, for the -day when Fate, slow but sure, should plow it under. And with poignant -memory was gone, too, a stirring bit of frontier life in the West. - - -MEMORY’S STOREHOUSE UNLOCKED Published in Wetmore Spectator, -Holton Recorder, Seneca Courier-Tribune, Atchison Daily Globe— - -December, 1938. - -By John T. Bristow - -Green Campbell’s Colorful Mining Career - -The train wound its way by easy stages down from the mountain heights -into the desert valley. The railroad split the great basin in halves. -On either side treeless mountains rose in endless succession. It was -mid-summer in the great inter-mountain region—and the sage-fringed -valley, broad and almost level, stretching ahead for miles and miles, -shimmered frightfully under the glaring rays of the noonday sun. And -winds swept out of the south like withering blasts from a slag furnace. - -It was the Utah desert. - -Far off to the right, shrouded in desert haze, could be seen the tip of -a mountain which marked the approximate location of a famous early-day -mining camp. The scene — barren, desolate, and so familiar to me — -brought back a flood of memories. Instantly my mind dwelt upon events -of the long-ago in that old mining camp and simultaneously with the -home-life back in Kansas of the man who made it. - -In that brief flash I saw it all. In that jumbled picture I glimpsed -a sturdy hoist over a deep shaft at the base of that mountain, -whose cables had in times past brought up daily tons of high-grade -argentiferous ore, every ton of which, though it greatly enriched my -erstwhile Kansas. - -The last installment of J. T. Bristow’s fascinating tale of the career -of Green Campbell is a fine piece of writing. We have heard many -commendable expressions on this biographical sketch. . . . The author, -J. T. Bristow, is a resident of Wetmore, a former newspaperman, -well known to many of our citizens. That he is a good writer is the -conviction of all. - -—WILL T. BECK, Holton Recorder, neighbor, had spelled defeat for him in -the most sacred phase of human life. - -In that flash I glimpsed too a stretch of rich rolling Kansas prairie -lined with streams of running water and a healthy growth of timber, -in the center of which, down by the timber’s edge, was once this man’s -place of abode, and which was then, and still is, but a few miles from -my own home. And I saw a wrecked home; a court house thronged with -curious people; and a lonely woman, a distraught wife and mother of a -little boy, fighting desperately for her freedom—and alimony. - -The scene is now in Kansas. It will shift back and forth between here — -meaning, roughly, Wetmore, from which place this writing issues—and the -old mining West again and again as this narrative unfolds. - -THE CHERRYVALE ICE CO. - -Watkins Brothers, Prop’s - -CHERRYVALE, KANSAS - -Feby. 17, 1939. - -Jno. T. Bristow, Esq., Wetmore, Kans. - -Dear Friend John: - -“Memory’s Store-House Unlocked,” by J. T. Bristow, appearing in the -Wetmore Spectator, came to me through the mail recently and I sure -enjoyed reading it more than anything I have read in some time. - -Having attended the Campbell University and knowing personally many of -the characters in your article makes it of unusual interest and I wish -to congratulate you for writing such an interesting historic record and -thank you for the copy sent me. - -Sincerely yours, - -F. M. Watkins - -Among the emigrants from the East during the early settlement of the -Sunflower state, were John and Green Campbell. Tall, stalwart young men -they were. Green was then twenty-two years old. John was a few years -older. With their sisters, Caroline and Sally Ann, and their mother, -Ruth Campbell, born in North Carolina in 1803, they came to Nemaha -county by ox-team in a covered wagon from down around Springfield, -Missouri, in 1856. Their father, James Campbell, had died in Missouri. - -Passing up smooth high lands, the brothers selected adjoining claims in -the breaks of upper Elk creek, section thirty, Wetmore township. This -selection of rather rough lands was influenced no doubt by the presence -of some timber and a spring of “living” water—two indispensable -requisites of the pioneer farmer. Then, too, they might have entertained -the notion of becoming cattle barons. Many of the early comers had -such dreams. Here was the ideal location. Here they would have few -neighbors—and unlimited free range. - -Goodsprings, Nevada, February 12, 1939. - -Mr. John T. Bristow, Wetmore, Kansas. - -Dear Sir: - -I want to thank you for the copies of the Wetmore Spectator which you -sent to me, which carry the life of father. Frank Williams had already -given me one issue, which I have loaned to several of father’s friends, -a few of whom are still alive. The new copies will be treasured by my -brother, my sister, and myself. - -Father died while I was still so young that I have been able to retain -but few memories of him. However, I have gathered so many impressions -from friends who knew him well, not to mention mother, that I feel that -I have gained quite a true picture of him. In this connection it seems -to me that your life of him is not only accurate, in its main for I know -this to be true features, but that it goes deeper, and gives some -of the spirit that animated him. And particularly do I like your last -paragraph, and your reference “. . . . in whose heart there seems to -have burned an inextinguishable desire for something that never came.”; - -Sincerely yours, - -Byram C. Campbell - -In that same year, 1856, Isaiah Thomas, with his family, came here from -Newton, Iowa. He had traveled all the way from Indiana to Iowa, thence -here, with ox-team and covered wagon. Custom and bovine traits had -caused him to walk alongside his oxen for practically all those wearying -miles. Isaiah Thomas settled on a quarter of land north of that taken up -by Green Campbell. His eldest boy, Elwood, was a lad of fifteen years, -seven years younger than Green Campbell. The destinies of these -two young men were to be subsequently linked together in gigantic -enterprises in a still newer frontier environment. - -Times were close for the Campbells. They were compelled, as were many -early Kansas settlers, to pick up here and there a few extra dollars, -as opportunity offered, while becoming established on the farm. Green -Campbell found employment with the freighting firm of Russell, Majors, -and Waddell, at Leavenworth. His work took him often into the West. -When the Cherry creek gold excitement on the east slope of the Rocky -mountains broke out in 1858, he joined the throngs in that mad rush. -He cleaned up $60,000 from the placer mines, but had spent most of it -before coming back to his homestead. - -Then for a while Green worked his land while the boy Elwood grew up. -Elwood was not to come into the picture, the gigantic doings, for some -years yet. In the meantime his father, Isaiah Thomas, had gone to the -war and had died in Arkansas. His mother, Martha Thomas, with her family -of seven children, had moved over to the north part of the township and -settled on forty acres a quarter mile east of Wetmore, which place has -been, until a few months ago, the home of her son, Manning. Unmarried, -and the last of that pioneer family, he died May 12, 1938. Though very -young, Elwood Thomas also joined the Union ranks and was held prisoner -of war at Tyler, Texas, for nearly a year. Shortly after returning -from the war, he married Maria Adamson, of Holton. They had four -children—three girls and a boy. Charley, the son, died at Beatty, -Nevada, in August last year. - -Five years after his first mining venture, in 1863, Green Campbell was -again panning gold at Bannock, Montana. His take this time was $40,000. -Then, after one more desultory try on the farm, he married Florence -Oursler, of Circleville, in 1867. She was the daughter of Rufus Oursler, -wealthy resident of Jackson County. She was a beautiful woman. - -For a few years contentment reigned in the Campbell home. I remember -going with my Uncle Nick Bristow one time when he visited in that home. -We went in a covered wagon, a wagon that was little more than a ghost of -the old “prairie schooner,” having all five of the bows still in place, -with a tattered canvas over only the rear half. But my uncle walked all -the way alongside his nigh ox. Uncle had a “log-wagon” for heavy hauling -on the farm. He kept this one for special occasions and Sunday driving. -He owned no horses. - -Uncle Nick and Green Campbell had mined together in the Cherry creek -diggings—and the fact that his host of the day had cleaned up big, while -he himself brought home only alibis, and a cougar pelt, had not impaired -a fine friendship. Conscious of Mr. Campbell’s mine-made money, it then -seemed to me, a youngster, that the Campbells had everything—even a -“hired” girl. That girl was Elizabeth Dittman, now Mrs. Ed. Keggin, -living in Wetmore, who would tell you that everything was fine and -lovely with them then, as it had every reason to be. - -Then rumor of a new mining strike in the West changed everything. Green -Campbell now found life irksome on his then none too productive acres -down on the banks of Elk creek. And as he turned over the soil with -his plow on a bright May day in 1871, he also turned things over in his -mind. His brother John, he decided, could remain on the farm and keep up -the fight against odds if he wanted to, but as for himself the Far West -was calling. That call had struck the man of my story with all the force -of a Kansas tornado, and it moved him from his anchorage on the farm -with a suddenness that brought a protest from his relatives. - -So it was that Green Campbell, with his family now shifted to -Circleville, the home of his in-laws, went out again in quest of a third -fortune. And though millions came into his coffers, one cannot be sure, -after all these years and in the light of what followed, whether he -profited or lost by that abrupt decision back here on that bright May -morning sixty and seven years ago. - -They called him a tenderfoot when he reached the end of the trail which -led out into a sand-blown waste two hundred miles and more beyond rail -transportation. Here, on the east slope of the San Francisco mountains, -in southwest Utah—about thirty miles from Milford, on the San Pedro -line—this man from the plains country, ripe for more adventure, was to -have a try for a third mining fortune. It was his first hard-rock mining -venture. - -Green Campbell got the gold all right—millions of it — and distinguished -himself by developing one of the greatest silver mines of the age. But -that is only part of the story. - -The great fortune was won by so close a margin that it hurt. Then there -was, to some extent, the usual anti-climax — spiced with complicated -domestic relations, growing out of an improvident situation. - -But the name “tenderfoot,” as applied to Green Campbell, was not quite -right. He had already taken $100,000 from the placers; certainly enough -to lift him out of that classification. Even so, granting that he was -a seasoned miner at the time he entered the Utah field, Green Campbell -did, however, slip just a trifle. - -The erroneous application of that appellation came about through a -little misjudgment of the waters of that desert country—springs they are -called. But the springs in that section, as in all other desert country, -with few exceptions, are not the bubbling, sparkling, steady flow of -waters generally visualized with the mention of springs. Rather, in most -instances, they are only seepages of water which must be collected in -ground reservoirs through a system of trenching the earth. Some of those -springs supply what is termed on the desert as sweet water, while other -springs—those issuing from volcanic rocks—are brackish and unfit for -domestic use, or for steaming purposes. The first spring developed by -Green Campbell was of the latter class. - -Thus it was that when in later years Green Campbell went over into -Nevada to establish a new camp, he first had the waters analyzed by a -chemist, then very appropriately named his new camp Goodsprings. And -it so remains on the map today—a gold, silver-lead-zinc, and vanadium -mining camp down among the gentle slopes of the Spring mountain range -in southern Nevada. The next two camps established by Green Campbell, -in California, were named Vanderbilt and Providence. We may be sure the -water there was good also. - -Here, I want to interrupt my story to say that it was at Goodsprings -where the writer was, some thirty-odd years ago, initiated into the -mining game along with Campbell followers, and where much of the -material for this narrative was picked up, first-hand. Here at -Goodsprings were Elwood Thomas and his nephew, Frank Williams. Elwood -Thomas had been Green Campbell’s right-hand man all through the latter’s -colorful mining career, having gone out from the old home town in Kansas -to join him in 1873. Frank Williams went direct from Wetmore to Mr. -Campbell, at the age of twenty-one, and has spent forty-seven of his -sixty-eight years on the Nevada desert. And perhaps I should say here -that much of the information presented in this narrative was obtained -from Mr. Thomas and Mr. Williams. - -In the Utah field, then a new and isolated country, under conditions -that tested the fiber of the man, Green Campbell prospected the hills -of Beaver county for a while. Then, nearly five years later, his big -opportunity came when he secured an option on a mining claim for which -he agreed to pay $25,000. That claim was later developed into the famous -Horn Silver mine, which, up to the time of my last visit nearly thirty -years ago, had produced slightly in excess of twenty million dollars. -The mine, owned now by New York interests, is still producing at great -depth. Few metal mines there are that have had such long run of life. - -But, as I have already stated, chance played a big hand in this game of -millions. At that time Green Campbell had all his funds tied up in other -properties. He was then operating the Hickory mine at Newhouse. Green -Campbell turned to his friend, August Byram, of Atchison, Kansas, for -financial assistance. Byram and Campbell had become acquainted while -they were both in the employ of that major freighting firm. Byram had -already spent some money at the suggestion of Campbell without results, -in the Star district, close by. After considerable correspondence, Byram -decided to take another chance at the game, promising to come through -with the funds to take over the Horn Silver claim before the expiration -of the ninety-day option. Byram was to advance the full amount, half -of it as a loan to Campbell, and they were to own the property on a -fifty-fifty basis. - -But here caution stepped in and robbed those two men of exactly one-half -of an immense fortune—a fortune in the making. After the agreement had -been made Byram wrote and asked Campbell to see if he could find someone -to take a quarter interest in the risk. Campbell found two men, Matt -Cullen and Dennis Ryan, who would come in for a quarter interest. But -Byram still thought he was taking too great a chance, and wrote a -second time asking Campbell to try induce those two men to take a half -interest. It was so arranged. - -Green Campbell then settled down to a game of waiting. Thoroughly imbued -with the spirit of the times, he told himself—and rightly, too—that he -had only to await the coming of Byram to jump in and win. But, without -further word from Byram and the final day of the option drawing near, he -became very nervous. New developments had caused the owners to look for -some chance to void the option, and Campbell sensed danger in delay. -Then came the awful blow that set all his emotions to working at high -speed. - -August Byram, on his way out to the mine, had stopped over in Salt Lake -City and there he was discouraged by designing individuals who wanted -to pluck the mine for themselves. Developments had increased, its -value fourfold. But this fact was kept from Byram by his Salt Lake -acquaintances—indeed, they stressed the fact that the claim had but -recently been optioned for $1,500, and that the option had been allowed -to lapse. The result was August sent word to Green that he would have -nothing more to do with it. - -However, Campbell managed somehow to get Byram over to the property on -the last day of the option, but up to the eleventh hour he was filled -to the brim with nerve-wracking suspense. For hours he had kept his gaze -constantly fixed on the sage-fringed road leading out across the broad -valley to the east, where was open to the eye a twenty mile sweep of -sun-baked waste, looking for that distant dust cloud which might mean -that relief for his tired nerves was on the way. Then, late in the -afternoon, as the last golden tints lingered along the ragged edges -of the mountains, the stage bearing Byram, full four hours late, was -sighted far out on the road—a mere speck in a great cloud of dust. - -There was yet time for speedy action. For a brief ten minutes the two -men faced each other—Campbell full of words, Byram deep in meditation. -It could hardly be expected that after floundering in a bog of -indecision and doubt for so long, that understanding would come to Byram -in a flash. But Campbell’s great anxiety in the matter caused him to -believe, for the moment, that Byram’s resolutions were still wavering, -while his own thoughts whirled like leaves in an autumn blast. Byram’s -final words, however, kept Campbell’s spirits from suffering further. - -I was not there at that particular time, of course, but this minute -accounting, the reactions of those men, is as I caught it from Elwood -Thomas. “If it hadn’t been such a serious matter with Green,” said -Elwood, amid chuckles that sent ripples all over the old miner’s -weathered face, “it would have been downright amusing.” - -The transfer of the Horn Silver claim took place in the shadow of the -mountain as the sun dropped out of sight on February 17, 1876. And it -was a joyous occasion for the little group of interested men—except, -possibly, the two original locators who were now beginning to realize -the true worth of that little piece of ground. Fate dealt a mean hand to -the locators of the Horn Silver claim. After sinking a shaft thirty -feet on ore, Samuel Hawkes and James Ryan bartered away millions on the -belief that the ore would not last. - -And I might say here that the Horn Silver lode, the main ore body, was -found by sheer accident. Jimmy Calvering, a young Irishman employed to -do the location work, following the custom of the shiftless miner, went -away a considerable distance from the outcrop to find “soft ground” -in which to dig his ten-foot hole, as required by law. Jimmy was not -looking for ore, but in doing that ten foot of work he opened up the -main lode. And nowhere else did it come that near the surface. Jimmy was -ever after that proclaimed “A man with a great nose for ore.” - -The Horn Silver mine was operated by Campbell, Cullen & Co., for three -years, with a gross production of nearly three million dollars. The mine -was then sold in 1879 for six million dollars, and title passed to the -Horn Silver Mining Co. An interest equivalent to about one-sixth of the -mine previously had been given to an eastern promoter for securing a -railroad to the mine. - -Green Campbell had other interests at Frisco, the camp which had sprung -up about the Horn Silver mine. It was a town peopled with all kinds -of characters known to frontier life. It had all the mining-camp -trappings—dance halls, saloons, and what not. This camp had caught the -overflow from the older mining camp of Pioche, in Nevada, where the -boast was, “A man for breakfast every morning!” And in lawlessness -Frisco flourished like the green bay tree! Life at the high tide was -almost as cheap as water! But Green Campbell’s personality was such as -to keep him out of harm’s way. Green was a good mixer. He drank some, -but in moderation. In no sense was he a dissipated man. And here at -Frisco he made more money! Lots of it! The Carbonate mine alone gave -him five hundred thousand dollars in profits! He was classed with other -mining moguls of that day. Hearst, Tabor, Walsh—he knew them all. - -Green Campbell’s rise in the financial world was spectacular. Within the -brief span of a few years he could have returned to his old home and -to his family with enough money to live in luxury. But friend Green had -other notions. Like the noble beast of burden of the Sahara bearing his -name, Campbell was now a permanent fixture of the desert. - -Man’s ambition is seldom satisfied. Visions of greater wealth and the -thrills that go with the making held Green Campbell with a vise-like -grip. He willed to stay in the West. - -His wife preferred to stay in Kansas with her people, at Circleville. -Or, maybe, it was decided that the untamed West, the desert with its -sizzling summer suns and unbridled winds, was no place for Florence -Oursler Campbell and her little boy Charley. Anyhow the situation -brought about an estrangement and, finally, a separation. Ofttimes men, -too much absorbed in chasing the pot of gold, unconsciously make this -supreme sacrifice. - -Clouds began to appear on Green Campbell’s marital horizon soon after he -went West, but the storm did not break until he was virtually in the -big money. He was enormously engrossed with his mining operations, -while back here at home, because of his continued absence, a growing -resentment was piling up against him day by day. The time was coming, if -he would see it, when he must give up either his mines, or his family. -He heeded not the signals, seriously. Like his royal highness across the -Atlantic—the self-deposed king—until disaster was upon him, he proposed -to keep them both. - -Florence Campbell filed her petition for divorce and alimony in the -Jackson County court at Holton. Case Broderick of Holton and Judge -Stillings of Leavenworth were her attorneys. Green Campbell was -represented by Hayden & Hayden of Holton and Colonel Everest of -Atchison. The stage was set for a spirited legal battle. The whole -country buzzed with gossip. Because of the prominence of the Campbells -and the Ourslers people traveled for miles on horseback and in wagons to -attend the hearings. - -The plaintiff and her witnesses occupied the stage for a day and a half. -Then the defense attorneys armed with depositions and a liberal line-up -of witnesses, told the court what they had up their sleeves. But the -judge, being somewhat of a sleuth, had already detected that something -was wrong with the plaintiff’s legal machinery. Gears didn’t mesh. The -charge was out of alignment with the facts as adduced by the -plaintiff and her own witnesses. In short, her lawyers had experienced -embarrassment in their endeavor to twist a prolonged absence from -Campbell’s fireside — and whatever else that was offered—into “extreme -cruelty.” - -There had to be a “charge,” to be sure, but it would appear that the -plaintiff’s attorneys might have more profitably selected for their -client, out of their cabinet of ready-made complaints, something more -reasonable, something less galling to the fine sensibilities of the man. -Judge John T. Morton said that inasmuch as the plaintiff had failed to -prove her case, defense testimony would not be heard. Moreover, he said -Mrs. Campbell would get no alimony. - -There was not, as one might suspect, another man in the case—not a -breath of scandal. Mrs. Campbell was too fine for that. It was her -unalterable conviction that she and her child were being unduly -neglected. It was “blue” blood in revolt—indignant, regrettable -rebellion. - -The decree was given the defendant, Green Campbell, on February 23, -1878. Custody of the little boy, Charles R. Campbell, was given to the -mother. Mr. Campbell was required to pay $250 a year for the boy’s “keep -and education,” with a lien on the northeast quarter of 22-6-14. Two -hundred and fifty dollars a year from a potential millionaire to -keep and educate his son! All right then, perhaps, but it sounds like -parsimony now. - -Henry C. DeForest, pioneer merchant of Wetmore, was made custodian -of the impounded land. He also acted as agent for Mrs. Campbell. The -allowance for the boy was not held down strictly to the court order. -Indeed, Mr. Campbell did much more for his son. It is alleged that, -after the separation, the boy would meet the train on occasions of his -father’s infrequent trips in from the West, and that Mr. Campbell would -fill his son’s hat with gold coins. And in time Charley was given the -impounded land, together with several other valuable tracts of Jackson -County land. Green Campbell still kept his Nemaha County homestead. - -No property settlement appears of record—leastwise my investigator does -not report any—though, I believe, there was a private settlement. Little -enough it was, no doubt, if any, but the disillusioned Mr. Campbell was -not niggardly with his money, as the plaintiff and her kin backers, and -all who listened in on the trial were soon to know. - -As if in preparation to carry out the educational phase of the court -mandate handsomely, Green Campbell endowed a college right in the boy’s -door-yard, so to speak. Work began on Campbell University at Holton -in 1880, and the school opened on September 2, 1882, with Prof. J. H. -Miller, president. For a small-town school it became quite noted. After -a successful run of nearly a score of years, it fell into decay and -finally ceased to exist. The old stone building standing on an eminence -at the northwest corner of Holton, long in disuse as a college, -was razed in 1931 to make room for a new $139,000 brick high school -building. - -It would be interesting in this connection to know what Green Campbell’s -reactions really were, what motivated that splendid school? With -a knowing smile on his weathered face and without amplifying his -surprising assertion, Elwood Thomas once told me that had there been no -divorce there would have been no Campbell University. And did the boy -Charley actually “finish off” at Campbell University? I think not. A -recent casual inquiry at Circleville told me nothing in that particular. -While yet quite young, he married Kate McColough. He went West—and, -backed by his father, tried his hand at mining at Providence, -California, with little or no success. - -With his marital differences adjusted in the divorce court, Green -Campbell now, like as not, a morose misogynist, went back to his beloved -golden West and in the immediate years which followed was as grim -and silent, on one very ticklish subject, as the barren peaks of the -mountains about him. In his mine, Mr. Campbell had encountered and -conquered some extremely refractory ore. He had hauled in cord-wood from -as far as sixty miles to roast that stubborn ore in outdoor fires, to -make it amenable to the smelter. But in marriage, a bit of clay—he had -no workable method for that. - -Green Campbell came back to his old home only a few times after the -separation. But Kansas still claimed him — claimed him until he went to -Congress for Utah, claimed him until he sold his homestead here to Bill -Hayden. He was Nemaha County’s first millionaire! - -Green Campbell, first of all, was a miner. Close attention to business, -as has been pointed out, brought him great riches—and a dilemma! The -memory of this last named acquisition persisted, ghost-like, to haunt -him for long years. But it did not haunt him for all time. - -In the mining game, a hope never fades that another doesn’t bloom -brightly in its place. Likewise, generally speaking, it is so in -matters of the heart, only the flowering is not always so spontaneous. -Sometimes, not infrequently, after the romantic love of other days has -passed, the withering love-instinct must be carefully cultivated for -years if it is to flower again. - -Fourteen years and fourteen hundred miles lay between Green Campbell and -the subject of his marital woes when at the age of sixty or thereabout, -after he had reached the peak of his financial flight and experienced -some setbacks, and after he had grown a fine flowing snow-white beard -and become quite bald, it bloomed for him again. - -This time the bride was Eleanor Young, a reporter on a Salt Lake City -newspaper. She was a daughter-in-law of the famous old Brigham Young. -And the stork, that industrious old bird of world-wide habitat, at -home on the desert as in the oasis, brought the Campbell’s three fine -children—Allen, Byram and Caroline. - -Green Campbell would, of course, want to do something to perpetuate -the school that bore his name. But in his will he made the fatal -mistake—fatal for the school—of first taking care of his family with -the more tangible assets. He bequeathed $100,000 to Campbell University, -conditionally, however. It was to be paid out of the proceeds of two -mining properties, namely, his Vanderbilt and Goodsprings holdings. -A minimum price of $500,000 was placed on his Vanderbilt mine, and -$200,000 on his Goodsprings claims, and they were not to be offered for -less than the stipulated price for two years. The properties have -not yet been sold. While really promising properties, with the future -pledged, largely, by the terms of the will, there was no one to continue -developments to make them bring the price. Green Campbell had expended -something like a half million dollars in developing his gold mine at -Vanderbilt. - -Secure in the fortune left them, the Campbell heirs — Green’s second -family—have risked no money in mining. Besides his various mining -interests Green Campbell owned, at death, a magnificent home on Brockton -Square, in Riverside, California; numerous tracts of California ranch -lands, and real-estate holdings in downtown Los Angeles. Also, a -substantial cash operating fund, and some income property in Salt Lake -City—notably, the Dooley block. Mr. Campbell often expressed his faith -in the future of Los Angeles. The fortune has largely been kept intact. - -When last contacted a few years back, Mrs. Campbell was living at 705 -Camden Drive, Beverly Hills, California. The two unmarried sons lived at -the same address. Caroline, the daughter, was married to a Los Angeles -banker, Leland T. Reeder, a son of the fiery and famous Congressman W. -A. Reeder, from the sixth Kansas district, back in the nineties. - -Idle mining properties, or mines worked only spasmodically by lessees, -do not readily attract buyers, especially when filled with water, as in -the case of the Campbell mine at Vanderbilt. Incredible as it may seem, -there really is water deep down—in places—in that desert country, and -it even rises sometimes. The shaft at our own mine, in the very heart -of the desert, situated in a small depression on the mountain side, was -once filled to overflowing during a heavy rain. - -Other bequests, principally to relatives, also were contingent upon the -sale of those two properties. And hope, tenacious hope, once bloomed so -very brightly but now devoid of sparkle, still lingers with heirs around -here. - -Henry Campbell, a nephew, who was sheriff of Nemaha County for two terms -about the turn of the century, with his two sisters, Mary and Frances, -the son and daughters of John Campbell, all deceased now, were named -jointly for $100,000. The surviving heirs are: Emma Swarm Campbell, wife -of Henry, Bancroft, and two sons by a former marriage, living in -the West; George Cordon, husband of Mary, Ontario; Ray Drake, son of -Frances, Norton. - -The heirs of Caroline Campbell, who married a Mr. Steele and went West, -and the heirs of Sally Ann Campbell, who married Henry Stanley and lived -near Circleville, were named jointly in the will for $100,000. William -and Edward Stanley and Laura Hart, all dead now, were children of Sally -Ann. William worked with his uncle in the mines and was named for an -extra $100,000. - -Two daughters of Green Stanley, another son of Sally Ann, are married -to “Jack” and “Kid” Rudy, and live at Soldier. A daughter of Sally -Ann—Julia Alice Stanley — married Albert D. Chamberlin, now living in -Holton. Mrs. Chamberlin is dead. Her heirs are: Mrs. Lee Able, Holton; -Mrs. S. B. Moody, Centralia; Mrs. Ernest Hogg, Payette, Idaho; Mrs. -Mary Gaston and Nathaniel Chamberlin, Whitehall, Montana; and Charles -Chamberlin, Salt Lake City. - -One small payment was received by the heirs here about two years back, -which revived interest in about the same degree of satisfaction as -that of a sprinkle of rain to a thirsty earth. Time was, though, George -Cordon tells me, when they could have accepted settlement at fifty cents -on the dollar. - -It is probable that the inheritance of Charley Campbell was tied up in -this or by some other uncertain condition. Whatever the case, he settled -with the estate for $50,000. Crediting rumor afloat at the time, it -is my recollection that, in recognition of close—and perhaps -menacing—kinship, this was paid with money left by Green Campbell to his -second family. - -Leaving an ex-wife and two sons, Allen and Robert, in the West, Charley -Campbell later returned to Circleville. There, in 1920, he married Laura -Deck. He is now living in or near Philadelphia. - -His mother, Florence Campbell, did not marry again. She went to work. -And by the irony of Fate she became a teacher of art in the college -founded by her divorced husband, along about 1895. Later, years later, -when I saw her last she seemed merely to be waiting, in emptiness and -dead memories, for the end. She died in Pomona, California, about 1920. - -Elwood Thomas was administrator for the Campbell estate—in Nevada. After -spending thirty-eight years on the desert and in the mines, without -receiving so much as a damaging scratch, Elwood was fatally injured in -a horse and buggy accident while back Here on a visit to his daughter, -Mrs. Maude Ralston, at Holton, in 1915. He died three days after the -accident. He was buried in the Wetmore cemetery. Elwood Thomas lived -apart from his family from the time he he went West in 1873. Family -ties, it seems, were not strong enough to bridge the distance between -them. Maybe it was the desert again. - -Turning momentarily aside from the path that leads toward the rainbow’s -elusive end, let me here interpose a brief paragraph about John -Campbell, the brother whom Green had said could remain on the farm and -keep up the fight against odds if he wanted to. John did remain on the -farm; and kept up the fight—and won. He even elected to remain on the -farm after pressing invitations to join his brother in the land of gold. -He lived on the original homestead in Wetmore township until he died, in -1894. As the years became more seasonable for the production of grain, -John Campbell made a good living—and more—from his acres and his herds. -And, best of all, he found contentment and happiness with his wife and -three children on the farm. I think that in all my life I have never -known a more kindly, considerate, and contented person than was this -tall, slim, fine man. - -Luck was a bit fickle with Green Campbell. It both smiled and frowned -on him in a few fleeting years. Alert, with a keen mind, he made good at -first on everything he touched — save, of course, that first water-hole. -Then, abruptly, as if a great cloud had obscured his vision, he lost his -charm. Two outstanding reverses followed in quick succession. - -Irreparable damage is often done in the name of friendship. With -millions of dollars to the good, Green Campbell was picked by his -friends to turn the tide of politics in Utah, to break Mormon rule. He -was on the minority side, to be sure, but what did that matter? Clean -and ambitious, with bulging pockets, he would be a formidable figure in -bringing about the change so much desired—by the outs of course. - -Thus, Green Campbell was launched upon the perilous sea of -politics—literally shoved off into its unfriendly waters, slightly, but -assuredly, beyond his depths. The warm and manifest enthusiasm of his -friends, so goes the story, inspired in him a feeling of confidence—and, -unschooled in the hard-played game of politics, he set sail upon the -turbid political waters with never a thought as to the many, many -wrecked political ships that mark the shores of Time. - -Infectious enthusiasm had spread over the field. Voters and non-voters -alike cheered for him. The Italian colony piped, “Viva Campbell—bigga -man!” John Chinaman, it was related, yelled in badly Americanized -Cantonese, “Hoola Campbell! All-o-same-e, no like-e dlam Mormon -lenny-way!” - -Deliverance, it seemed, was at hand. Still in the first flush of his -great financial triumph, Green Campbell spent money freely for the -cause, and incidentally tried for a seat in Congress. This experience -cost him a lot of money—just how much no one knows. Some said it was -nearly a million dollars. - -Green Capbell was defeated for delegate to Congress by the Mormon -bishop, Cannon. But he contested the election upon the grounds that -Cannon, a Canadian, was not naturalized. In this he won, but not until -the two-year term was almost over. He went to Washington as the Hon. -Allen G. Campbell. - -I shall not attempt to tell you his politics, because I don’t know—for -sure. But when I tell you his fine saddle horse was named Cleveland, -you can make your own deductions. It was a common sight to see Green -Campbell mounted on that spirited horse riding about the streets of -Vanderbilt, often with one of his little boys up in front of him or -riding behind, while his luxuriant white beard, always well groomed, -billowed gracefully in the desert breezes. Green Campbell was a large -man, about six feet tall and rather portly, though not really fat. He -always presented a prosperous, dignified appearance. - -And now, while a million dollars, or whatever sum it really was, out of -one pocket was a lot of money wasted in priming the political pump, it -wouldn’t have been so bad for Green Campbell, seeing that he had obliged -his friends, had there not been other heavy and unexpected drains upon -his purse. It was a partnership with Jay Cooke and Company, a Washington -stock brokerage firm, at a most unfortunate time, that really hurt. - -Jay Cooke was perhaps the foremost broker of that day. Hard luck -bankrupted him. His brokerage houses in three eastern cities collapsed -in 1873, causing one of the greatest financial panics of all time. He -was financing the building of the Northern Pacific railroad and had made -too many advances. But Jay Cooke was still the promoter par-excellence. -He was the promoter previously mentioned as having received an interest -in the Horn Silver mine for securing a railroad to the camp. - -Jay Cooke was heavily involved when Green Campbell became a member of -the firm, and through an oversight a protecting clause was omitted. With -new money in the firm, Cooke’s old creditors forced their demands. Green -Campbell’s first check was drawn for nine hundred thousand dollars! And -that was by no means the end of enforced payments. However, much of this -loss was salvaged through securities turned over to Campbell by Cooke. - -It was not at all strange that at some time in his financial career, -after climbing up to the heights, that Green Campbell should take his -turn on the toboggan. Nobody ever wins every step in life. But these -two reverses, falling so swiftly and so heavily as to make them the high -points of the drama, cut a jagged gash in the fabric of his dreams. -And while the hand of Fate continued, for a time at least, to carry the -Campbell fortune steadily downward, he did not lose all. Far from it! -There was no time after selling the Horn Silver mine that he was not a -rich man! - -But the winds of adversity, mighty dream-wrecking gales though -they were, had not swept away the flame of hope. Back to his mines, -unflagging in his efforts to do it all over again, Green Campbell was -full of plans for the future when he died rather suddenly of pneumonia, -in 1902. Thus, the call of the desert, the lure of the mining game, held -him until the last. - -And this is the true story of Green Campbell—gentleman, miner, and -great wealth-builder, in whose heart there seems to have burned an -inextinguishable desire for something that never came. - -DESERT CHIVALRY Published in Wetmore Spectator, - -March 13, 1931. - -By John T. Bristow - -There were not conveyances enough to handle the influx of gold-seekers -when I got off the train at Nipton, California, and a long walk across -a dry sun baked waste lay ahead of me. I was on my way to the new mining -camp of Crescent, just over the line in Nevada, and on my way to a -fortune—maybe. Rainbow visions began to rise before me, and hot though -it was I did not mind that six-mile walk one bit. I was not alone. She -was young, slender — and pretty. And Elsie was a “gold-digger” too. -There were others. - -With Frank Williams, a former Wetmore boy, as partner, I was in from the -start at the “hell-roaring” mining camp back in 1907. Born overnight, it -was a stampede mining camp, growing from nothing to a tented city of -one thousand people in a few weeks time—followed quickly with saloons, -dance-halls, and whatnots. - -image7 - -Crescent was wild, mad, wide open. - -When the big news broke, I beat it for Nevada. Frank and I and -associates owned three claims in the very heart of the Crescent -district. Also, I personally owned an adjoining claim on which Frank had -caused one of his men, Paul Stahmer, to do the required ten feet of work -to hold it for one year, at a cost to me of $100. The work was done on a -$544 gold showing. - -Having operated with Frank rather disappointedly in the -lead-zinc-vanadium camp of Goodsprings, thirty miles away, through the -years since 1904, I believed that here at last—at Crescent—I was about -to pounce, in one fell swoop upon the legendary pot of gold. It was a -fantastic notion, of course—but oh, the magic thrill of it! - -Charles M. Schwab, Pennsylvania multi-millionaire steel magnate, who -held mining interests in Nevada, lent encouragement with an on-the-spot -pronouncement: “In the past the great fortunes have been made in -manufacturing, but henceforth the really big money will be made in -mining.” Also, operators from Goldfield, the Nevada camp that gave -George Wingfield, a lowly cowhand, twenty million dollars almost in a -jiffy—men in the big money up there said in my presence, “If we had such -surface showings at Goldfield as you have at Crescent, any old claim -would sell for a fortune.” I don’t mind telling you that I had fed -rather too optimistically upon the glorious prospect of grabbing a quick -fortune at Crescent. But the unveiling of facts there proved a solvent -for the nightmare in which a lot of us had been living for months. - -With fabulously rich surface showings — high assays, $500 to $20,000 to -the ton reported almost everywhere — Crescent proved, in the end, -the greatest bubble of them all. Countless thousands of dollars were -expended, over a period of two years, in a frantic effort to bring out a -profitable producer. But if there ever was as much as a shirt-tail full -of ore shipped from that camp, I don’t know it. And though I never had -the time nor the inclination to compare notes, I’ll bet Elsie had better -pickings than any of the hopeful miners who wore pants. - -It was with reluctance that we pulled out of Crescent. It’s most -fascinating, this thing of prospecting for gold — like participating -in a big-game hunt. Were I full-handed, even now, I would go back to -Crescent and give our Shreve-port group another try. Someday, somebody -is going to find the “mother lode” there. - -There was honest effort—a lot of honest effort—as well as the usual -faking, at Crescent. A $20,000 gold strike was reported near the summit, -between our claims and Crescent. The first day out there, I was all -for seeing this strike right away. My partner said, “Oh, wait until -tomorrow—we’ll be going past it when we go over to Crescent.” - -The next day, starting from our claims by way of a perfectly good wagon -road down the canyon a ways, Frank took me by a tortuous climb, off the -road, to near the top of the mountain. He pointed out the spot where the -assay had been obtained. When I began to examine the shallow trench, he -said, quickly, “It took all the ore in sight to make the assay.” Twenty -steps farther on we reached the summit where we could look down on -Crescent a mile below. And then we stepped out onto a very good wagon -road. On inquiry, he said, “It’s the same road we left back there in the -canyon.” I asked him how come we made that rough climb? Frank said, “You -know, it’s about as much as a man’s life is worth to be caught showing -up that strike to a tenderfoot.” - -This was an eye-opener—the first clear signpost on a long and uncertain -road. - -At another time, later, Frank and I paid a saloon keeper in Nipton, the -railroad station, twenty dollars to drive us over the Crescent -district, for the full day. We visited our claims first, got dinner -in Crescent—then to a saloon where drinks were 50 cents each, whether -whiskey, beer, or water. The bartender simply counted noses or glasses, -as it were, and summed up the charge. There were about twenty saloons in -the camp, and our “host” deemed it his duty to visit them all. I am sure -he dumped the $10 I paid him on twenty glasses of water for me. It was a -spot where you couldn’t afford to shake your head and say, “No thanks.” -When asked to drink, it was wise to call your drink. - -The main object of the drive—on my part, anyway — the thing we had paid -twenty dollars for, was to visit a highly newspaper publicized mine two -miles south of Crescent, where it was shamefully claimed immense bodies -of rich gold ore running into the millions, were blocked out. But the -desert twilight caught us still drinking Adam’s ale and the Indian’s -“fire water.” Our driver knew his business all right—and I suspect Frank -knew from the start that we would never fetch up at that mine. Nothing, -absolutely nothing—but the truth—was barred in that camp. - -I shall now leave the desert momentarily, and write candidly about my -earlier “mining” experience. This, and other notations here—until we get -back to Crescent—are throw-ins, kindred situations not contained in the -printed’ article. - -With our townsman Green Campbell’s enviable mining success as an -incentive, it has ever been my hope that I might someday also strike -it rich—and mining seemed to offer the best lure. I therefore joined a -group of Wetmore and Horton men in an effort to rejuvenate a gold mine -at Whitepine, Colorado, twenty miles north of Sargent on the narrow -gauge branch of the Denver & Rio Grande railroad. With the Wetmore -group—Dr. Augustus Philip Lapham and wife Elzina Brown-Lapham; Jay -Wellington Powers and wife Helen Hoyt-Powers; Charles Samuel Locknane -and wife Coral Hutchison-Locknane; and Mr. C. A. Mann, the owner, backed -by Scott Hopkins, Horton banker, and other moneyed men of that city, I -spent a week at White pine looking things over. - -The mine was really six miles up the canyon from White pine—just beyond -the abandoned town of Tomichi, not far from the “Top of the World.” -Tomichi had been hit by a snow slide which wrecked a number of houses, -killing several people. The residents, numbering about 1,000, had -abandoned their homes and places of business, leaving the buildings -intact—a true “Ghost Town.” Thinking in terms of the present, one might -wonder why had the buildings been left to rot down? A mill had sawed the -lumber on the site — and in that out-of-the-way place, the material was -not worth salvaging. - -The tunnel of the Mann mine was about 150 feet up-slope from the wagon -road on the floor of the canyon, which road was also Main Street in -Tomichi. To get up to the tunnel, the trail started several hundred feet -up the gulch and then swung back around a projecting ledge where the -footing was rather insecure. To negotiate it the men would use the lines -off the harness. The women could remain at the wagon and watch the men -fall, if such might be the case. - -And here I pulled a boner—not my first, nor last, I frankly admit. I -looked across to the “scary” ledge, and straight up to the tunnel—and -then I started up on the run, the loose rock in places sliding me back -almost as fast as I was gaining. However, I made the tunnel, completely -exhausted. I did not sit down to rest. I fell down. And I crawled into -the tunnel where there was ice—in July—and revived quickly. One of the -men was hampered in that climb with a wooden leg, which afforded me -ample time to recover before their arrival—but my own legs were still -shaky as I eased myself around that projecting ledge, grabbing the strap -now and then, while coming down. I don’t know how the first strap-holder -got around without help—nor the last one, either. - -Mr. Mann said I had taken a great risk; that he had called to me to come -back; that the exertion required to negotiate that heap of sliderock -was really too much for one unaccustomed to the high altitude; that he -himself—a seasoned mountain man—would not have undertaken it for the -whole mine. And, you know, after I had taken one peep at the spot of -interest in the tunnel, I thought, “Neither would I.” - -The prospect did not look good to me—nor was I fooled by the enthusiasm -of my inexperienced associates, but I wanted to go along with them. The -other Wetmore men thought enough of the prospect to locate adjoining -claims, naming them for their children—The Marsena, The Gracie, and The -Marguerite. I had no child, not even a wife—so no claim. But I then and -there made a resolve to learn something more about that enticing mining -game, perhaps elsewhere. And in the final analysis I suppose I have. - -Doctor Lapham was the principal exuder of enthusiasm, an inborn trait -which came to the fore again in a big way on the train enroute to Salt -Lake City. The Doctor had spent some time in the smoker, and came -back to the coach all “hepped” up. Rubbing his hands together in his -characteristic manner, he said he had gotten—on the qt—a tip from the -newsboy that an observation car was to be hooked on at Gunnison, for the -trip through Colorado’s most colorful canyon. The observation car would -be on a siding to the left of our train—and that the favored few were to -make a dash for it the moment the train stopped. - -The Doctor was always putting forth his best efforts to make us all -comfortable—and happy. He said he had bought a book of views, paying -$2 for it, something he really didn’t care a whoop for—but he wanted to -reward the boy for his kind tip. With an eye for business, the newsboy -had also tipped off other passengers. - -The “observation” car was only a coalcar having temporary backless board -seats placed crosswise of the car. One had to climb over the seats, -or step across from one plank to another to get to the rear end of the -car—all right for the fellow who had so recently clambered up the tunnel -dump, but very awkward for the women and the man with the wooden leg. - -Many of the passengers looked at the thing and went back to the -coaches, and some abandoned their seats and went inside after the train -started—but our men folk, being well to the rear and encumbered with -helpless women whom they did not wish to lose just then, couldn’t even -do that once the train headed into the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, a -narrow gorge with 2800-foot almost perpendicular walls, following -the serpentine course of the Gunnison river, on a steeply down grade, -switching the “observation” car like a whipcracker from one black -wall to the other. Hot cinders rained down on us so that we could look -neither to the right, or the left—nor up. Now, Lap’s newsboy came aboard -crying, “Goggles, goggles, goggles!” - -And the appreciative Doctor gave the boy some more money. - -We had done Denver, Colorado Springs, Manitou and Pike’s Peak—and -Cripple Creek. And we had all climbed “Tenderfoot” Mountain while -waiting over-night at Salida for train connection—and I individually -had literally sat on the proverbial powderkeg for three hours during a -twenty-mile overland drive. Mr. Mann had provided a spring wagon for the -other members of the party, and I, being unexpected, was conducted to -a freight wagon going our way. When told, near the end of the journey, -that I was sitting on a box of dynamite I blew up—in spirit. But nowhere -had we experienced anything so disappointing as this “observation” -car ride. It is anchored in my memory as the one really big scene that -beggared description. - -NOTE — The railroad through the Black Canyon of the Gunnison has been -abandoned, and sightseers may now view this colorful canyon from their -automobiles over a highway—a “highway,” mind you, more than a half mile -down in a narrow slit in the earth. - -Then, again, my newspaper friend, William Allen White, of the Emporia -Gazette, toured the western mining districts and wrote enthusiastically -about some newly discovered mining opportunity in the west, known as -Thunder Mountain. It stimulated my desire. I wrote William Allen, asking -him if he would, as one newspaperman to another, advise me to try -my luck at Thunder Mountain? His personal letter to me was even more -optimistic than was his editorial. Like Horace Greely, his advice was -substantially, “By all means go west, young man, and give it a try.” - -But I did not fetch up at Thunder Mountain. On the advice of another -friend, I dumped the proceeds from the sale of my newspaper, sight -unseen, in a hole in Nevada — while the wise Mr. White kept on -publishing his Gazette; wrote a best seller book, “A Certain Rich Man,” -and got rich himself. His name and fame are to be perpetuated in the -erection of a public library building in Emporia; while I, his misguided -friend, still have my laurels to make. And, incidentally, as a mining -man, after that first big blow, I never again heard of Thunder Mountain. - -Now back to the desert—and the printed Crescent story. - -Our contribution here at Crescent, with a minimum of outside help, was -a 500-foot tunnel driven into the side of a mountain—the rock shot with -high assay in gold and silver and copper. But the cost of this work, -though a dead loss and highly disheartening, was as nothing compared to -the outlay for the 2197 feet of tunnels and shafts we have driven—also -with a minimum of help—through solid rock on our Goodsprings claims, -where production, though quite good at times, has never caught up with -expenses. - -And the end is not yet. - -You can take it from me that a man has to be insensible to pain to laugh -this off. - -On the train away back in the valley on this my first trip to Crescent, -the conductor had pointed to a distant cluster of white flecks barely -discernible through the shimmering, sun-drenched haze that lies always, -like a pall, over the desert, and said to me, “There she is—the biggest -thing in all Nevada!” - -I had become chummy with the conductor, and that chumminess increased -mightily when we learned that we were both on the way to become -millionaires—as we visualized it then—through the mining route. He told -me that he knew my mining partner, that he had engaged Frank Williams to -look after the assessment work on some claims he himself owned over in -the Goodsprings district. And when I asked the conductor his name and -made a move as if to write it down, he shook his head negatively -and threw out his hands in a gesture of utter uselessness, and said, -“Oh-hell, man, you couldn’t forget it as long as you are in this -country. It’s Dry—just plain William Dry.” - -My friend’s parting words to me were a mixture of jocularity and serious -hope. “Well, so long, old top,” he said. “See you again when we fetch up -at the end of the rainbow.” - -And do you know, the next time I saw that conductor, two years later—and -I might say before either of us had made any appreciable advances on the -rainbow’s elusive end — he recognized me at once, and in offering his -hand, said: “It’s Dry.” And I said, “Oh-hell, man, don’t I know it!” - -And so it was. - -That meeting was in Superintendent J. Ross Clark’s private car, hitched -to the flyer. We had exchanged some correspondence before, and Ross -wanted to tell me in as hopeful words as possible that the officials of -his railroad were still watching the situation closely and would build a -branch line into our district—to our claims and to his claims — just as -soon as the required tonnage was assured. You see, J. Ross Clark, too, -was possessed of the desire to harvest a quick fortune and owned mining -claims across the flat from our claims in the Goodsprings district. - -That meeting with J. Ross Clark bore fruit for me, though—and it was -the means of holding up the Los Angeles Limited for an hour, as well. -Several years later I had an important engagement at Goodsprings and was -delayed seven hours in Pueblo on the way out there, owing to a change in -time of the Denver & Rio Grande trains. The best I could do then was to -arrive in Salt Lake five minutes after the Limited’s leaving time, -at one o’clock at night, with depots a mile apart. Failure to keep my -appointment at Goodsprings would mean disappointment to others and a -money loss to me, as well as a wasted trip. In desperation, I went to -the up-town office of the Denver & Rio Grande, and asked the agent there -to try to have the Los Angeles train held for me at Salt Lake. Nothing -doing. That important personage swelled up to full capacity and said, -“Evidently, if the San Pedro people wanted to neighbor with my Company -they would change their leaving time.” - -Next, I asked the conductor on the Rio Grande train to wire ahead for -me—and I am happy to state he was a gentleman. Also he was a one-time -miner. “Tried it once over at Aspen,” he told me. And right away there -was a bond of sympathy, or something, between us. That conductor really -wanted to help me. But, as he told me he had wired the San Pedro people -several times without results, I had to think of some other way, for I -wanted to make that Limited as a lost soul wants to make Paradise. - -It was then I thought of J. Ross Clark. What was the good of making -friends, if you could not use them? The Rio Grande conductor obligingly -held his train for me at Green River, Utah, while I filed a message to -the Superintendent of the San Pedro lines. We arrived in Salt Lake ten -minutes ahead of time, and the conductor, pointing to a hack-stand, said -to me, “Now hurry—the Los Angeles train may be a little late in getting -away.” - -At the San Pedro station I found the Limited all steamed up, ready to -go—and I boarded it quickly, all out of breath. But there was no need -for hurrying. Presently the conductor came along and asked me: “Did you -come in on Rio Grande Three?” I told him I did. Then he asked, “First or -second section?” I admitted that I didn’t know the train had been split -up at Grand Junction. The conductor, wanting to be sure of his order, -drew a yellow slip from his pocket, and re-read: “Hold for one or more -passengers off Rio Grande Three.” He then said, “Yes, that’s it. I’m -sure you are the man I’m holding for—but I’ll have to wait for the -second section.” And it was an hour late. - -I think perhaps Ross had put in his order the words “one or more” solely -as a precaution against the possibility of being accused of showing -partiality to his mining neighbor, in breaking rules. Anyway, J. Ross -Clark had no call for worry. His brother, William A. Clark, a mining -man, controlling, among other holdings, the fabulously rich United Verde -mine at Jerome, Arizona, owned also forty-nine per cent of the San -Pedro lines—and was at this time operating the road under a twenty-year -control agreement. It is now in full control of the Union Pacific. - -The Limited was not scheduled to stop at Jean, Nevada, my destination. -The regular procedure would have been for me to go on down the line -forty miles or more and then double back on a local train. But when the -Limited began slowing down on approaching Jean, the conductor said to -me, “No, don’t jump—wait ‘till she stops.” - -The engineer climbed down from his cab. The conductor hopped off the -train and yelled, “Hey, Bill, what’s wrong?” I knew what was wrong. And -Bill knew; and the conductor knew; and possibly one other knew—but that -was all. And whose business was it, anyway? - -The lost hour had been made up before the train pulled into Caliente, -Nevada, where it halted ten minutes. And, paradoxically, it gained -another hour there in that ten minutes. Caliente—Mexican for hot—is -where Pacific time begins. - -Bill had left that division point “on time” and held to the fast -schedule all the way. And I’ll bet Bill and his relief engineer landed -the old Limited in Los Angeles on the dot — even though there were -miles and miles of desert wasteland, with two high mountain ranges, and, -finally, a beautiful irrigated valley with orange groves and banks and -banks of roses, yet to be crossed. - -As the Limited started to move again the conductor threw me a last -cheerful word: “You’ll have only a little way to walk.” And I could only -hope that there was no one to report that conductor—nor my friend Ross. - - -You see, it was Dry again. - -All about lay the eternal waste of the desert and mountain slopes, -barren and desolate, walled in that arid corner of the world. - -THE WIFE—AT GOODSPRINGS Not Hitherto Published — 1947 - -By John T. Bristow - -To round out the foregoing story, I might say here that my wife was a -guest for the week during my absence in Crescent, at Mrs. Yount’s hotel -in Goodsprings. Sam Yount, the landlady’s husband, was leading -merchant, postmaster, private banker—and miner. And he backed the hotel -proposition too. The sleeping quarters of the hotel were a detached row -of ground-floor rooms close by the main structure. It was before the -building in Goodsprings of the Southern Nevada Hotel, said at the time -to have been the most commodious hotel in the state. It was before the -camp boasted a newspaper, even before the camp got electricity. - -My wife was not versed in the ways of the West; and she had some -misgivings about making this stop-over on the desert, particularly -because of the lateness of our train, while on our way to visit my -people in California. I had told her that of the many times I had been -out there I had never seen a gun-toting man—and that there was a fixed -impression that it would be about as much as a man’s life was worth to -molest a woman. - -This trip was made at a time following the great flood that had wiped -out all the railroad bridges for many miles along the Meadow Valley -Wash, in eastern Nevada. Owing to a slow track, our train, due in Jean -in the forenoon, did not arrive until near midnight. There were no -accommodations at Jean when I was last out there, and I had told Myrtle -that, as we would now miss the stage, we might have to sit in the depot -until morning, or walk ten miles across the desert to Goodsprings. - -Frankly, she was not of a mind to do anything of the kind. She said -we could remain on the train, go on to Los Angeles, and maybe stop at -Goodsprings on our return trip—or we could, as far as she was concerned, -pass it up altogether. I pointed out that we could hardly do this, -with her trunk and all her fine clothes—clothes she didn’t need at -all—checked through to Jean. And besides, we would be returning by way -of San Francisco. - -Remember, I had told her that I had never seen a gun toter in the West. -Remember also that this was before Crescent. Then, imagine my surprise, -and the wife’s renewed misgivings, when, on getting off at Jean, the -first and only man to be seen had a murderous looking six-shooter -strapped on him. And the wife had so little respect for my veracity as -to tell me right out loud that in her best judgement I had purposely -misrepresented matters to her. - -George Fayle, whom I had known in Goodsprings — associated with -Sam Yount—had come over to the railroad to engage in the mercantile -business. He owned a general store, a restaurant, and was building a -hotel. This made matters fine for us—almost. Fayle was postmaster, and -handled pouch mail between the postoffice and the trains. The gun he -carried was only routine. - -George Fayle took us to a ground-floor room in his unfinished hotel. The -room had wallboard partitions, bed upon springs flat on the floor, with -a blanket hung across the outside door opening, leaving one-fourth of -the space with nothing but thin desert air between us and the unknown. -George did not tell us what kind of characters he was harboring beyond -the cardboard—but he did wish us a pleasant good night, and, patting his -six-shooter, said we would be perfectly safe, as is. - -But the wife did not readily catch the spirit of the West. I had -told her that the desert was overrun with lizards and sidewinder -rattlesnakes, the poisonous kind that travel in spiral form with head up -ready for a strike at all times. She put in most of the remainder of -the night watching the 18-inch opening between the blanket and the -floor—precisely for what, she could not be sure. Luckily there was no -wind. The blanket hung limp throughout the night. I can swear to that. -Two of a kind, you might say. - -At breakfast, George told me there had been a manhunt the day before -over in the country west of Goodsprings — that an escaped convict was -reportedly holed up in the hills east of Sandy. That would be in the -neighborhood of our lead mine. The wife took this in without comment -— but it was plain to be seen that she was stowing it away for future -consideration. - -When Frank and I had returned from our tour of inspection at Crescent, -after nightfall, we found the Good-springs camp in an awful state of -alarm. My wife, fully dressed, was sitting upright in the middle of the -bed in our ground-floor room, afraid to put foot on the floor. She had -been so since shortly after dusk. Dusk—that indeterminate translucent -veil which, like a mist, screens and magnifies, transposing even the -most common objects into phantom figures. - -She had heard a scraping noise, likely a block away, but at such times -the imagination does tricks to one’s reasoning. In her state of nervous -tension, it was but natural for her to imagine that indistinct noise had -come from under the bed, the obvious place for an intruder to hide. - -Ordinarily Myrtle was not given to such fits of timidity. But she had -entered the country under trying conditions, and therefore was not -prepared for the many unexpected irregularities. We had not counted on -our train being so far behind time as to land us out there in the middle -of the night. With my memory of the surroundings as I last knew them, -it required a lot of silent argument with myself to get up courage -to subject her to the risk we must necessarily take in finding -accommodations of any sort, at Jean. I knew there were ten miles of -desert on either side of the railroad station. That the country was -not inhabited might or might not have been in our favor. Certainly, it -presaged loneliness—and it was dark. - -A woman at the hotel in Goodsprings thought she had glimpsed the deadly -thing, at dusk, near the sleeping quarters—and Myrtle’s door had been -left open for a brief spell while she was out. Or rather the door had -been found open on her return—she just wasn’t sure how it was. Myrtle -informed me that all the other women in camp were just as frightened as -she was. And she bade me look under the bed, forthwith. - -The thing I was supposed to make sure was—or wasn’t — there, had an -overall length of about two feet, a width of four to five inches, an -inch or so less in height when inactive—and it was a little pot-bellied. -It was rusty in color, with yellowish spots distributed the full length -of its body. It had a fat meaty tail, and a broad ugly looking head. - -There really was something alive under the bed. It moved. Its eyes -moved toward me. Also there were now two people upon the bed. And -simultaneously the door swung open, as if the devil was in cahoots with -the thing, bent on letting in all the demons of a wicked world. I had -hit the bed on the bounce with a jarring thud, causing the door to -swing in, as it invariably did when not securely latched. And the cat -“hightailed it” out into the night. - -But the house cat was not the thing so much dreaded. - -Mr. Springer’s Gila Monster, a lizard-like reptile, even more poisonous -than the rattlesnake, was on the loose. It had got out of its place of -confinement two days back, and diligent search by the whole camp had -failed to locate it. On the third day, however, the Monster was found -at a water-hole, an old trench dug years before by our former Wetmore -citizen, Green Campbell. The camp demanded that the reptile be killed -immediately. - -Elwood Thomas, also formerly of Wetmore, was a close neighbor to Mr. -Springer, and he had carried the word of caution to Myrtle. It was all -so very exciting—even worse than a panther scare. And, miraculously, the -wife was to experience that one too before leaving the Goodsprings camp. - -We were to go with Frank Williams to stay over Sunday at our lead mine, -which was twelve miles over the mountain range on the west side. The -daily stage (except Sunday) passed within a few hundred yards of the -mine. Frank and I started to walk over, at sunup, on Saturday morning. -Myrtle was to go over on the stage in the afternoon. - -image332 - -To make a short cut, Frank and I took a burro trail at the summit, near -the Columbia mine. While trailing that rugged miner ten yards in the -rear, going down on the west side, I sprained my right ankle, badly, -rolling down the slope almost to where Frank was—my camera trailing in -the wake, taking the bumps. - -We stopped for a brief rest at the Hoosier mine—formerly owned by -Frank’s uncle, Elwood Thomas—where the miners were taking out zinc ore, -a new find in that district. And “tenderfoot” though I was, I made a -discovery there which had escaped my seasoned miner-partner for a whole -year. At least I thought I had done this to him. Frank had cut through a -12-foot body of identical appearing stuff in running the tunnel, and had -several tons of it ricked up on the dump. It would require an assay to -convince him that we had a zinc mine, as well as a lead mine. - -In accordance with the miners’ code we were invited to stop at the -Hoosier shack in the foothills and get our dinners. By this time my -swollen ankle was hurting so badly that I preferred not to stop until -we could get out to the stage road a mile farther on—but Frank said -it would be an insult to the Hoosier boys for us to pass them by. And -besides he was hungry. Also, according to the miners’ code Frank had to -wash his dirty dishes. This is a must in the mining country. - -image333 - -This is where I went down—second time. Took this picture while waiting -for the stage. Frank’s mail box is about a mile around the bend of the -road. The trail—foot path—going over the mountain starts near the right -edge of this view’ and tops the mountain starts near the right edge of -this view, and tops the mountain at the head of a canyon, on the other -side. - -We reached the stage road about two hours before the stage was due. -Frank walked on three miles farther to the mine, and I hobbled along -until within a mile of “our” mountain—then my ankle toppled me over -again, and I lay there with my head shaded by a single sagebrush. As the -sun moved along on its westward course—which of course it didn’t do at -all—I had to scratch gravel frequently, sliding on my back, to keep my -head shielded from the burning desert sun. - -The stage-driver let us off at Frank’s mail box, and Myrtle had a hard -time helping me over the hump and down the canyon to the mine. We took -the short cut over the mountain instead of going a mile or more around -on the wagon road; through a saddle-back, and then up the canyon to the -mine, which would have been less arduous. We were carrying provisions -for six meals for the three of us. There was water at the mine. It -had rained a month before, and Frank had scooped up the water out of -a ditch. No fiction in this. Water really “keeps” out there—when in an -underground house, anyway. - -We had overlooked the need for candles and coffee—or rather they were -missing from the pack. Acting on Frank’s suggestion, Myrtle went out on -the mountain side, gathered leaves from the lowly sage brush—and we had -our tea. But the absence of candles was a more serious matter. Frank -hunted the underground house, and the tunnels, finally finding a -two-inch piece of candle at the far end of a 500-foot tunnel. - -The wife and I slept—no, bunked—the first night in the underground -house. To get into the place we had to hug a wall as we approached the -door to avoid dropping into a 60-foot shaft by the side of the entrance, -where Frank had taken out $65 worth of RICH silver ore—at a cost of $500 -for digging the hole. - -There were mice, and probably lizards too, running over our bed on the -floor. Little lizards were very active on the outside, in the daytime. -And Frank and I had killed a rattlesnake while strolling about over the -grounds the year before. The crack under the door was big enough to let -in almost anything short of a panther. - -Also, a big body of ore protruding from the ceiling directly over our -bed looked as if it might slip from its moorings with the slightest jar, -and there was some jarring force at work all through the night. Grains -of crushed limestone, like sand, sifted down upon us almost continously. -Myrtle spent the night lighting, blowing out, and relighting that little -piece of candle. In this way she made it last until morning. - -The next night—Sunday night—we slept, or rather bunked, on an -ore-sorting table out on the tunnel dump, under the stars. Frank had -taken his bedroll a hundred yards down the canyon to find level “ground” -on which to make his spread. I had sent an old trunk filled with bedding -including a couple of pillows the year before. The wife thought Frank -had been a little lax in the matter of laundering same. - -image335 - -After going over the mountain (at left) we — Myrtle and I — came down -the canyon to the mine. The tunnel dump shows between the two arms of the -mountain — about a half mile away. Getting down from the top was tough. -I had to back down much of the way — and have a lot of help. Frank had -said he would meet us at the mailbox — but he was taking lessons in -French off a gramophone and did not show up until we were well along the -way to the mine. Frank’s and Edith’s first tent house — part canvas — -was built was built on this dump. - -This, of course, was before Frank had gone East to study political -economy. Also it was before he had brought back to the mine a New -England school teacher called Edith, bearing his name. There was no -laxity after Edith took charge. And, with this touch of “new life” on -the job, the mine, besides yielding rich ore, sparingly, produced two -fine little girls, Ruth and Helen—girls that grew up at the mine. With -their father a graduate of Campbell University, Holton, Kansas, and -their mother holding a teacher’s certificate, the girls didn’t fare -badly, even in semi-isolation. As a matter of fact, district school was -held for a time in their home, with their mother as teacher. - -The home at this time was a four-room house on a 5-acre water claim—held -in connection with the mining claims — on the edge of Mesquite Valley, -one mile from the mine. There was a 75-foot dug well, with windmill, -and running water in the house. And there were growing fruit trees, -a vineyard in bearing, and a green—very green alfalfa patch. The two -Williams girls represented two-sevenths of the possible pupils for the -school. - -Then a little green school house was erected not more than three hundred -yards from their door—with Miss Leah Lytle as first teacher—where all -seven of the miners’ children studied their lessons, romped and played -among the sage and mesquite. While so doing, Helen Williams was bitten -by a rattlesnake. She was taken to Las Vegas, the nearest big town, -fifty miles away for treatment—and that move spelled the end of the -little green school house in the Mesquite Valley so far as the two girls -were concerned. They finished their schooling in Las Vegas, graduating -from the high school there. Then, when Rex Ewing, Frank William’s -closest mining neighbor, moved to Las Vegas to capture some of the -prevailing high wages, the school blew up. Rex had supplied the other -five pupils. The sequence of events as set down here may be faulty—but -were I able to chronicle them in order, the result would be the same. - -This, I believe, is noteworthy. Besides the single claim purchased by -Frank and me from S. C. Root, operator on Bonanza Hill, one mile south -of our holdings, Frank Williams located three more adjoining claims, -taking in practically all the surface ore croppings on this mountain—and -recorded them in one group, which meant that the work done on any one -claim of the group, if extensive enough, would satisfy the $100 annual -assessment for each claim. - -There was, however, a small showing of ore apparently like the zinc at -the Hoosier mine just outside those claims, on the west, close to the -wagon road Frank had blasted out, at considerable expense, to get up -to the tunnel he was driving. There were no other operators on that -mountain. Frank was lonesome. He wanted neighbors. Old man Ewing and son -Rex, nomad sojourners in Goodsprings, were invited to come out and try -their luck on that small cropping. - -The Ewings struck pay ore almost from the start, and began shipments, -while Frank was still driving his tunnel — with ever increasing high -hope. Frank’s wagon road proved to be a big asset for his new neighbors. -Rex Ewing also mined commercial lead ore back on the high end of his -claims, which was brought down to the wagon road by burro pack. Large -trucks now travel that wagon road right up to Frank’s ore bin, at the -mouth of the tunnel, and take off with five tons to the load. - -At this juncture I might say that though Frank has spent fifty-five of -his seventy-six years—as of this date, 1947—in the Nevada mines, he has -met with only two accidents, and neither of them was actually in the -mines. He was working alone at our Crescent claims, and by way of -a little deviation from routine work, undertook to blow open a big -boulder—just curious to see what was inside. It was not in the way—and -it would have told him nothing of advantage had he proved his suspicion -that it contained gold, for gold was showing in the ledge up slope from -which the boulder had been dislodged. What I said to Frank when he told -me he meant to waste a day in blowing open that big rock does not matter -now. Nor did it matter then. - -Even before Frank had started to drill the boulder, while clearing away -some loose rock, it rolled half-over, pinning him underneath. I judged -the boulder would weigh two tons, maybe more—but a smaller rock had -prevented it from crushing the life out of Frank. Two miners were -working, in sight, across the canyon about a quarter mile away—and Frank -called and hollered for seven hours without attracting them. - -Now, here is something that, from my power of reasoning, is -inexplicable. There are, however, people who would have a ready -explanation for it. Elwood Thomas, Frank’s uncle, had driven his team of -ponies from Goodsprings over to Searchlight, ten miles beyond Crescent, -and was returning late in the afternoon, aiming to go by way of -Crescent, as it was shorter and a better road. - -Elwood told me that when he had come to the by-road leading through the -canyon past his nephew’s location, he naturally thought of Frank, and -as he drove on toward Crescent he began to think he should have gone -the other road. He said, “Something told me to turn around—I wouldn’t -pretend to say what it was—but it was so strong, so insistent, that I -did turn around after I had gone a mile.” He found Frank still hollering -for help—but his calls were now very feeble. With the help of the two -miners Frank had been trying to attract, Elwood got him out from under -the boulder, loaded him into the wagon, and drove on down through the -canyon and across the big flat to Nipton, the railroad station. Frank -was put on the train and taken to a hospital in Los Angeles. He was -paralyzed from the waist down. Six weeks in the hospital fixed him up as -good as ever. Frank was on his own then—that is, had no insurance. -The expense was terrific. I think Frank never did get his curiosity -satisfied about the boulder. - -As his inactive partner, I cautioned Frank against working alone in -those remote places—but it did no good. He said he was safer working -alone in the mines than I was when riding the trains between Kansas -and Nevada. When I first went into the mining country, I observed that -practically all prospectors had partners. I asked an Irishman (a miner) -why was it so? He said, “And how the divvel would a man pull his-self up -out of a hole widout a partner?” But there was a more important -reason. It was for protection against accidents such as Frank had just -experienced. - -Frank’s second accident, more serious than the other one, was at our -Goodsprings mine, while loading out vanadium ore on Government contract, -in more recent years. He was unable to tell how it happened. The trucker -had left with a 5-ton load, and Frank was “waiting around” for him to -come back for a second load. When the truck driver got back from his -ten-mile trip over the mountain, he found Frank wandering around down on -the road below the ore bin, in a dazed condition—really worse than that. -Frank wrote me later that he remembered standing on the ore bin after -the trucker had gone with his load, and thought he must have fallen -off—but remembered nothing more. The ore bin is built against the slope -of the mountain, having a flat top about 16x20 feet, on a level of the -tunnel, with car-track extending to the outer edge, where a drop would -be about 18 feet—and less, (to nothing), at the upper end of the ore -bin. Frank did not say where he was standing in the last moments of -consciousness—but a fall from anywhere near the upper edge would mean a -rough tumble all the way down to the road. - -When Frank was taken to the Las Vegas hospital, it was found he had -a broken collarbone, a bad head injury — and a touch of pneumonia. He -remained two months in the hospital, at state expense, plus $90 per -month compensation — with final payment of $1,500, on a basis of -one-fourth incapacitation. - -In Nevada now you don’t have to apply for state insurance. If you are a -miner, you’ve got it, with monthly billing—unless you have filed notice -that you do not want it. - -The Williams girls are both married and live in Las Vegas. Helen is the -wife of Vaughn Holt, a barber. When I called at her home in 1941 she had -a very sweet little girl not quite a year old. Ruth’s husband, Charles -Thomas, is a linotype operator on Frank Garside’s Daily newspaper. He -is not the Charley Thomas who grew up in Wetmore and spent many years -in Nevada. That Charley was the son of Elwood Thomas and was Frank -William’s cousin. And it so happens that Ruth now takes her grandmother -Williams’ maiden name—Ruth Thomas. - -Frank Garside, postmaster at Las Vegas, and publisher of the Daily -Review there, formerly lived in Atchison. His aunt, Frances Garside—well -known to me at that time — made a record writing “Globe Sights” for Ed -Howe’s Daily Globe, back in the “Gay Nineties.” - -And now the panther. Maybe it was only a wildcat, but its scream was -enough to put fear in the “sleepers” out on the tunnel dump. The varmint -came yowling down the canyon, fifteen feet away from our bunk, going on -down the trail Frank had taken with his bedroll. Frank said the thing -had been heard several times before, and he was not sure if it was a -panther, or a wildcat. Panthers—called cougars in the west—he said, were -very much in evidence down on the Rim; that is, the high bank of the -Colorado river. And something very like the cougar in habit had killed a -calf in the valley, close by. Myrtle regarded the thing as a threatening -menace, and had it not been for that exposed shaft at the entrance -of the underground house, she doubtless would have made a break for -shelter. And I think that, notwithstanding my black and blue ankle, I -should have followed pronto. - -However, Myrtle was compensated for all this by the fact—vouched for by -Frank Williams—that she was the first white woman to set foot on that -mountain. By the same line of reasoning, Edith Willams was, I suppose, -if we can be sure Frank knows his history, the second, and probably the -last, white woman to climb Hunter mountain. - -Looking across the canyon, and gesturing toward the mountain-side where -some work had been done, Myrtle laughingly said to Frank and me, “I -suppose you two old grizzled miners think that ‘Thar’s gold in them thar -hills’.” - -Myrtle had trod some pretty rocky ground, literally and figuratively, -since coming into camp—besides heating gallons of water from time -to time at the mine to bathe my sprained ankle—and she certainly was -entitled to indulge in a little “fun” at our expense. Myrtle had quoted -correctly, but that “grizzled” reference belonged to quite another class -of miners. And I may say this was the first and only time I had ever -heard that bewhiskered old saying while in the mining country. It was -of course a carryover from another era. And, had she not questioned my -statement about the gun-toters, I should have told her that there are no -such animals in the mining country now. - -Myrtle was holding in her hand a gold nugget—real, glittering, yellow -gold — about the size of a walnut, and Frank knew instantly its source. -She had taken it out of my pocket—but I doubt if Frank knew positively, -until this minute, that I had it. He said to me, “You better drop it in -that shaft over there by the underground house. There’s but one place -that it could have come from—and if exhibited around here, it might get -somebody in trouble.” He hastened to say, however, that it would not -be me; that he was sure that I had got it legitimately, though maybe a -little less openly than the $10 nugget I had secured when he and I were -exploring the depths of the famous Quartette mine at Searchlight. That’s -the place where someone had said before the camp was named that it would -take a searchlight to locate pay ore. - -I said, “Yeah, drop it in the shaft and have someone in the future find -it, and then spend thousands of dollars trying to locate its source.” - -He said, “Any miner who knows his stuff would know that it didn’t -originate in this lime formation. It’s straight out of a porphyry -dike—and was, until you got hold of it, closely guarded under lock and -key.” - -I could have told him that I knew all this, but a more brilliant idea -struck me—leastwise just for the moment I thought it was bright. But, -then, on second thought, what if the assay on our big body of material I -had been so sure was just like the Hoosier zinc, should prove me wrong. -Well, anyway, I would “ shoot the works.” - -I said, “It strikes me that there are some men around here who count -themselves miners that do not exactly at all times know their stuff.” - -Myrtle said, “Now, now—don’t commence on that zinc again.” - -“Well,” I said, “I’ll still bet my old hat that it is zinc.” - -Frank said, quickly, “If it’s zinc, I’ll eat your old hat — and do it -with relish, too, brother.” - -“And in that case, if you win, smart boy, you still stand to lose your -hat,” said Myrtle, to me. - -I believe Frank had already begun to see the light, sense a probability, -cherish a hope. Although lead ore running 71 and 72 per cent by the -carload had been shipped, the present lean condition of our lead mine -could well stand bolstering with a big body of zinc. But of course he -would not want to admit, first off, that his “tenderfoot” partner had -stumbled onto something of such vital importance. In school, and at -countryside lyceums back home, Frank was a top negative debater—always -on the “contrary” side. And it was probably the stubborn Welsh in him -that caused him to stick by his guns now”His father had been a miner -back in Wales—in the identical neighborhood’ that afterwards became -known as the locale of the movie, “How Green Was My Valley?”: - -I do not know the result of the assay made by Harry Riddell for -Frank—but I do know that Frank wrote me, that fortunately, I was going -to be minus an old hat, someday. But, for the present, would I send him -$500 to start operations on “our lucky zinc find?” - -An assay made for me, by C. S. Cowan, whom I met on the train, and who -was assayer at W. A. Clark’s United Verde mine, Jerome, Arizona, showed -fifty-five per cent zinc. Assayer Cowan wrote me that it was a big -surprise to him. He had told me he doubted if the sample would show any -zinc. - -In the crude, it shipped out by the carload at forty-three percent. But -at that, it was no bonanza. Western smelters could not handle that class -of ore—and the freight rate to the zinc smelters in the gas fields of -southern Kansas, was $500 a car. - -Unlike the dark sulphides of the Joplin (Mo.) and Galena (Kans.) -district, where paying mines were operating on six per cent zinc, ours -was a carbonate ore, running to high values. It was light in color, -with the richer ore comparatively light in weight. Frank said it would -likely, as she goes down, turn to sulphides and be more permanent, with -less values. - -But, brother—”she” didn’t go down. - -By way of explanation, I might say here that on the preceding Friday, -Frank and I paid a visit to the Keystone mine near the summit, north of -the Goodsprings highway. Situated in a porphyry zone, it was the only -gold mine of importance in the district—with an output of more than -a million dollars up to that time. And it might be consoling to my -partner, who at that time (1907) had spent sixteen of his thirty-seven -years working in the Nevada mines, to state here what he already -knows—in fact, he’s the source of my information—that Jonas Taylor, -working a silver deposit on his claim, allowed the Keystone gold ledge -to lay dormant for three years after he had discovered it. But when he -did finally wake up to its possibilities, three days work rewarded -him with a four-foot vein of gold ore running $1,000 to the ton—in -shipments. - -Our former Wetmore citizen, Green Campbell, did not get in on this—but -he located, and his estate still owns the Golden Chariot, adjoining. And -one of Green’s associates, William Smith, hurriedly fetched his friend -Samuel Godbe over from Pioche, and after one look at the uncovered -ledge, the latter played a winning hand in a big game without risking -any chips. Mr. Godbe asked for, and received from Mr. Taylor, a thirty -day option on one-half interest for $20,000. Mr. Godbe then rushed to -San Francisco and sold half of a half-interest to Mr. Perry, a banker -acquaintance, for $20,000 cash. A few months later Mr. Perry sold his -quarter interest to Mr. Blake, of Denver, for $40,000. And nobody had -lost any money — yet. - -We had driven Sam Yount’s big sorrel mare up Kerby gulch to the Kerby -mine, owned by the Campbell estate. From there, we walked maybe a couple -of miles—a pretty rough climb—to the Keystone, arriving at about 10 -o’clock. The camp cook, the only man above ground, thought the -miners were working on the 800-foot level. Frank said he knew his way -around—that we would go down in the mine and contact them. He had worked -in the Keystone a short while before. - -Like an addict bucking a slot machine always hoping for the next turn to -crack the jackpot, Frank had put his last dollar into the development of -our own prospect, and consequently had been compelled to work in other -mines to get a stake. And since it was not in the cards for Frank to -distinguish himself, as part owner of the Kansas-Nevada mine — and also, -in later years, as if finding a good mother for his “kids” while on that -political economy excursion into the East was not enough, he cashed in -on that outlay by getting himself elected for the fourth time, to the -legislature — assembly, it is called in Nevada. Then to Reno as Regent -of the University of Nevada. Also, still later, he started a one-man -crusade against gambling. But in Nevada—well, it was slow work. - -And, mind you, we ourselves, Frank and I, were at that very time stuck -in a mine gamble which might—and did — keep us feeding the “kitty” for -years before we could know whether or not we would ever be able to pull -out with a winning. - -We lighted candles and started down by way of an incline shaft. The -Keystone doubtless had a vertical shaft, I believe back on higher -ground, straight down to the 1,000 foot level, with safety cage, -operated with power. Likely a standard shaft! under state supervision, -similar to the one which Frank and I were eased down to the 1100-foot -level of the Quartette mine at Searchlight—on a day off from our -inspection at Crescent. My cousin, Ella Bristow-Montgom-ery-Walter, -lived in Searchlight, and Joe Walter, her husband, had taken time off -from his barber business to show us around. Frank had seen the manager -of the Quartette, likely through the solicitation of Joe, give me a gold -nugget, worth maybe $10., - -I did not collect these rich specimens for their intrinsic value—but -rather for study and comparison. Our hope for gold at that time lay -at Crescent, between Goodsprings and Searchlight. The specimens -from neighboring camps could be helpful in determining our course of -development. - -At the Keystone, we had gone down that incline shaft to the 700-foot -level before the tenderfoot in me began to assert itself. We had walked -down the incline easily enough, then climbed straight down on a ladder -for maybe twenty-five feet—and then repeated by incline and ladder, -gaining distance away from the portal, as well as in depth. - -At the 700-foot level, Frank had a sudden notion that we might be -heading for trouble. There were crosscuts going out from the various -levels, and the miners might be working in any one of them. And it was -about time for the shots to be fired. He said we could get out quicker -if we were above the works when the powder smoke began to come out. And -I was positive that I had had enough. The mine was dripping water—and my -nerves were shot. - -It gave me a “weak” feeling not unlike I had experienced when Frank took -me about 300 feet back into the tunnel at our lead mine to demonstrate a -drilling, and the firing of a shot. It was late in the afternoon, almost -sundown. Frank said we would have to hurry, as daylight was running out -on us, and we yet had to make our beds out on the dump—that is, find -places where the crushed rock had been trampled down to some semblance -of smoothness. He said he was drilling in soft white lime; that the blue -lime at the contact two hundred feet farther in, for which the tunnel -was projected, and where, it was confidently believed, we would -encounter a big body of lead, was hard as granite. He drilled a hole -sixteen inches deep, then cut a suitable length of fuse, fitted a -dynamite cap to one end, tapped it together lightly with his steel -drill—then shockingly gave that dynamite cap, having a 500-pound -explosive force — which alone has been known to blow a man’s hand off -when hit with a hammer—a final clinch with his teeth. He had a little -tool for clinching the caps, but he didn’t want to waste the time to -fetch it. He “hooted” at my protest of that dangerous performance. -We were about twelve miles from civilization, and I didn’t relish the -prospect of being left alone out there in the night. He slit a stick of -dynamite with his knife—dynamite has been known to explode with rough -handling—but he eased my fears by saying a cow had chewed up a stick -of dynamite without harm. He inserted the capped end of the fuse in the -slit, squeezed it together and dropped it in the hole. He filled the -hole with fine rock drillings, and nonchalantly tamped it with an iron -bar. He lighted the fuse with a match—and said it was time for us to -skedaddle to the portal. No report. Frank said he would go back in the -tunnel and dig it out, and fire the charge. Now, I did protest. I told -him to defer that job until morning. He thought maybe it would be best, -said that a fuse would sometimes hangfire. Dusk was upon us. However, -we found suitable spots for bedding down, and I rolled up in nice clean -blankets I had purchased in Los Angeles the day before—and, using -a “soft” white lime rock for a pillow, slept the sleep of a budding -plutocrat. And, believe it or not, that delayed shot waked me before -dawn. Frank had performed the dangerous task of digging out that -dud, and reloaded the hole. He said, “It was no job for a simpering -tenderfoot to watch. And furthermore, if you will stick around me you’ll -learn something.” And that was no boastful exaggeration. - -The Keystone manager took us to the administration building, unlocked a -door, and showed us five tons of very rich gold ore piled in one corner -of the office. A narrow strip of one inch and less—along the hanging -wall of a four-foot vein of $40 ore—shot with particles of pure gold, -averaging $72,000 to the ton, had produced that $360,000 pile of -Keystone wealth. - -The manager was very kind to me. He pointed out some extremely rich -specimens, and watched me “eat ‘em up” — figuratively, of course. I knew -that it would have been unethical, if not worse, for him to have offered -to give me a specimen, especially at a time when all that “high-grading” -was going on in Nevada, particularly at the Goldfield Consolidated -Mines. - -Satisfied that I had been sufficiently impressed, the manager turned -to Frank—they were old associates, you know—suggesting that he might be -interested in having a look at the work-sheet, blue-print, or something -of other entertaining, on the desk. When Frank was sufficiently -absorbed, with back to me, the manager stepped out the door, “whowhoed” -and gestured—probably held up two fingers — which I afterwards -interpreted to mean he was making known to someone he would have guests -for dinner. And I still think I read the signals aright. Anyway, -my hurriedly selected specimen had only the gold content of one -double-eagle—and that would have been grand larceny in my state. - -I do not know if the Keystone maintained a change-room, such as the -management of the Goldfield Consolidated was compelled to install about -this time to cope with its “high-graders,” But the Keystone had had -experience with “high-graders.” Frank said that in earlier days, -off-shift miners would ride the ore-wagons down to the mill in the -Mesquite Valley near the town of Sandy, dropping rich pieces of gold ore -by the roadside for their confederates, following on foot, to gather up. - -At the Consolidated Mines in Goldfield every miner on coming off -shift, besides having to shed his work clothes before he could pass -the doorkeeper to get to his street clothes, was compelled to say “Ah!” -Perhaps you can think of some other way a stripped miner might conceal a -bit of gold? The miners did. And the detection of that unique manner of -“high-grading” precipitated a riot that had to be quelled by the state -militia. The Union miners agreed, magnanimously, to submit to the new -order of things—provided that they be permitted to name the doorkeeper -from their own ranks. The Consolidated had broken into some extremely -rich ore, streaks of almost pure gold—and the miners were averse to -overlooking any bets. - -Back at the lead-zinc mine, Myrtle told us what she had experienced in -Goodsprings during the week when Frank and I were at Crescent. As -the wife of the partner of Frank Williams—no intent of implying self -importance—she was at once taken into the hearts of the camp people. -Perhaps her own personality was a factor. She had met, at the hotel, Mr -and Mrs. Potter, of the Columbia mine; Mr and Mrs. McCarthy, (he was the -surveyor); and Harry Riddell, the assayer—all late of Boston. And she -had really begun to love the desert, with its ultra-sociable people. -Even Mrs. Yount’s squaw cook—maybe she was only kitchen help—a Paiute -Indian woman from up Pahrump way, Myrtle said, was friendly. - -And, best of all, the camp children had supplied her daily—except of -course those two days when Mr. Springer’s Gila Monster had the run -of the camp—with a bouquet of wild flowers gathered from the mountain -slopes. She loved that. - -Also, she had enjoyed, particularly when with the children, watching a -reddish-brown dog resembling a cocker spaniel, ride a horse, standing up -behind a man. A prospector working a claim up near the summit, five or -six miles out, rode a bay horse daily out of Goodsprings, to and from -his work—always with the dog standing on the horse’s back. As it was a -daily occurrence, the children had become accustomed to seeing the dog -ride the horse—but they were especially anxious for Myrtle to view the -spectacle, with them. Myrtle had met, and visited with, some of the -children’s mothers. One of the women was from Soldier, Kansas, near our -home. In fact, with faithful Elwood Thomas as escort, Myrtle had been -pretty much all over the camp — except of course saloon row on the north -side—Hobson street I believe it was called. Elwood had told her it was -not the lowest spot in Nevada, but even so, it was no place for a lady. - -Myrtle had now really caught the spirit of the West. She was actually -planning on the spending of the yet undelivered profits of the mine, on -a home in Goodsprings. Everyone had told her that we were on the high -road to a big success. Our home would be on the “bench” near Charley -Byram’s place, where we could be sure of getting water. Bachelor -Charley Byram, I believe, had the only private well, with windmill, in -Goodsprings. He was the son of August Byram, former partner of Green -Campbell, in the sensationally rich Horn Silver mine at Frisco, Utah. -Born in Atchison, Kansas, Charley was now — in Nevada and Los Angeles, -where he lived with his mother and sister — -a typical Westerner, -seemingly without the proper appreciation of a native son for his old -home town. He said to me, “The last time I was back in Atchison, -two years ago, I could have fired a shotgun down the full length -of Commercial street without hitting a soul.” To one who knows the -unobstructed and flat straightness of Commercial street, it seemed as if -he should have been able to do better than that. Charley would have to -up his sights and show marksmanship if he were to hit pay ore on his -claims up in the porphyry zone. I believe he missed in this. - -Myrtle said she wanted flowers, lots of roses, and green grass—a show -spot, sort of oasis in the desert as it were. Something that everybody -else didn’t have. Well, I too had been caught by the spell. Why not let -her have them? Contingent, however, on one little reservation. Only if, -and when, the lead-zinc mine should give up its treasure. We couldn’t -spend all that money living a prosaic life. - -Before leaving Goodsprings for California, Myrtle said to me, “Let’s -come back this way. I’d love it. And since you think you are so good at -discovering zinc overlooked by your partner, maybe YOU could, after all, -find gold in ‘them thar hills’.” - -Might say here that eight years later Myrtle had the chance to repay the -old miner, Elwood Thomas, for his kindness by entertaining him in our -home. Elwood — just in from Nevada — came into the Wetmore hotel one -evening about eight o’clock when I happened to be present. Also, Henry -McCreery—sometimes affectionately called “Henry Contrary”—Elwood’s -brother-in-law, was in the hotel office at the time. We had a good visit -together. When Henry was ready to go home he said, “Well, Elwood, I’d -like to ask you to go home with me for the night — but I’m afraid Becky -wouldn’t like it.” Becky Thornton was Henry’s sister and housekeeper—his -wife Patience, Elwood’s sister, having passed on some years earlier. -Elwood said, “Oh, it’s all right. Maybe I ought to go out and see the -Old Man” — meaning his bachelor brother Manning, living a half mile east -of town. Elwood was the oldest and Manning was the youngest in a family -of seven children—but the older one was the younger in appearance. I -said, “Come along with me, Elwood—I know Myrtle will be glad to see -you.” And she was. They had done Goodsprings all over again before -retiring that night. And, sadly, we were to see our very fine old friend -laid to rest in the Wetmore cemetery within the week. He was fatally -injured in a horse-and-buggy accident while visiting his daughter, Mrs. -Maude Ralston, in Holton. - -Elwood had told us that he had a message from a miner in Goodsprings to -deliver to a woman in Wetmore, but he could not remember her name. The -wife and I put in a portion of the night trying to figure out who it -might be with a connection out there. The next morning after breakfast, -I went with Elwood down to the Spectator office. Editor Turrentine -gave him a personal, with comment, naming the man in Goodsprings whose -message Elwood would like to deliver, if he could find the woman. It -brought results. Mrs. Nels Rasmus drove over to Holton the day following -publication — and received her message. Mr. Thomas had gone over there -to visit his daughter. Mrs. Rasmus had lived in the home of P. T. Casey, -the Corning banker. I believe she was an adopted child. The Good-springs -miner was connected in some way with one or the other of the two Corning -families. - -Two years later—1917—I chanced to meet this man with a stalled Model T -Ford near the summit west of Goodsprings, on a very slippery road, deep -in snow and slush. In the car with me, were Joe Walter, Frank and John -Williams, and the driver. We were coming down the grade, and he had been -going up. Recognizing the name on introduction, I asked him—just to be -sociable—what was wrong with his car? He answered rather smartly, “If I -knew I wouldn’t be here.” It was probably a very correct answer — but -I thought it was no way to dismiss a fellow who had a message from Mrs. -Rasmus for him. - -NOTE—Frank Williams died in a hospital in Las Vegas. Nevada, December -19, 1947. This story is printed, without change, just as it was written -prior to his death. - -MONEY MUSK Published in Wetmore Spectator— - -January 24, 1936. - -By John T. Bristow - -The deep snows of the past month recall the winters back a half century, -and more. It seems there was always snow on the ground in the winter -months then. - -In the early days, besides making boots and shoes, my father, William -Bristow, hunted and trapped a good deal, whenever he could spare the -time from his business. Always one or more of his boys would go with him -on those outings. We all loved the outdoors—and with my father we were -like pals. - -Among his catches were mink, raccoons, lynx, bobcats, and sometimes a -catamount. The catamount was an overgrown wildcat between the bobcat and -the cougar in size. The largest one he ever caught weighed sixty-seven -pounds. There are none here now. - -My father did not trap for the little fur-bearing, stink-throwing skunk, -but often one would be found in one of his mink traps. Then, from a safe -distance, he would shoot the skunk, carefully remove it, and deodorize -the steel trap by burning before making another set. - -The time came, though, when my father thought he might just as well save -the skunk pelts. Skunk fur was in demand at a good price, the best skins -bringing around four dollars. My father was not avaricious. But times -were close—and he had many mouths to feed. And four dollars was four -dollars. - -My mother, of course, did not like to have her home polluted with skunk -essence—and her boys refused to help with the skinning. So, when my -father would find a well-marked skunk in one of his mink traps he would -say, rather sadly, as he tossed it aside, “That’s four dollars thrown -away.” - -Then, one Sunday when William Peters was along—he was called Methuselah, -or Thuse, for short—my father found a big skunk in one of his traps. It -had fine markings. He said, “I’ll skin this one, if Thuse will help -me.” Thuse said he didn’t mind; he had trapped and skinned a lot of them -without getting stunk up. - -It was a cold day—ice and snow everywhere. And while they skinned that -skunk my brother Charley and I built a roaring fire with the scaley bark -ripped off standing shell-bark hickory trees, and some fallen dead tree -limbs picked out of the deep snow. - -When they had finished skinning the skunk my father walked over to the -fire and threw the carcass into the flames. He and Thuse then went over -to an open spring that came out from under the roots of a big elm tree -on the Theodore Wolfley farm west of town, and washed their hands. They -had returned to the fire and were bending over the blaze drying their -hands, when my father said, “So you boys think you’re too nice to help -your old daddy skin a skunk.” He laughed. Methuselah chuckled. Then, -spreading his hands with a sort of satisfied air, my father said, “It’s -as easy as falling off a log when you know how.” Thuse chuckled again, -and said, “Pshaw—of course it is!” And then, as if giving instructions -for his sons to note, my father went on, “I shot him in the head before -he had time to kick up a stink and of course we were careful not to cut -into the stink-sack.” - -Charley said, “Smart guys—you two.” Father gave him a withering look, -but said nothing. - -Thus chagrined, Charley and I started away to gather some more fuel. -Then there was a sharp pop—a sort of explosion, as it were—in the fire. -We looked around into an atmosphere suddenly made blue with sickening -fumes and sulphurous words of condemnation. We saw Pop clawing -frantically at his whiskers—he wore a full beard then—and the two -Willies were dancing around the fire like Comanche Indians. - -It was all so sudden. That darned skunk carcass, as if in a last noble -effort of defense, had exploded and the contents of that carefully -handled stink-sack was hurled at those two self-assured skinners, with -my father’s whiskers as the central target for some of the solids. Pugh! -It was awful! - -Adopting Indian lingo, Charley laughed, “Heap brave skunk-skinners!” - -Father said, “I don’t like the way you said that, young man. One more -crack out of you—and I’ll tan your hide.” But he wouldn’t have done -that. Charley was a model of perfection, and no one appreciated that -fact more than did his daddy. - -Now, have a look at Thuse. A weazened little wisp of a man in his -twenties—wrinkled, uncouth, slouched in his clothes always much too big -for him, he looked as if he had already lived a goodly portion of the -long span of years accredited to the ancient Methuselah. - -On the way home, Methuselah, speaking to my father, said, “They’ll want -to run us out of town, Bill, when we get back to Wetmore.” My father -said he could bury his clothes, but still he was greatly worried about -his whiskers. And, naturally, he was thinking about my mother, too. - -Charley said, soothingly, “Oh, just go on home Dad, and play her Money -Musk, and everything will be fine. Money talks, you know. You’ve got -as good as four dollars in your game sack, and God only knows how much -musk, if you want to call it that, you and Thuse have got on your own -hides.” - -My father played the fiddle, and while “Over the Ocean Waves” was his -favorite, he played equally well another tune called “Money Musk.” He -would entertain his family in the home of evenings with his old-time -fiddling. - -We reached home about dusk, purposely timed. My father and Thuse were -both increasingly worried. Thinking that it might be more satisfactory -to let father face his problem alone, or with only Thuse present—and for -other reasons—Charley and I went out to the woodpile and stalled around -a bit. Old Piute and Queenie came out of the doghouse to greet us. -Father never took the dogs along when running his trap line. - -My mother came to the door and called in her gentle, sweet voice—she -was always gentle and sweet with her boys—”Come on in here, you little -stinkers, and get your suppers!” - -My father was not at the festive board that Sunday night. He was -nowhere about the house, that we could see — and we ate our supper in -comparative silence. - -Occasionally, my mother would sniff at us, but she offered no protest. -Doubtless her two darling boys carried more than a suspicion of the -polecat’s pollution, but, having just had a whiff of those two Willies, -her keen nose was unable to separate the real from the imaginary. - -It was almost two hours later when father came home. Methuselah was -with him. They were both appreciably slicked up—but not really so good. -Father was, more or less, shorn of his beard, and looked “funnier” than -his boys had ever before seen him. And, would you believe it, the first -thing he did was to pick up his fiddle and play Money Musk. I looked -at my mother—then turned to Charley, giggled, and whispered, “I don’t -believe it’s going to work.” - -Charley giggled, too, and said out loud, “I betcha I could name some -slick skunk-skinners who are maybe going to have to sleep out in the -doghouse tonight.” - -Sitting ramrod straight on the edge of her chair, with a hitherto -wordless dead-pan expression, my mother said, “You tell ‘em, kid.” That -did it. Dad snapped, “You don’t smell so darned nice, yourself, young -man!” - -William Peters could play the fiddle almost as well as father. They -teamed well in furnishing music for the town dances, in the old days. -They now played as if there was urgent need for prolonging the agony. -Nero blithely fiddled while Rome burned. And likewise those two Willies -fiddled well into the night while my mother stewed. - -GONE WITH THE WIND Published in Wetmore Spectator, - -January—1943. - -By John T. Bristow - -I have been asked to “write up” the Kickapoo Indians. This I cannot do -satisfactorily without more data. I do not know the history of the tribe -and, at this late date, I do not choose to waste time in acquainting -myself with the particulars. It takes a lot of research to do a story of -that nature. And, historically written, it would be rather drab. Anyway, -this is a hurry-up assignment I am writing now to help out Carl, The -Spectator Editor, while he is playing a lone hand during his father’s -sickness. - -WANTS WRITEUP OP KICKAPOO INDIANS - -From Porterville, California, George J. Remsburg, who formerly lived -in Atchison, and years ago had some excellent historical articles -pertaining to Northeast Kansas printed in the Atchison Daily Globe, -writes: - -“A while back I received from you a copy of the Spectator containing -your article, Turning Back the Pages. You have given us a splendid story -of the Old Trail days in Northeast Kansas. I read every word of it with -intense interest, and am preserving it for future reference. Also -accept my thanks for copies of the Spectator containing your Memory’s -Storehouse Unlocked. It is a most interesting narrative, and I am glad -to have it for my historical collection. - -“Why don’t you write up some recollections of the Kickapoo Indians? - -“Mrs. Robert T. Bruner, of your town, is my much beloved cousin—as good -a girl as ever lived.” - -Marysville, Kansas, Dec. 18, 1938. Dear Mr. Bristow: - -I have just received the Diamond Jubilee number of the Seneca -Courier-Tribune, and among other feature articles read your article on -“Green Campbell.” I want to congratulate you on this product of your -able pen. It presents the theme in a fascinating, interesting manner; -and incidentally garnishes the subject with a lot of worthwhile pioneer -history. - -It is too bad that persons with your ability to write—to draw word -pictures — with words from an apt, concise, and well-stocked vocabulary, -should lay down the pen. Those products, tho very interesting now, -with the passing of years become literary gems. So keep on writing, Mr. -Bristow; we love the articles of your able mind and eloquent pen. - -I don’t believe you have ever written up the Kickapoo Indians—right at -your door? Why not reconsider—and do it now? - -Under separate cover I am mailing you one of my latest books, “The -Jay-hawkers of Death Valley.” I want to give you the opportunity to read -it. You need not buy it. - -John G. Ellenbecher. - -Mr. Ellenbecher has been writing historic articles for many -years—principally about the old Overland Trail. In company with Abe -Eley, formerly of Wetmore, Mr. Ellenbecker called on me when I was -writing the Green Campbell story. I told them that it would be my last. -But it was not. I reconsidered. Twelve of the stories in this book have -been written since. And I may write still another one.—J. T. B. - -However, there are some incidents having Indian connections which might -make fairly readable matter. The Kickapoos were, I judge, just like -other Indians — pushed out of civilization to make room for the whites. -They had come here before the white settlement, of course. Where they -came from I do not know—Michigan, maybe. - -The Kickapoos did not war with other tribes. Nor did they molest the -whites. Still, they were Indians, and it was hard for the early settlers -to believe that they would have a lasting record as such—since hostile -Indians roamed the country west of the Blue river. Back in the early -90’s when the Kickapoos took up the Sioux “Ghost Dance, or Messiah -Craze,” as it was called, and held all-night pow-wows for several weeks, -there was some nervousness among the whites. - -In the early 70’s the Kickapoos came to Wetmore to do their trading. -They had Government money and were good customers of the two general -stores. Later they did their trading at Netawaka, and still later -at Horton. My father, a shoemaker, came to know some of them rather -intimately. I knew many of them too. - -Masquequah was Chief then. Many are the times I have sold him white -sugar and red calico—the Indians would not buy brown sugar if they could -get white sugar. This was when I was a clerk in Than Morris’ store. -Associated with me then were Curt Shuemaker, George Cawood and “Chuck” -Cawood. In the good old days we often piled up a thousand dollar sales -of a Saturday. - -I should, perhaps, amplify this assertion about the sugar. We sold at -that time about four times as much brown sugar which came in barrels -marked “C” sugar, as we did white sugar. One day the boss said, “The -town’s full of Indians; sell no white sugar to anyone until after the -Indians leave.” When I told the Chief we had no white sugar, he said, -“Ugh, Indian’s money good as white man’s money—maybe. Indians go -Netawaka buy white sugar.” And that is what they did. Sorry, I can’t -tell you why Morris did not want to sell the Indians white sugar that -day. It could hardly have been because it consumed more time-it was a -busy Saturday—to “tie-up” white sugar. We had no paper sacks then. The -system was to weigh-up the sugar, lay a piece of wrapping paper flat -down on the counter, empty the sugar onto it; then tie it up—if you -could. A green clerk like myself could waste a lot of time trying to -wrap up a dollar’s worth of granulated sugar. Brown sugar would pack -together, and wrap more easily. - -The story got out that the Netawaka merchant would sell the Indian a -bill of groceries, put it in a box, and a clerk would obligingly carry -it to the Indian’s wagon—and then, while the Indian was loitering in the -store, the clerk would slip out and rob the box, in the interest of the -merchant. But, if this were true, the Indians seemed to like it. They -followed the Netawaka merchant to Horton when that town got started -in 1886. Also, it was said, a certain white farmer living near the -southwest corner of the reservation, would sometimes ride out from -Netawaka with one of his Indian friends, letting his hired hand follow -up with his own rig. At opportune times, the white man would reach back -and throw out packages for the hired hand to gather up. Methinks Sam -would have had hard luck in fishing out a package of granulated sugar -such as those tied-up by me. - -The old, old Indians are, I believe, all dead now. Of the younger -generations, I know little—except that they are the descendants of a -once relatively large tribe, and that their once large domain has -been reduced to thirty sections, and that much of the land within the -boundaries of the reservation is now owned by white people. - -H. A. Hogard, Educational Field Agent, and Grover Allen, Indian, were -in Wetmore last Sunday practicing archery with George Grubb and Ollie -Woodman. They told me the Indian population now numbers about 280. There -are about fifty families. - -For my first episode I shall tell you about a deer-hunt my father and -I had with the Indians. In a former article I told you about an Indian -with a party of deer-hunters we chanced to meet in the John Wolfley -timber, whom my father named Eagle Eye. His Indian name was far from -that, however. - -It was Eagle Eye who had arranged this hunt. He brought along from the -reservation, eight miles northeast of here, two extra ponies—one of -normal size and not too large at that, and a little one for me to ride. -While putting the saddle on the little pony my father asked the Indians -if it were a gentle pony. Eagle Eye said, “Him heap gentle like lazy -squaw.” - -It had snowed during the night and was still snowing when the Indians -arrived at day-break. Two deer-runs were to be covered and it would take -a full day to do it. Then, too, our party wanted to, if possible, get -onto the grounds ahead of other hunters. It was not very cold, and my -father was pleased with the snow. Tracking would be good. A natural born -hunter, snow always appealed to him. He had killed a great many deer in -his native Tennessee. - -In the old days in Tennessee there was hardly ever enough snow to do a -good job of tracking. However, hunters down there this winter would have -had snow aplenty to track deer—if deer still remain to be tracked. A -foot of snow and thirteen degrees below zero was recorded January 19th -at Nashville—where I was born, the second son of a tanner, at 11:30 p.m., -December 31, 1861. - -Also in our hunting party, riding a small pony, was a little Indian boy -whom they called—shall I say—Nish-a-shin. This might not be correct. -When we got lined out, Eagle Eye rode first, then my father. I was -third in line and Nish-a-shin was fourth. Three Indians followed in -single-file formation with long rifles carried crosswise in front of -them. The Indians all rode bareback, even Nish-a-shin. My father had -secured two saddles for us. - -In the gray of that early Sunday morning after the storm abated and the -white prairie lay still, Eagle Eye headed west toward the John Wolfley -timber. We traveled in silence, never out of a walk. From the head of -Spring creek we went across to Elk creek and Soldier creek. - -At that time the whole southwest country was practically virgin prairie. -The Dixon 40-acres where Maurice Savage now lives, and the Bill Rudy -land where Joe Pfrang’s home now is, were the only fenced tracts in that -section of the country. Bill Rudy went to California. Years later when -my father went out there they renewed their friendship. And one time -when I was visiting in Fresno my father took me to see Mr. Rudy. He -owned an 80-acre ranch and seemed to be well pleased with the change -he had made. He had much to say about the intense cold weather he had -endured on his homestead here. The winters Mr. Rudy experienced in -Kansas were very much like the one we are now having, only in the old -days real blizzards were the rule. - -On October seventeenth, 1898, Jack Hayden lost nineteen head of cattle, -in a pasture north of the Rudy — or Pfrang — place, in an unusually -early and unusually severe blizzard. The cattle drifted with the -blinding snow-storm over a bank and piled up in a ditch. I was in -Chicago at the time. It rained in Chicago, but coming home on the -Burlington, the first snow appeared near the north line of Missouri, got -heavier toward Atchison, and from Atchison west on the Central Branch, -it was really heavy. That snow, and succeeding falls, kept the ground -here covered in a sea of white until spring. - -Those Indians called me “paleface papoose.” I was, of course, beyond the -normal age of a papoose, but your old Indian was no fool. They probably -reasoned that whiteman would not understand Indian’s word for youth. -Eagle Eye had started calling me “paleface papoose” when my father was -saddling the pony. Maybe it was because I had to have a saddle. Little -Nish-a-shin you know rode bareback. He did not make much talk. - -It was in the wilds of Soldier creek, in the big timber, where we -made camp for dinner. One of the Indians carried a stew-kettle in a -grain-sack and I carried a flour-sack having in it several loaves of -bread baked by my mother, and maybe four or five links of butcher-shop -bologna. Also two tin-cups, two tin-plates, with knives and forks for -two. My mother did not think to put in spoons, but then of course she -could not know the kind of mess we were in for. - -With fallen deadwood dug up out of the snow a rousing fire was made—and -the kettle put on. When the Indian dish corresponding to the whiteman’s -mulligan was ready, all hands squatted down around the fire and devoured -the food ravenishly, including my mother’s nice brown loaves of bread -and the store bologna. My father had told me that I would be expected -to eat of the Indian’s food and that I should pass our bread and meat -around, as a token of friendship. - -I cannot say now what kind of meat it was those Indians cooked in that -kettle, but it was something which they had brought along. They had not -killed anything on the hunt that day. However, I do not believe it was -dogmeat. Surely Eagle Eye would not have done that to us. But maybe it -was just as well that I didn’t then know anything about the accredited -habits of Indians in general as with respect to their dogs. I can -however truthfully say this much for the Indian’s stew. That dish—dog -or no dog—didn’t gag me nearly so much as the bowl of Chinese noodles my -father and my brother Frank cajoled me into eating with them and other -members of their party — Harry Maxwell, a former Wetmore boy, and Dan -Conner — while seeing Fresno’s Chinatown. - -After traveling all day through the woods, following cow-paths and never -deviating once from the single-file formation which characterized the -start on that white morning away back in the 70’s we got back home at -dusk. From sun-up until sun-down we had traveled, and not one deer did -we see. Some tracks in the fresh snow were followed for miles. Only once -did the Indians dismount and hunt a clump of woods hurriedly on foot, -spreading out fanwise. They had glimpsed something moving among the -trees—something which they did not locate. It was then I learned why -they had brought the incommunicative Nish-a-shin along. Quickly he began -gathering up the reins of the deserted ponies. I learned something else -too. Pronto paleface papoose became a second edition of Nish-a-shin. - -Starting up near Goff, the Spring creek deer-run came down to within a -half mile of Wetmore, then went southeast across the prairie to Mosquito -creek, thence up Mosquito creek nearly to Bancroft and across the -prairie again to the head of Spring creek. - -Three deer were the most ever seen at one time on this run. They came -into a flock of 4,000 sheep I was herding for old Morgan on the Dan -Williams place a mile south of town, where Clyde Ely now lives. The -sheep were frightened and divided themselves into two bunches as the -deer loped gaily through the flock. - -If you don’t know, a deer-run is the feeding grounds of those ruminants. -As long as the deer remain in the country they travel the same route -closely. In the winter—in the old days here—they fed largely on -hazel-brush and Other tender twigs. - -We observed in our early hunts that the deer when feeding always -traveled the circle in the same way, never reversing. Sometimes however -when routed suddenly they would backtrack. And when pressed they would -usually run with the wind. Probably that was not so much to gain speed -as it was to camouflage the trail of their own scent and to more readily -themselves catch the scent of their pursuers. When hard pressed they -would sometimes take off with the wind and go ten or twelve miles off -the run—in one instance, nearly to Sabetha. Whenever a deer would -turn tail to wind we were ready to go home. I have seen them break out -against the wind and then when off a reasonable distance circle around -and go the other way. At such times my father would say, “Ah damn it, -now he’s gone with the wind!” - -Since I am employing a rather broad drag-line brand of technique, there -is one more thing I might amplify here. In the beginning I said it -would entail a lot of research to do a good Indian story, historically -complete. Reliable information is hard to obtain. The old Indians—the -Indians I knew—have all gone to their “happy hunting grounds.” The -present generation does not seem to have a very clear picture of the old -days. - -For instance, I made two trips to the reservation about five years -ago and interviewed a number of the older ones — second generation, of -course—in a vain effort to obtain just one Indian word. You may recall -that the tanyard story was, I might say, predicated on the Indian’s -name of sumac. When a small boy, I had understood Eagle Eye to call it -“sequaw.” I wanted to be accurate, as that flaming little bush played an -important part in the story as well as in the tannery. Not one of them -could tell me the Indian name. - -I found one Indian, Henry Rhodd, 64 years old at that time, who said -he could not tell me the Indian name for sumac, but he knew what their -fathers used it for. He said they tanned their deer skins with it. That -was the same thing Eagle Eye had so dexterously managed to convey to my -father and me up in the Wolfley timber sixty-odd years earlier. Henry, -whom I would judge carries a mite of French blood in his veins, sniffed -as if he were inhaling the perfume of a fragrant rose, and said, “And oh -it smelled so good.” This, however, did not coincide with my findings as -a tanner’s helper. Still, I have seen my father sniff his newly tanned -calf skins and say the same thing. Our tan-yard was just about the -“stinkenist” place on earth. - -In this connection I might mention that some years later I, myself, shot -a deer on lower Mosquito creek. My brother Sam and I had started out -one afternoon, the two of us riding our old roan mare, Pet. We struck -a fresh trail south of town about where the three deer and the four -thousand sheep had mixed. We followed the tracks to the Frank Purcell -timber. There we ran onto John Dixon and “Dore” Thornton. They said they -had been trailing the deer on foot all day. - -John Dixon told me to go around to the south side of the timber; that -they would follow the tracks through the woods. The deer came -out running fast, and I shot it. The charge of buckshot from my -muzzle-loading shotgun hit a little too far back to make a clean kill. - -We trailed that crippled deer—it was shot through the body as evidenced -by blood on either side of the trail—for a distance of ten miles to the -very spot where it had been started in the morning. At the line between -the John Wolfley place and the Mary Morris place, now owned by R. M. -Emery, the following morning, we lost the trail because of melting -snow and cattle tracks. The deer was found dead a few days later only a -quarter of a mile away. - -After it had been shot that deer laid down three times — at the Joe -Boyce place, at the Bill Rudy place, and on the commons where the Ben -Walters place is now. The first time it laid down the warm blood from -the wound bored a hole in the snow. Darkness caught us at the old Dixon -or Savage place. It was then we remembered the old roan mare was still -tied back in the Purcell timber. - -What boy is there who would not have been proud of that feat of -marksmanship—plugging his first deer through and through as it ran past -at almost lightning speed in its mad flight for life? Did I glory in the -feat? I did. At first. As a big-game hunter I had, in my own estimation, -scored high. Following in the footsteps of my father, a born hunter -of big game, I had all but arrived. Plugged my first deer! I was the -“toast” of the town! Or at least I could imagine I was. It would still -be interesting to know just what would have happened had I brought home -the venison. But I cannot now begin to tell you how adversely I was -moved when the deer was found dead. - -In a flash I saw it all—how I had dropped back into a crook of the old -worm fence on the Roger O’Mera farm and waited for the deer, driven -out of the Purcell timber by the three other hunters, to come within -gunshot; how, as if it had wings, the deer, after being shot, cleared -that high rail fence; and how its life-blood spurting two ways stained -the fresh white snow where the little animal lit on the opposite side of -the rails; how every few miles we saw it jump up from a brief rest and -run on again, leaving more red on the white; and how, as we discovered -the next morning after leaving the trail at dusk, that a wolf had taken -up the chase and had sent the tired deer on and on without more rest -back to the big timber from whence it had come and where, perhaps, in -the throes of great agony, it sought its mate. And how, still pursued -by the wolf, it had cleared in one great leap—its last grand leap—on a -down-hill slope, a thirty foot hazel thicket. - -Something indefinable, something unforgettable, made an impression on -me then. And that something put the “kibosh” on my big-game hunting -aspirations. I do not now count it a weakness. Though there were no game -laws then, that crime was made all the worse because it was a doe. - -My brother Sam, who rode with me that day, later, really brought home -the venison, eclipsing all my past glory. But it took two trips all the -way to Arkansas in a horse-drawn covered wagon to do it. The first and -unsuccessful time he had for hunting companions Alex McCreery, John E. -Thomas, and my father. Their bag was a few wild turkeys. The second trip -Sam made with Roy Shumaker. This time they killed two deer. Then, for -the first time, the sons whose father was a veteran deer-hunter, were to -know the taste of venison. - -Also, I used to chase wolves and jack rabbits with my horse and the -hounds, and enjoy it—until one particular rabbit chase which spoiled -the “sport” for me. It was on a Sunday afternoon in the quarter section -adjoining town on the northeast—the south half of which is now owned -by-Bill Davis. No horses were in this chase. The crowd from town, with -several trucks, were stationed on the ridge near the southwest corner. -The gray hounds started the rabbit over near the east line, and it ran -north down a draw, out of sight. It swung to the left and topped the -ridge north of the crowd, with the dogs in close pursuit. The rabbit -turned south heading straight for the crowd, and jumped up into Frank -Ducker’s truck, right at my feet. One of the men standing in the truck -grabbed it while the dogs were on both sides of the truck. The rabbit -squealed pitifully. The captor said its sides were thumping like -a trip-hammer. Most of the men thought the rabbit had earned its -freedom—but not so with some of the “sports.” Expecting to see another -chase, they dropped the rabbit on the ground about two rods in front of -the dogs, but when the rabbit saw the dogs it began squealing again—and -the grayhounds rushed in and nabbed both rabbit and squeal before it -realized that it must run again for its life. Every time after this when -a rabbit chase was proposed, I could hear that frightened jack rabbit’s -pitiful squeal. - -But I never experienced any sickening wolf chases. - -We had grayhounds and trail hounds under foot when we lived on the -Hazeltine farm—but not one that I could call my own. I bought a yellow -half-breed grayhound named Tuck from a farm hand on the Zeke Jennings -place for one dollar, that proved to be a wonder. The unknown half of -him was supposed to be bull dog. With Alex McCreery and his pack -of trail hounds, and a half dozen other horseback riders and some -grayhounds, a wolf was started out of an isolated clump of brush on the -south end of the Len Jones farm, two miles west of Wetmore. I happened -to be on the east side of the brush patch with my dog, while the other -riders with the pack were on the west side. The wolf came out about a -rod in front of my position, and Tuck got an almost even start in the -chase. I had a pretty fast horse, but the chase led across a slough, and -I lost some ground in heading this wash—but even so, I was on hand -soon after the kill, one mile from the start, before Alex and the -other riders and the dogs arrived. Alex said, “You and old Tuck was -to-hell-and-gone before we caught sight of you.” Tuck had caught the -wolf—and drowned it in an eighteen-inch pool of water, along the branch. -I found him sitting on his tail at the edge of the pool—looking very -pleased. In those days it was a boy’s greatest ambition to own a fast -horse, and a fast dog. Now I had both. The only flaw was that I was no -longer a boy. - -Tuck also caught a deer in the big bottom south of spring creek on -the Mary Morris farm four miles west of Wetmore. In this chase I was -trailing pretty close, on my horse, when the dog grabbed the deer’s hind -leg, causing both to tumble end-over-end. In the midst of this spill, -it seemed to me as if deer and yellow dogs were scattered all over the -ground. The deer got up first, and ran west toward the John Wolfley -timber. My prized hound did not seem to have the heart to follow after -it. I think there were moments now when Tuck did not know east from -west. - -Now, a last word about the Indians—and the Ghost Dance or Messiah Craze -as participated in by the Kickapoos. The “craze” was a sort of spiritual -delusion starting with the Sioux Indians, the same blood-thirsty red -devils who got credit for the ghastly Custer massacre in 1876. This, -and other depredations, were still fresh in the minds of the people, -and there was widespread alarm among the citizens whenever the craze -had taken hold. However, the craze was short-lived. I do not think the -Kickapoos repeated after the first year. The dance that time at the -Mission was kept going for three weeks. - -I do not recall in what way this dance differed from the Green Corn -Dance held annually by the Kickapoos, or other tribal dances. But -undoubtedly it carried a threat to the whites. Except for brandishing -tomahawks at certain periods of the dance—it looked to the casual -observer like other Indian dances. Old Sitting Bull, of the Sioux, had -made much bad medicine, and the threat was in the air, if not actually -in the dance. Gold had been discovered earlier in the Black Hills -country. The Government had withdrawn a part of the Indian lands for -development by the whites. This the Sioux resented. There was fear among -the Indians in general that their lands might be taken away from them. I -cannot now be sure of this, but I believe the Government took a hand in -suppressing the Ghost Dance. - -I can best explain things with a reprint of what I wrote for the -Spectator at the time. Incidentally, I might say that in looking up the -old files I observe now that this story appeared in the first issue -of The Spectator after I became its owner. Also, that the article -was illustrated with a splendid woodcut engraved by my brother Sam. -Illustrations in that day were engraved on cross-grain box-wood blocks. - -The following excerpt is copied from the issue of December 12, 1890: -During the past week or ten days, our people have visited the Indian -Mission, eight miles northwest of Wetmore to witness the Indian pow-wow -which has been in progress for several weeks. Although a more civilized -tribe than the Sioux with which the “Ghost Dance” originated, the -Kickapoos have caught the “Messiah Craze” and have made things lively -for a while. The dance has been watched with considerable interest -and no little alarm by many visitors and citizens living near the -reservation. However, the conclusion now is that there will be no -outbreak. The neighbors along the line look upon their actions merely as -a curious freak of superstition. - -When asked how long the Indians kept up the dance, an old Indian who was -too feeble to participate in the festivities, in broken English, said, -“Messiah come at sunrise.” It was afterwards learned that the Indians -continued dancing all night with the expectation of seeing Christ, or -the Messiah, at sunrise. This is, in a manner, following the custom -of the ancient Aztec sun-worshipers of Mexico, who years ago builded -mounds, some of them 600 and 800 feet high, where they would assemble at -sunrise and carry on their festivities in the anticipation of the coming -of some great divinity. - -Two Sioux Indians got an inspiration from on High—or elsewhere. It was -only a dream, of course—but then why should not the Indian be allowed -to dream as well as the white man? He has proven his capability, and has -gone the present generation of white men one better. - -A careful study of ancient recorded stories shows this one to be no more -fantastic than the feat accredited to Moses, who, with an outstretched -hand caused the waters of the Red Sea to part so that the Children of -Israel might walk across on dry land. But, I believe, Moses credited the -Lord — collaborating no doubt—with making the big wind which actually -drove the water out of their path. Our Kickapoos were not much on the -big blow—but it seems that a couple of Sioux, in this instance, made a -heap lot of big wind. - -According to a recent writer on the subject, the Messiah craze is the -out-growth of a startling story related by two Sioux Indians, which, in -substance, lays bare the assertion that Jesus had come down upon earth -again and had appeared to the Indians. According to the report He was -discovered by two Indians who had followed a light in the sky for 18 -days over a country destitute of water. The most peculiar part of the -story is that at each camping place they were supplied with water from a -little pool that came up out of the ground and furnished just enough for -their needs and no more. At the end of the 18 days journey they came to -a secluded place near a mountain, and there they found a hut, built of -bull-rushes, and on entering they saw Jesus, who told them that He had -come once to save the white men and they had crucified Him—and this time -He had appeared to the Indians and that they should go back and bear the -news to the other Indians. The two Indians were then borne up in a cloud -and in a very short time were set down at their home where they related -what they had seen. - -WHITE CHRISTMAS Published in Wetmore Spectator, and - -Seneca Courier-Tribune, January—1943 - -By John T. Bristow - -COURIER-TRIBUNE Editor’s Note:—History can be dry or it can be -interesting. When it is colorful, filled with the lives of people, it -will be remembered far longer than if but dry facts are presented. We -think that this true story by John Bristow of Wetmore is one that will -make the English Colony of old Nemaha County days long remembered. - -Although at the outset you will likely be thinking of a current and very -popular song hit, you must read far into this contribution before you -can put your finger on the line from which the above caption stems. -Also, for a clear picture of it all, you must go back with me three -score and five years to a favorite hunting grounds in the upper reaches -of Spring creek. - -My father had bought a coon-dog from a traveler. This night—Christmas -Eve—was to have been the try-out but the way it turned out, Dad could -not know then how badly he had been “skinned.” That came later. Old -Drum had a wonderful voice, and though he “lied” a few times on later -occasions, he never did tree a coon. - -In the party were Roland Van Amburg, Bill (Thuse) Peters, Jim Scanlan, -Bob Graham, my father and myself. Incidentally, Van Amburg was the last -man to take up a homestead in these parts. He homesteaded the 80 acres -now owned by Ambrose McConwell, almost adjoining town, in the middle -70’s. He was a happy-go-lucky, clownish sort of man. - -Well, Van was not exactly the last one to file on a homestead here, but -he was the last one to do it in the regular way. Lawyer F. M. Jefferies, -while publishing the Spectator in Wetmore in the 80’s filed on a -quarter a few miles northwest of town—but it developed that the land -was improved and occupied by Eli Swerdfeger, who had by mistake filed -on another number. When Eli’s neighbor threatened to do mayhem to Lawyer -Jefferies, he relinquished — and Swerdfeger’s correct filing was even -later than Van’s. They called it “claim jumping”—though it was hardly -that, in the true sense of the term. There had, however, been some claim -jumping earlier, where settlers were negligent in fulfilling the lawful -requirements. A claim jumper in the old days was held in about the -same degree of contempt as is now the “scab” workman in a unionized -community. - -With team and wagon and dog, we reached the timber about dusk, barely -ahead of a blizzard. Owing to the storm, the projected coon-hunt did not -take place. The whole night was spent around a bonfire out there in -the deep wood. The men talked about going home, but the intervening six -miles of unbroken prairie would have been hard to negotiate with a team -on a night like that. - -Fortunately for us, it was not very cold. Disagreeably cold, to be sure, -but in severity—low temperature—it did not compare with the blizzard -which blew in upon us last Monday (Jan. 18, 1943) with a temperature of -10 degrees below zero, to be followed the next morning with 22 degrees -below. - -The campfire, built in a sheltered spot, was near a tree which had some -holes cut in a big limb, old choppings which were assumed the work of -Indians. Those holes started Thuse Peters to talking. In telling of an -occurrence alleged to have taken place on the Kickapoo reservation, -in which he himself had figured rather conspicuously, Thuse graciously -endowed the mate of the squaw in his story with a fine growth of -whiskers—which whiskers, however, the Redskin did not have. Or did he? -Thuse was a little wild of the mark in some of his statements, probably -all of them. Bob Graham called him for that one about the Indian’s -whiskers. “I’m surprised,” said Bob, “you living here against the Indian -reservation all your life. You should know Indians do not have beards.” - -“Well,” inquired Thuse, glancing toward one of the party having heavenly -hirsute adornment, “does an Irishman have whiskers?” - -“What a silly question,” broke in Roland Van Amburg. “Just take a look -at Jim Scanlan over there by the tree-trunk. I’d say an Irishman has -whiskers.” Jim Scanlan was section foreman here. There could be no -mistaking his nationality. - -Said Thuse, “I just wanted to be sure of that.” He went about -replenishing the waning fire. This done, he said, “That Indian was half -Irish.” - -One story led to another, and finally my father told of hunting panthers -in Tennessee. He said it was claimed by old woodsmen that the panther -made a noise like the cry of a woman, but he had never heard a panther -scream, and he didn’t believe it. - -“Do you suppose, Bill that there ever was a panther seen in this -country?” This inquiry was made by Mr. Scanlan. - -“Maybe,” said Dad, “I once tracked a varmint that might have been a -panther through these very woods.” - -Van chimed in, “Did they ever learn what killed the farmer’s stock over -on Elk creek? That was believed to have been the work of a panther. And -what about that varmint on the Rudy place?” Van was, as I knew stating -facts. - -It was generally known here that a prowler of some kind had killed a -calf on the Bill Rudy farm, and had dragged it several hundred yards to -a hazel thicket—and after eating its fill, buried the remaining carcass -under leaves, after the habits of the panther. Bill Rudy owned the land -where Joe Pfrang now lives. - -The storm grew in intensity. It had filled the woods with voices. If you -turned your imagination loose you could hear a cry, a laugh—anything you -chose. Then suddenly, astonishingly, there it was. A woman’s scream. Or -was it? - -Thuse said, “It’s Bill’s panther.” Bill was my Dad. Old Drum raised his -voice. He made sound enough, in the tree-walled confines of that hunters’ -paradise, to raise the dead. - -Bob Graham said, “I feel spooky. Think I need a bracer.” He uncorked his -bottle and took a good one. - -Well, whatever it might have been, that thing had the men baffled. -Albeit the storm raged fiercely in the tree-tops and upon the hillside -from whence the sound came, a deadly calm settled around the bonfire. -The men looked at one another in complete silence for a tense moment. I -believe everyone was wondering if maybe Thuse had not named it. - -By this time everyone was, shall I say, panther-conscious. I would not -want to say that the men actually were waiting in expectancy for the -appearance of that killer. You know how it is. After a menacing thing -has been discussed in your presence for hours, without realizing it, you -just don’t forget. - -Then suddenly, miraculously, there it was again—something very like a -woman’s voice coming in swells above the howl of the storm. Van, who had -repeatedly urged the men to break up camp and make a try for home, said, -“It’s the voice of an angel—an angel come to tell us to get the hell out -of here while the going is still possible.” Dad scoffed, “An angel out -here in the woods on a night like this—man, you must be crazy!” - -Jim Scanlan said, “Well, anybody who don’t believe in ghosts is maybe -going to pretty soon.” - -We had along a sharp axe and several good woodchoppers. At first -fuel for the fire was gleaned from old dead tree tops lying on the -ground—tops of blackoaks my father had cut some years before for the -tanbark to be used in his tannery. But as the snow became deeper, and -the puzzling voices in the woods persisted, the men—including yours -truly — somehow did not seem to want to venture beyond the circle of -light. They fetched fuel from a close-in rick of cordwood—four-foot -lengths. Without leave, we burned Anna Buzan’s wood, a full cord, that -night. It was wood my brother and I had cut on shares. Adjustment could -be—and was—made later. - -Back there on the ridge high above us, in the thick of that blizzard, a -woman was singing, as it were, for her life. - -Let me explain. Three people—a woman and two men enroute to the old -English colony, from somewhere farther south, had bogged down in the -storm two miles from home, and were desperately in need of help. - -The old road in those days, coming in from the prairie lands on the -south, followed the ridge approximately on the line between the John -Wolfley timber on the east and the Anna Buzan timber on the west, to -a crossing on Spring creek. The road was first used in bringing out -cross-ties for use in building the railroad which now skirts the woods -on the north side of the creek. Back on the ridge several old wagon -trails led into the forest. The team those Colonists were driving, to -a ramshackle old spring wagon, had wandered off the road and had -floundered in one of those side leads, upsetting the wagon. This had -been the cause of that first scream. - -Having broken harness which they could not repair in the dark, they had -started on foot to where, in passing, they had seen the light of our -bonfire, hoping it would lead them to the home of a settler. But when -close enough to see it was only a bonfire, misgivings began to -assail them. What if it should prove to be an Indian camp, or maybe -horse-thieves in hiding? These facts were made known to us after they -had reached our fire. - -When Van’s “Angel” had come in the flesh—her long skirt, held up in -front, trailing atop the snow as she moved in—we could see that she was -not garbed in the traditional folds of flowing gauze-like fabric, as -becomes an angel. It would have been all out of place on a night like -that. As it was, I thought she was dressed rather too thinly. - -Bob Graham said, “If you wouldn’t be offended, young lady, I’d offer you -a swig of my whisky.” - -“Liquor,” she said, “I can take it,” Bob passed the bottle to her. -“O-oo, so little,” she complained. “I ‘opes it will ‘elp.” - -Their names were Bill and Teddy and Minerva. Bill led off as spokesman. -He said, “When we sawer men walking around the fire we knew there would -be no ‘ouse ‘ere. And I asked Teddy wot shall we do now?” - -“Ted ‘e said,” continued Bill, “Blast me ‘ide if I know wot would -be best. Wot you think, Minerva? Want to chawncit?” Teddy spoke for -Minerva. He said, “Minerva ‘ere,” pointing to the girl, “said to us—Now -you just ‘old your ‘orses, men I got it. I’ll sing ‘em a song.” - -Let me remind you here that it was their ability and their willingness -to sing on any and all occasions that made those Colonists extremely -popular at the country school-house lyceum of that age. - -Bill talked again. He said, “Then I said Hindians or ‘orse-theives, -whichever they are, would know that ‘appy, singing folks bode nobody -‘arm.” For the purpose intended, Bill’s idea was not bad—but Minerva -challenged it promptly. She said, “You can just drop that ‘appy part of -it, Mr. Bill.” - -Their reasoning was logical. And their manner in coping with the -situation was unique. For them to have burst in upon a band of -horse-thieves in those days would, most likely, have been suicidal. -But with Indians of the times, it is my belief, they would have had no -trouble at all. - -When they had thawed out, after Minerva had obliged us with more -songs—and believe me, that girl could sing — Teddy said he would fetch -his concertina from the wrecked wagon. It maybe was a good thing he -didn’t know anything about all that panther discussion. - -However, after Ted had returned, Van, who, as a boy, had lived in -a panther country back east, told the newcomers about the Elk creek -incident and other periodical panther scares elaborating on the dangers -of same. He told those people they could count themselves lucky in -finding our fire. “Wild animals,” he said, “won’t go near a fire.” I -knew that this was not news to any of our party. And I knew, too, we -would keep our visitors for the duration. - -Van started it. When he had guessed the hour of midnight had arrived, -he yelled so that all could hear above the roar of the storm—”Merry -Christmas!” Our English visitors returned the greeting—though, enveloped -in swirling snow, they didn’t seem to put much heart in it. - -Looking up toward the high heavens in readiness to speak, Dad was caught -full in the face with a gob of dislodged snow from the treetops. He -said, clawing the snow out of his whiskers at the same time, “It didn’t -look like this could happen when we started out yesterday afternoon — it -was so warm, almost like spring. But then maybe this snow is a godsend.” -He clawed again at his whiskers, saying “Dammit!” He probably would have -quoted the old saying, “A green Christmas presages a fat graveyard” -— but old Drum raised his voice again, bringing everyone to rigid -attention. The dog ran out a few paces, turned around and came back. He -had not gone beyond the circle of light. - -Together, or rather alternately, Minerva and Teddy made music against -the howl of the storm until morning. They could not team together. -This nightingale who had come to us out of the storm, was from another -colony—perhaps English Ridge, south of Havensville. Bill sang some, in -a comical way. Our improvised shelter, hardly worth mentioning, and our -fire had kept them from freezing. They were grateful. - -They were of the old English Colony folk—Bill and Ted. This is not to -say they were scions of the favored six families who occupied Llewellyn -Castle on section 25, in Harrison township. They might have been from -any one—or two — of the dugouts scattered about over the prairies -outside the Colony-owned section. But they were decidedly English, and -none the less Colonists. - -When at last morning had come, and we had seen our visitors off, we -drove out onto a vast prairie covered with snow, homeward bound. We -would be doing well if we reached home in time for dinner. Deep drifts -lay ahead of us and there was a sea of white on all sides as far as one -could look. - -Incidentally, I might say here that the streets in Wetmore were -completely blocked by that storm. The main street in the business -section was drifted so deeply in snow that to facilitate traffic a cut -was made down the center of the street, and one standing up in a wagon -had to look up to see the top of the cut. - -Van stroked old Drum’s head. He said, “Too bad, old boy, you didn’t get -a chance to show Bill how good you are. Skunked this time, but maybe -better luck next time. Wish you could tell us what kind of a varmint you -saw, heard, or scented, when you made all that commotion back there. You -wouldn’t lie to a fellow, old longears, and you are not afraid of the -dark—are you?” - -Dad said, in a tone that indicated his great disappointment over the -bogged down coon-hunt, with maybe, also apologies to his guests, -“Well, damn it, men—it wasn’t a complete waterhaul. We’ve got a white -Christmas.” - -UNCLE NICK’S BOOMERANG Published in Wetmore Spectator - -March 5, 1943 - -By John T. Bristow - -The hunt was staged in Uncle Nick Bristow’s timber — way back in the -70’s. It was on the home place over on the Rose branch, the farm now -owned by Bill Mast. The trail of the hunters would range down stream, -overlapping into the Jim Hyde and Bill Rose woods, and on down to -the junction with Wolfley creek. Ostensibly, it was to have been a -coon-hunt, but it soon developed into something bigger and better. ‘ - -There was a good moon—but to attract the hunters, a big bonfire was -built in the woods, and the men flocked in from all directions. The -interesting part of it was that three of them were from the old English -Colony, two miles west of my uncle’s farm — ”Green Englishmen,” the -Wolfley creekers said they were. Couldn’t name them now—and be sure. One -of them was a stocky little man, very talkative, very agreeable. - -Then there were the Porters, the Pickets, the Piatts, the Snows, the -Mayers, the Barnes boys, and others—not aiming to overlook my Uncle Nick -and his son, Burrel. The elder Mayers, Gus and Noah, were Pennsylvania -Dutch, with Holland ancestry. Gus liked his fun while Noah liked to stay -at home and mind his own business. But some of Noah’s boys were in the -gathering, as was also Peter Metzdorf, who had a while back married Gus -Mayer’s daughter, Anna. Peter was German—the real thing. He lived in -Wetmore. - -Of the five Porter brothers, Ambrose was the only one that I can now -positively say was present. But John and Tom and their brothers-in-law, -Bill Evans and Ben Summers, were probably around somewhere. Bill Porter -had just married my Aunt Nancy, late of Tennessee, and he couldn’t come. -And Ben Porter—well, they said he was too contrary to appreciate a good -thing like this. Ambrose wore his red hair—it was really red—at shoulder -length. He wore gold earrings, too, and three gutta-percha rings on one -finger, rings he himself had made from old coat buttons. - -It was good to have Roland Van Amburg with us. Roland was a grand old -sport. Moreover, Roland Van Amburg had much in common with my Uncle Nick -Bristow. They had both suffered, or were due to suffer, heavy losses in -large herds of Texas cattle they had bought from Dr. W. L. Challis, -of Atchison. It is barely possible that those cattle might have been -milling about on the western part of Uncle Nick’s farm that night. - -The bonfire was built on the edge of a small clearing, with a large tree -backed up by a clump of small growth on the right. In the distance—not -too distant—was a big log lying on the edge of a ravine, with a 10-foot -bank at this point. A small tree with good height stood at the top end -of the log on the left side of the clearing. One approaching from the -north would see the log only after advancing so far, and even then only -if not otherwise attracted. Had it been a plant for a modern movie -scene it could not have been a more perfect setting for the thing that -actually happened. - -While yet around the bonfire the talk turned to panthers. One had -reportedly been seen, or heard, in the woods a couple of miles away—up -in the Rube Wolfley neighborhood. The men would be careful not to hunt -that timber because they didn’t want their dogs to be torn to pieces. -Uncle Nick owned a timber lot over in the panther country. - -The natives saw in this hunt a chance to have some fun at the expense -of the Englishmen. Also, they wanted to impress those Colonists in a way -that might be the means of keeping them on their own reservation, so to -speak. A lot of timber-stealing had been going on and the Colonists -were suspicioned. As a matter of fact, timber-stealing in those days was -widespread. But in that business the Colonists were no worse than the -natives, but the Colonists were always sure to get the blame. - -While people generally scoffed at the idea of panthers roaming the -woods, there were some who said it was not altogether improbable—that -one might have escaped from a menagerie. You must understand that -practically all the older men here at that time had come from panther -states back East—and, I might say, the rising generation had more or -less been steeped in panther talk. - -It is written in the family records, and was generally known here -then, that the grandmother of Bill and Ben Porter was killed and -partly devoured by a panther back in Indiana. She would have been the -great-grandmother of Jim and Bill Porter, and Zada Shumaker and Harry -Porter. - -Also, there is one man now living in Wetmore—G. C. Swecker—who would -tell you how one of those ferocious beasts hopped upon the roof of his -father’s hunting lodge, while occupied, back in Virginia and ripped the -clapboards off. He also declares that panthers do scream like a woman. -And, as one old fellow around the fire had said, they do sometimes -migrate. I myself recall that during a severe winter in the Rocky -mountains nearly a half century ago, that those killers actually came -right down into Colorado Springs. - -At that time panthers were quite numerous in the Missouri hills across -the river from Atchison—and with the Missouri river frozen in the severe -winters of the old days, it would have been an easy matter for them to -cross on the ice to this side; and then only a distance of forty miles -to get out here. And supposing—just supposing—that, perchance, -they might have come over in pairs, and carried on in the usual cat -tradition, there was the bare possibility of our coon-hunters even -running into a “family” of them. The panther’s young stay with the -mother until grown. - -Let’s say, then, that there was just enough to it to keep timid people -on edge. I doubt if there ever was a night coon-hunt in those days when -some of the hunters didn’t give some thought to that killer. The thought -seemed to hit one the moment he was in the deep woods. And on moonlight -nights that thought was simply unshakeable. A shadow in the wood—a -shadow that was somehow alive—could be highly disquieting. - -Uncle Nick and the men, with the dogs on leash, took a turn about the -woods while waiting for my father and the inevitable Thuse Peters to -arrive. They would be coming out from town. I had gone out earlier that -evening with my cousin, Burrel. - -Uncle Nick bade me remain at the fire so as to direct Dad and Thuse -when, and if, they should come while the hunters were away. Ambrose -Porter said, “Nick, you’re not going to leave that boy all alone out -here. I’ll- stay with him.” Uncle Nick said, quietly, “Oh no, you -won’t.” Uncle knew that Ambrose never liked to exert himself needlessly. - -If not inclined to discount my statements — and you really should -not—you are now maybe thinking what I thought that night—that it was a -darned shame to leave a boy all alone out there in the woods like that. - -The hunters were now coming in from the north. Uncle Nick and the -Englishmen well in front. Uncle Nick called out, “Johnny my boy, where -are you?” - -I had climbed the small tree at the end of the log—as far up as I -could go. I called back, “Up here in this tree, Uncle Nick. Look on the -log—quick!” - -The hunters had now advanced a couple of steps, bringing the log into -view. I glanced back in time to see them shift their gaze from my -tree-perch to the log—and I took one more look at the log myself, just -as Uncle Nick fired his rifle. In that split second I could see two eyes -shining brightly in the glare of the bonfire—and I saw the yellowish -form of the ugly thing fall off the log. - -Uncle Nick was a sure shot with a rifle. And quick too. As told in one -of my former articles, he had killed a mountain lion in the Rockies -while placer mining in Colorado in 1858. The great beast was shot in the -nick of time—in midair, after that 200 pounds of destruction had made -the spring for my uncle from an overhanging limb of a great pine. - -Addressing Uncle Nick, the little Englishman said, “I say, my good man, -let’s ‘ave another one soon. Over in the big woods. Beard the lion in -‘is den, so to speak.” In high good humor, he shook a pudgy fist at -my uncle, saying, “Hand mind you, if I am h ignored I shall be -disappointed.” - -The one mistake of the whole evening—if one can be sure there was a -mistake—was when the hunters, after they had “impressed” the Englishmen -with the danger of the panther to their dogs, turned the dogs loose on -the trail of the pet coon they had brought into the woods at the right -movement to make a “hot trail.” - -It had taken four yoke of oxen to plant the log—and my Aunt Hulda gave -the men a spirited tongue-lashing for making use of one of her hens to -bloody the trail. - -Now, imagine if you can, my uncle’s surprise when the next time he went -over to his cherished timber lot he discovered that someone had robbed -him of valuable post and rail trees. Not being present at the time, I -have no way of knowing what his immediate reactions were. But had it -been my Dad instead of my uncle, who never swore, I’m darned sure I -could name more’n half of the irreverent words he would have employed in -taking the epidermis off that stocky little Englishman. - -SHORT CHANGED Not Hitherto Published — 1950 - -By John T. Bristow - -You can never tell by the caption of one of my stories what all is going -to be in it—the caption might well have been something else—but the line -that inspired the heading is sure to be apparent to the careful reader; -if he, or she, will look for it. - -The oil strike on the Oreon Strahm land one mile south of the Sabetha -hospital, in August, 1950, and the two producers previously brought -in on the Mamie Strahm land three and one-half miles to the southwest, -refreshes my memory of an earlier try for oil in Nemaha County—and -some of my own experiences in this greatest of all “get-rich-quick” -opportunities. - -In 1904 Dr. Joseph Haigh and Dr. A. P. Lapham secured a block of oil -leases around Wetmore, and contracted with a driller, W. H. Hardenburg, -of Oklahoma, to drill a well to the depth of 2,000 feet—or to the -Mississippi lime—for $5,000. The site was on land owned by Dr. J. W. -Graham in the west part of town; later owned by Mr. Mathews. - -The drillers struck a little gas at 1700 feet, which spurted water over -the 80-foot derrick. This caused a great deal of excitement—but after -“pulling” the fire in the coal-burning power plant and quickly taking -other precautionary measures, the drillers said “there was nothing to -it.” - -Gas had previously been encountered in two water wells in the north part -of town—on the Cyrus Clinkenbeard property west of the school grounds, -now owned by the Thorn-burrow girls; and on the J. W. Luce property near -the cemetery, now owned by Gene Cromwell. The flow in the Luce well was -the stronger, agitating the water in a way to produce a bubbling sound. -It created a lot of excitement. But the State Geologist said it was -helium gas, which, rather than burn, would extinguish fire. - -In the oil test on the Graham lot, at about 1800 feet, a hard formation -was encountered, which the drillers pronounced the Mississippi lime—but -State Geologist Haworth said it was not. Then the drillers completed the -contract at 2,000 feet. Mr. Hardenburg had a drilling contract coming up -in Oklahoma, but he remained on the job here about a week longer, at $40 -a day—and the hole was put down to 2225 feet. It was planned to have Mr. -Hardenburg come back and drill the test deeper, but he got rich in his -“share-the-profits” contract in the Tulsa oil field—and retired to a -home on “easy street” (Morningside Drive) in Kansas City. - -When Hart Eyman was getting up a block of oil leases here in 1934, I -called up Mr. Hardenburg, while in Kansas City, and told him of the -activity out here. He asked me to let him know when the first test was -to be spudded in here, saying he would drive out. He said he still had -faith in this section and that he would have been glad to have finished -our test. I believe our people failed to raise the necessary funds. The -money for the original test was raised by selling stock. And it was a -clean promotion—but that is more than I can say for some of the outside -oil promotions in which our Wetmore group dipped. - -In view of the recent strikes in the Strahm field, with a 30-barrel -producer in the Hunton lime at around 2800 feet; and the Mamie Strahm -number 2, rated at 1440 barrels in the Viola lime at approximately 3600 -feet; and the Oreon Strahm test, with even greater potential production -in the Hunton and Viola and still another producing sand topping the -granite at around 3900 feet, it looks as though we Wetmore “investors” -might better have kept our speculative eggs all in one basket, so to -speak, contrary to high-powered promotion advice—and completed the -Haigh-Lapham oil test. And I still believe we overlooked our best bet -right here at home. - -But then we had no data to enlighten us. The nearest and only drilling -at that time was ten miles south of us. It was not deep enough to prove -or disprove anything. In the heyday of his great financial flight—in the -1880’s—Green Campbell drilled a test to the depth of 1,000 feet on the -east edge of Circleville. I believe the incentive was a reported seepage -of oil in the creek south of the town. - -Then, some twenty years after the Wetmore try, a couple of promoters -came out of Kansas City, with a plan to rejuvenate interests in the -Haigh-Lapham test—and “feather their own nests.” Joe Searles’ drugstore -in the east room of what is now the First National Bank building, -was the unofficial headquarters for oil hungry “investors”—local and -transient. With Joe and the two promoters, I went over to the Matthews -lot, now owned by Bert Gilbert. Mr. Hardenburg had left the top 100 feet -of casing in the well to prevent cave-ins against the time when he might -return to finish the well. Measurements to the exhaustion of the string -available showed the well open for fifteen hundred feet—and likely all -the way down to the bottom. - -Excitement began to mount again. - -Dr. A. P. Lapham presided over a packed gathering in the opera house—and -appointed a committee of five to confer with the promoters. The -committee met in the Thorn-burrow bank. The promoters came up with -a contract whereby they would undertake to raise the funds for the -completion of the well, against numerous and assorted requirements by -“the people” of Wetmore. - -I was offered the trusteeship—but I declined to accept it. I think -the reason the committee offered it to me was because I had been the -trustee—with no part in the promotion—of a block of eight hundred acres -of oil leases in Elk and Chautauqua Counties, purchased from Charley -Cortner, salesman, of Iola, and Dr. C. E. Shaffer, vendor, of Moline, by -our Wetmore group, at $10 an acre, with further obligation of $1.00 per -acre yearly rentals, for five years, which had been carried through to a -successful termination, with no gain to the “investors” and a loss to me -of only $85—aside from my $250 first come-in and my part of the rentals, -$25 a year, through payments of rentals in general, as trustee, in -excess of collections. I had to collect four hundred dollars twice a -year from fifty-three people—and I didn’t quite make it. I therefore -regarded the trusteeship now offered me as not a desirable recognition. - -To keep the record straight, I shall now give with a little more -enlightenment. I actually had a little velvet in the Shaffer oil -deal—leastwise it looked like velvet at the time. Not for promotional -influence—but for services rendered, and to be rendered. - -I went with Charley Cortner, the salesman, and three other Wetmore men -to the Moline oil field—paid my own expenses, even to transportation -equal to railroad fare, and therefore was beholden to no one. The Moline -acreage adjoined a block of leases on which the discovery well, a -small producer, had recently been brought in. There was, however, big -production—and growing bigger every day—at Eldorado, where we stopped -on the way down to get our appetites (for oil speculation) whetted. I -wanted to go in with them, of course. - -You know, should you pass up an opportunity to go in with the home folks -on something that was to pan out big, you would always feel that God had -given you less sense than He had given your more fortunate neighbors. -And, should you strive to live down the mistake, there would always be -lucky ones to remind you of your dumbness. The hope of oil-money was in -my system. Had been hankering to get in with the home folks on something -good for a long time. - -When reminiscing for entertainment, as well as for record of historic -fact, with no particular theme to exploit, you will, doubtless, agree -that it is permissible—nay, oft-times necessary, to break all the rules -laid down by learned teachers; such as to never let one incident call up -another. And, if you don’t agree—you are going to get it now, anyway. - -Aside from the matter in hand, I may say that only a short time before -this, I had been denied the chance to go with a Wetmore group on an -inspection trip to another oil field in southern Kansas—because I had -not as yet signed up, as they had, for an interest in the lease. Well, -the energetic young salesman, after securing pledges enough here to put -him in the clear, went ahead of the boys to the headquarters and bought -the lease, at a discount, on partial payment, using his own money, -which, had all gone well, should have netted him more than the promised -commission. He intended, of course, to deliver the lease to the group up -here at the contract price, or rather the pledged commitments, with -only a few amounts yet to be peddled, or held in his own name, at his -discretion. But the Wetmore group—the boys who had said that to let me -go with them on the inspection trip without first making a commitment, -would be unfair to those who had signed up—turned down the deal, cold. -Then, after returning home, the group heard rumors of lawsuits—and -counter suits. The lease vendor was demanding payment in full, and the -poor boy-salesman could not raise the money. - -Charley Cortner, the salesman earlier mentioned in this writing, had -been here for five or six months selling life insurance. He was a -whole-souled, persuasive, sort of man who had made many friends here. -Cortner and Dr. J. R. Purdum, in whose car the trip to Moline had been -made, went out among the people and in almost no time secured pledges -for nearly enough money to take over the Shaffer leases. They were -selling interests in $125 “units.” But, at the finish, to accommodate -all the eager applicants, some subscriptions were taken for as little as -$50 and $25—sub-divisions of a unit. - -When they came to me—at the corn-house, where I had been sorting out -seed corn—I surprised them (and maybe shocked them, too) by declining -to subscribe. Not that I didn’t want to get in on the big prospect—but -because, as I believe, it was an improper if not a dangerous way to form -a syndicate. Somewhere I had acquired the notion that if fifty people -chipped in and bought a thing that it would take fifty people to sell -it. But I didn’t tell them this until after they had “flared up” and had -their say. They started to quit me, in disgust—but the Doctor, who was -regarded among my best friends, thinking to erase some of the unkind -comment, said, “Well, John, when you get through sorting your sour corn, -come and see us—we’ll save some units for you.” My corn was not “sour” -corn. It was well matured, and making an average of eighty bushels, with -some acres on grubbed ground making 125 bushels. - -Now, for a little laughable reaction within a none too laughable story. -The Farmers Union elevator manager, a farmer not so long out of the -corn rows, refused to buy my culled corn, said it would be unfair to his -company to permit me to take out the best ears. After I had sent several -loads to the Netawaka elevator, as it accumulated in the house, after -taking out only about ten per cent, the Farmers Union manager came over -to the corn house, looked at the culled corn we were loading out at the -moment, saying he guessed maybe he had made a mistake in refusing to buy -the culled corn. The culled corn was far better than the general run -of corn brought to market that year. It was an improved strain of Boone -County White, which would shell out equal to Reid’s Yellow Dent. - -While still at the corn-house that day of the Purdum-Cortner call, -Charley had an inspiration. He said, “Why couldn’t you write something -for us like you think we ought to have?” I said, “I can try—but it will -have to be approved by an attorney before you can use it. I don’t want -to cook up something that might get our people in trouble.” - -But did I—or did I not? - -Charley said, “Can you get at it right away?” So the “sour” corn sorting -was postponed until another day—and I went to my home at 11:15. My -typewriter and writing desk were in an alcove up stairs. I had hardly -gotten the corn-dust and the insult to my purebred seed corn, which had -been engendered within the hour at the seed house out of my system when -my wife came to the stair door and said dinner was ready. I had no time -for dinner. The necessary words had not come to me readily. Charley -came at 12:30, sat close to me, in a more pleasant mood with occasional -verbal expression indicating the reason for the improvement. But he -was careful to hold back the main reason. His presence didn’t help in -furthering the writing. However, we got away at the appointed time—one -o’clock. No dinner. - -Fred Woodburn, the corporation-wise member of Wood-burn & Woodburn, -lawyers, Holton, Kansas, approved my draft, as written, with one -exception. I had made provision for transfer of units. Fred said it -would break the partnership. And, may I say, before I forget it, that -I was censured for being so careless as to omit making provision for -transfers—and this, too, by an individual who, as you will hereinafter -see recorded, found fault with my correct line of reasoning in another -instance—correct as in reference to the one incident, understand. - -I’m not trying to “hand” myself a bouquet. The agreement cooked up by me -was neither “air tight” nor “fool proof.” The Trustee had not a chance. -The error was that I did not require the subscribers to include in their -checks a sufficiency to take care of their rentals for the full life -of the leases. True, there was the chance that rental payments might be -legitimately discontinued before the expiration of the lease, as in case -of production terminating the payments, or disposition of the lease. But -it would have been a lot simpler and safer too for the Trustee to return -the unearned portion of the lease money. - -Charley Cortner paid the Woodburns for writing a new draft of the -agreement—and asked me, on the road home, for my charge. I told him, “No -charge.” He thanked me kindly. He felt good of course—but I could see he -had not yet got all he needed to allay a worry, the thing that had hit -them so hard at the corn-house. - -Unauthorized, and unknown to me, in soliciting subscriptions, it seems, -they had carried the impression, if not the promise, that I would be -the Trustee—possibly demanded by some of the prospects. After miles of -silence on the road, Charley said, “You know, I feel so good about this -that I’m going to give you one unit; you can have it in cash, or in -stock in the syndicate.” From the ultra pleased expression on his face -when I said I would take it in stock, I’m sure he had been holding his -breath awaiting my decision. - -True, I had not as yet agreed to accept the Trusteeship—in fact, I knew -nothing about their plans—but I was now as good as in, and they could, -at least, make a plausible showing at the called meeting in the City -Hall the following night, when the vendor would appear in person to -deliver the leases. Charley’s gift to me was acceptable grapes—equal to -$4.50 a line, or 45 cents a word for the writing. I really wanted to -get in, and would have subscribed for an interest, anyway—now that -apparently a safe and workable organization would be formed. - -Well, Doctor Shaffer spent much of his time here in my home. He was -agreeably pleased over Charley Cortner’s work, with my assistance in -preparing the agreement—and said so in no unmistakable terms. He had a -pleasant word for my wife, too. - -In an aside, I will say, that while in Moline on that inspection trip, I -was troubled with a slight attack of appendicitis—which had been chronic -with me for twenty years, and still is—and had gotten temporary relief -from the Doctor. Dr. Shaffer now said that should I ever decide to have -an operation, for me to come down to Moline, and bring my wife along, -that she could stay in the hospital—all free of charge. This was by far -the best offer I had ever had. - -First, I might say Dr. Sam Murbock, our old reliable, had said he could -not tell me what his charge would be until he got into me. I told him -that he would never get into me, or my pocket, without first naming his -price. - -Also, when a guest at the Stratford hotel in Kansas City, Dr. Pickerel, -of the Stratford, went with me to the University Hospital early one -morning. He said he would sit awhile in the lobby and he would spot -the surgeons as they came in. I passed three of them, trying to get my -nerves settled. - -The fourth one was more in general appearance to my idea of what a good -surgeon should look like. He was called—and we went up stairs to a room. -On examination, Dr. Jabes Jackson, Kansas City’s top-notch surgeon, -said I was just right for the operation. I asked him what would be his -charge? He said, “One thousand dollars!” I told him that I would have -to be a lot sicker before I would think of giving up a thousand dollars. -Then, Dr. Pickerel said, “He doesn’t come under that class, doctor.” Dr. -Jabes then said, “Three hundred—that’s the lowest.” - -Again, while at the Byram hotel in Atchison I had a severe attack in -the night—and believed that the time had come when I should have the old -appendix taken out. I called for Atchison’s foremost surgeon. He was in -Kansas City, but would be back at one o’clock. I went up to the Atchison -hospital in the forenoon, asked for a little “home” treatment. In bed, -the nurse felt my “tummy,” shook her head, and said, “You will have to -wait for your doctor.” The doctor said I could have the caster oil -and an enema—but he told the nurse I was to have no breakfast. In the -morning, I was feeling pretty good and was about out of the notion of -having the operation. However, I asked the doctor what would be his -charge? He said, “You are most too weak to stand it now. Come back in a -week—we’ll talk it over then.” One week later, the doctor said, “Owing -to your long residence in the state, and your standing in the community, -I’ll do it for five hundred dollars.” I recalled that our old Nemaha -County reliable had done the job for one of my friends for a very -reasonable fee, and also remembered that he had charged others less -reasonable. I said, “If and when the time comes, I’ll just give you -$150.” He said, “I’ll do it—but if you ever tell anybody, I’ll kick your -butt all over town.” You may know that we were on quite intimate terms, -having on earlier occasions met at Atchison’s friendly club—or he -wouldn’t have dared to talk to me like that. - -Back in my home again, after enthusiastically discussing the likely -prospect of the new oil field. Doctor Shaffer went out on the street to -mingle with his boys, and the prospects who were now coming in from -as far away as Holton, Circleville, Soldier, Corning, Goff, Netawaka, -Whiting, Sabetha, and intervening farms—including my long-time friend -Tommy Evans, whose farm north of Capioma had the reputation of being the -best kept and most productive in the neighborhood—saying he (the doctor) -would be back soon. My wife said, “It looked like your promoter friends -have all ready unintentionally cut you in on the big melon should you -be mindful to follow up the lead—and wish to be bothered with the -Trusteeship.” She laughed, “If you don’t make that Doctor Shaffer cut -you in for a generous slice you are not as smart as I think you are.” - -Well, maybe I needed this tip—and maybe I didn’t. - -Doctor Shaffer came back, and without more preliminaries, proposed to -cut me in for two units ($250) if I would prepare him two copies in -blank, of the agreement I had cooked up for the home syndicate, and, -incidentally, permit Cortner and Purdum to make good on their promise to -the subscribers that I would be the Trustee. He said they were expecting -it, and desired to have my acceptance before going into the meeting. -Thus, I wouldn’t rightly know to whom I was indebted for the generous -slice of the melon. - -Or was it a melon? - -I suspect it was as Myrtle had said, unintentionally cooked up by the -two solicitors—and that, in its final phase, it was a joint settlement, -with the solicitors having to kick back a portion of their rake-off. -Anyway, it was more unsolicited grapes for me—twice over the $4.50 a -line, or 45 cents a word for the original draft. I used a carbon and -made the two new copies at once, while Doctor Shaffer waited. He had -another sale on with a Missouri group. - -Fifty-three subscribers crowded into the City Hall, and all signed the -agreement, and each set down the amount of his subscription opposite -his name—and all wrote checks. At the finish I had fifty-three checks -totaling $8,000—my own check for $250, and Doctor Shaffer’s check for -$1,000, included. Doctor Shaffer would reimburse me for this $250 and -also pay me the $125 promised by Charley Cortner. I was instructed to -send payment for the lease in two $4,000 bank drafts. I had no intention -of paying out $8,000 until those checks had time to be cleared. In the -meantime our attorney had called for complete abstracts to the acreage -instead of the certificates of title supplied by the vendor—delaying -settlement for several weeks. - -But the eight thousand dollar payment was made, and I received the $375 -velvet from Doctor Shaffer—I guess. For reasons of his own, unknown to -me, Dr. Shaffer had a Wichita man mail me his personal check for $375, -nothing more. I suspect one of those $4,000 drafts had been deposited in -a Wichita bank. The transaction was legitimate. I had nothing to -cover up. This payment to me had come off the salesman and the vendor, -negotiated subsequent to the pledges made by syndicate members—leaving -their full “investment” intact to work out its own salvation. - -This is the God’s truth—and mine, too. - -Now, kindly figure out for me, if you can, where anyone had been worsted -through my part in the transaction. Two “bright” young clerks in the -bank here—whom I shall not name—caught it at once. That mysterious $375 -check had alerted them. They put their own erroneous construction on -it—and passed the word along. Then I caught “hail Columbia” from the -younguns’ superior (in point of banking tenure) who had “invested $125 -in his wife’s name—the idea being that a banker himself ought to have -more sense than to dabble in such matters. His “boys,” as he called -them, meant well, of course—and it didn’t take me too long to convince -the banker that I had taken no part in the promotion. But, what if I -had? It would not have been a crime. I want to say, however, that the -banker did me the favor of trying to correct the false impressions he -had helped set afloat. Once in a blue moon even the worst of us will -meet such a manful man. - -In this story I only aim to hit the high spots—not, at any time, -deviating from the truth. It was not all easy sailing for the Trustee. -In a case of this kind, the conscientious person representing his -friends, does not wish to let them down because of failure to collect -rentals in full. With syndicate members widely scattered, the Trustee -must make his own decisions—and quick. He can put up the delinquent -amount himself, or he can forfeit the lease—if he does not wish to raise -the ire of his friends who have paid. - -Our syndicate was in reality an unfinanced holding partnership—barred -from creating indebtedness, euphoniously christened “The Elkmore Oil and -Gas Syndicate.” Here, I must give the wife credit—if, in the long run -it really merited credit—for suggesting this expressive name, which -embraces, in split infinitives, the location of the lease holdings -(Elk County) and the home (Wetmore) of the “investors.” It pleased Dr. -Shaffer—no end. I think it got Myrtle included in that proposed free -entertainment at his hospital in Moline. - -Like Doctor Purdum’s good natured crack at my purebred seed corn, those -altruistically donated helpings of “grapes” showered on me by Cortner -and Shaffer, had begun to “sour”—and, I may say, that they deteriorated -until less than nothing was left of the windfall. It posed a perplexing -dilemma. - -As there was little chance of getting action before the expiration of -the leases, aggravated by draggy collections of rentals, a feeler -was mailed to all subscribers, in ample time before the fifth year’s -payments were due. More than half of them favored dropping the leases, -and sent me their written authorization. Nearly half of the interests -remained expressionless. The four leases were canceled. The majority -of the interests wished it so. But, it was the delinquents who hollered -most, even censured me for giving up the lease—when some of the acreage -came into production several years later. It seemed not to have occurred -to them that wo would have lost out, anyway. - -But, in the Moline field we got some experience which should have taught -us a lesson, that a bird in hand is worth a whole flock in the bush—but -it didn’t. We could have sold our leases at a nice profit. - -An oil gusher was brought in on a large tract of pasture land one mile -away from our holdings. Dr. Shaffer wired me to come down at once. He -drove me out to the well. There was a terrific jam—at the well, on the -road, in Moline. Crowds of people were at the well ahead of us that -morning—Art Hough, a former Wetmore boy, and his oil-rich partner, -from Independence, among them. Excitement was running high. One man was -killed in his overturned car while rushing out from town. And I, myself, -spent the night in a Moline hospital. This fact, however, does not -necessarily pertain to the gusher—except to show that there was genuine -good-feeling all round. I was the guest of Dr. Shaffer and his wife, -who were the only other occupants of his new hospital, not yet ready for -public patronage. Dr. Shaffer owned a one-eighth interest in our leases. - -If you have never seen an oil-gusher, you don’t know what a thrilling -sight it is—especially, if you own nearby leases. Oil spurted in gusts -at regular intervals high into the air, spread out in all directions and -arched down over the four case-setters, stripped to the waist, encasing -them in a film of oil so heavy as to exclude them from view, at times. -Art Hough and his partner, who owned some producing wells in the shallow -field near Independence, wanted to buy our leases—but who would want to -sell in the midst of all that excitement? And, anyway, I was not in -a position to deal with them on the spot, as there were fifty-three -signers in the group to an agreement which provided for fifty-one per -cent of the interests to say when to sell. We did, however, later, -arrange to sell part of the leases—carrying a provision for drilling—and -the papers were sent to the Moline bank; but the prospective buyer was -unable to come through with the money. - -The gusher was on land owned, or controlled, by a Moline banker, and -another man. I heard one of the partners say, not once but many times, -always the same sing-song word for word, “I just told the Lord that -since He had been so good to me, I shall never desecrate His holy name.” -If I may express myself, unbiasedly, I would say the Lord played no -favorites in the Moline field; that I think He had nothing to do with -the man’s good luck, except, possibly, in a general way of being the -creator of all things—else why would He have destroyed the gusher -with salt-water, and got the owners the threat of a robust lawsuit to -boot—for polluting a God-given stream of fresh water? - -In the matter of a fresh try to reopen the Wetmore oil test, I protested -the contract offered by the two Kansas City promoters, maintaining that -we had no valid authority to sign anything in the name of “the people” -and that liability would fall on the individual signers. One of the -committeemen who had been in various lines of business in Wetmore, -and had finally settled himself in a real estate office, said, “Why, -John—there haint a day but what I make contracts like that.” Questioning -the man’s competency in such matters, I said, “I wouldn’t doubt it in -the least—but it will take still more plausible argument to induce me to -sign this one.” - -The other members of the committee had caught the spirit of the meeting -in the opera house, and were anxious to see further development of -our oil prospect. They conferred the “favor” of the trusteeship on -committeeman Sam Thornburrow, cashier of the State Bank—and they all -signed the contract. Then the promoters went back to Kansas City to -await the hatching of the egg they had laid here. And in due time, Sam -got notice from a lawyer in Kansas City that he was about to be sued -for breach of contract. Then one morning as I was passing the bank Sam -hailed me. He said, “You know, those Kansas City fellows have sued -me for $1,000—what would you do about it?” Remembering how they had -“ribbed” me for refusing to sign with them, I said, “I’d pay it.” After -he had turned this over in his troubled mind a few times, I told him -to pay no attention to it—that the promoters were most likely trying -to frighten him into a settlement; that they would have to start their -action in Kansas—and that I doubted very much if they would risk doing -this, as the contract would show them up for the grafters they were.” -The Kansas City promoters did not follow through with their claim for -damages. - -It took only one more throw at the get-rich-quick oil game to convince -me that it just could not be accomplished by throwing in with the other -fellow on his home grounds, after he had carried the project to a point -where any day’s drilling might bring riches. But I’m still strong on the -home-test—for that would be furthering something for the good of all the -home folks. - -Our Wetmore group, with “investors” at Goff and Bancroft, contributed -a sum said to be $14,350 toward the completion of a well in a producing -field east of Enid, Oklahoma, on land owned by a Bancroft man. The -headquarters of the Company was in a fair sized city in southern Kansas, -with a department store owner as president, a physician and surgeon as -secretary—and a banker deeply interested in a covered-up sort of way. -The president and the land owner had departed with our money, supposedly -to complete the well—and then we would all most likely be “sitting -pretty.” But in about a week we got notice of a called meeting to vote -$30,000 increase in capital stock. Also, we were advised of the bringing -in of a gas well of ten million feet potential on the lease adjoining -the company ground on the south, still farther away from the known -production area on the north, proving that we were still “sitting -pretty.” Had this been reported before we joined-up with our Southern -Kansas financiers, I, for one, would have kept my money. Sane people do -not let the public in on a speculative enterprise after its success is -practically assured. - -Our Wetmore “investors”, gave me proxies, and sent me down to -investigate. I first went with the land-owner to the Oklahoma field. We -found no activity at the well on his land, but the rig was still up. -And the drillers were working on the reported gas strike just across the -road. They told me that they had struck a small flow of gas—that it was -not strong enough to blow your hat off the casing. - -I got back to the Kansas headquarters on Saturday about noon, and went -at once to the department store owned by the president. He introduced -his wife, who worked in the store, and his father-in-law, whom I shall -call Mr. Shapp—though this is not his real name. The president insisted -that I take dinner with him at his home. I sensed something was -wrong—but I couldn’t place it just yet. I learned later that Dr. Lapham -had got wise to something pertaining to the call for an increase of -capital stock, and had written him a critical letter. Dr. Lapham told me -later that it was a “scorcher”—and I can well believe it was. They were -all rather upset. Of course the president, and the secretary, and the -banker, knew some things which I didn’t know—yet. My dinner host was a -bit “jumpy” because of that “scorcher” letter of Dr. Lap-ham’s, and my -appearance two days in advance of the called meeting. But had he known -what I had just learned at the dinner table, he could have trusted me -implicitly. - -Some years prior to this I had sold, through advertisement in the Topeka -Capital, 500 shares of our mining stock to the fictitious Monroe P. -Shapp, of that address, and through him 200 shares in the name of his -daughter, Ella J. Shapp. Now, when the merchant called his wife “Ella” I -put two and two together—then I knew that I was among old friends. And I -couldn’t find it in my heart to get rough with them. - -Not that I had any apologies to make for our mine promotion. We had used -their money, as promised, in the development of the mine, and at this -time were still putting our own money into it—and we had no intention -of going out and selling a block of stock to rub out the deficit. That -would have been illegal in Nevada. But the fact remained that we had not -as yet been able to make any returns to stockholders. - -When I called on the secretary of the oil company, he said he could not -give me any time that afternoon, that he had to perform an operation -at the hospital at 4 o’clock. I said to him, in the presence of the -president, “You fellows seem to be scared about something—but you need -not be. I give you my word that I am not here to make trouble. All I -want to know is what chance you have to make good, and if it will be -to our interests for me to vote my proxies for the increase of capital -stock at the meeting Monday.” The secretary looked at the president, and -the president looked at the secretary—then they both looked at me. The -president nodded—and the secretary said, “Come along with me.” - -It seems the directors had carried on with the drilling after company -funds were exhausted, incurring personal obligations, and stopped the -drill when approximating the required depth for a strike, with a large -deficit—which, with our contribution, was now reduced to something like -$9,000. While in the office of the physician-surgeon-secretary going -over the books, the banker—of German extraction, if not the whole -thing—came in, and nodding toward a back room, said as if in great -distress, “Dokther—I’ve got a stick in the eye.” - -I decided that I ought not vote for the increase of stock—and, without -leave, came home on Sunday. One of our group, an ex-businessman, -attended the meeting on his own hook to get first hand knowledge of -the situation. He wired Joe Searles Monday afternoon, saying, “Bristow -absent; could I vote the proxies?” I told Joe to wire him, “Yes—if -you have them.” I had just turned them in to Joe. In a couple of days -Searles got a long letter from him—written by a stenographer in -Kansas City—berating me for running out on them, and boasting of the -business-like interest he himself had taken in the meeting, saying, “I -stayed with them until we got in proxies enough the next day to get -the money—and I bought $250 worth more of the stock.” He did not -say—probably didn’t know—if his purchase was of the newly voted stock, -or from the old issue. I had a strong suspicion that we had all ready -bought and paid for a generous take of the newly voted stock—and got -short changed as well. - -I had called on that “stick-in-the-eye” banker a short while before, -and obtained from him the log of a producing well recently brought in by -Frank Letson and associates in the Enid field—and this, I think, might -have been what had alerted the banker; or, maybe, the president had sent -his partner scurrying in to forestall an admission of their questionable -finagling. I wanted that log to compare with the log of “our” drilling, -which I had obtained from “our” president. Then, too, Frank Letson was -a younger brother of Ed and Ella Letson who were my schoolmates in -Wetmore, when their father, Bill Letson, owned a general store here; -before going to Netawaka to engage in like business. I had called at the -Fleming and Letson bank in Enid two days before, but did not get to see -either of my old acquaintances. - -The Fleming bank, now an imposing brick structure having tall columns, -on the east side of the square, was started on the south side, opposite -the land office, in a small frame building in the new town after the -opening of the Cherokee strip, in 1893. I also had occasion to call -at the old bank about six months after the opening, to get a paper -notarized. - -Attorney Elwin Campfield, in the law office of John Curran, formerly of -Seneca, on the west side of the Enid square, filled out relinquishing -papers for me, without charge—we had been neighbors in the Bleisener -building in Wetmore—and suggested that I wait in the Curran office a few -minutes when he would have one of the office force notarize it for me, -presumedly also without charge—a small matter hardly worth waiting for. -Up here the fee for such service was then, and still is, twenty-five -cents. I told Elwin I would go over to the Fleming bank and get it -notarized, that I wanted to pay my respects to Ollie, anyway. 01 had -grabbed off, at Netawaka, a red headed girl (Ella Letson) whom I had -thought pretty nice when we were care-free kids running wild on the -streets of Wetmore in the early days. - -Well, 01 was sure glad to see me—and he would gladly remember me to -Ella. When he had returned the notarized paper to me, I said, “How -much, 01?” He said, “Five dollars!” I shot him a wordless blank look. He -laughed, and said, “Oh, give me two-and-a-half.” There had been a -time in that frontier town when one could get most anything asked for -services, but that time was now over and passed—half-over, anyway. - -That officious Wetmore man was in Dr. Lapham’s office when I reported my -findings. I told the group that I had spoken only for myself when I gave -those finaglers my word that I was not there to make trouble—that I had -to do this to get them to open up. I told the group that I had no desire -to pursue the matter further, but that they themselves were not barred; -that any one of them who might wish to, could notify the Blue Sky Board -in Topeka—and the Board would do the rest. - -The man who had taken matters in his own hands and helped put over the -vote for the increase of capital stock without the formality of first -finding out what it was all about, popped up and said, “You had no right -to tell them that.” He insisted that I should make the complaint. And -the surprising thing is, he had some supporters. There were some hard -losers in the group. I had not made the investigation with the intention -of filing a complaint—wouldn’t have accepted the assignment had it -carried any such provision. I don’t like fussing. - -Then, too, the president and the land owner had not solicited me to buy -stock, nor made promise to me that the fund would be used to complete -the well. Their contact had been with Dr. Lapham and other members of -the group. I went in with them solely because my neighbors had invited -me to join them, and because I didn’t want to stand idly by—and watch -them make a “killing.” However, on invitation, I went up to Dr. Lapham’s -office at the virtual close of a “pep” meeting, after the check-writing -had begun. I asked for information as to how the company was -organized—particularly as to whether or not the stock was -non-assessable? The president and the land-owner really didn’t know. -But they went to Topeka the next day and secured a transcript of the -incorporation papers, which were acceptable. And I was invited to -go before the adjourned meeting the following evening, and voice my -approval. Then the check writing was resumed. - -Also, my conscience told me, in a flash, that it would be a rather -poor spirited person who should wish to send his neighbor “up” for the -mistake of keeping bad company. It looked as if our old farmer-neighbor -had been caught in between two fires, and didn’t know which way to -“jump”—or worse still, that there was now no open way out. Thus, it may -be said, that our old Bancroft farmer-friend, in his most uncomfortable -position, was comparable to the banker held as hostage by a bold gang of -robbers who had just looted his bank. I know. I spent two days with the -dispirited old man in the oil field. - -The Blue Sky Board was fostered to check on promotions whose stocks -were strongly, if not wholly, tinctured with the azure blue. Along about -1905-06-07 questionable promotions—mostly mining—sprang up all over the -country. Kansas City had several going full blast at one time. I had -occasion to call on one of them; had arranged the meeting through -correspondence. I entered a very large room where perhaps thirty or -forty girl-typists were busily preparing literature to be sent out by -mail to inquirers secured through newspaper advertisements. The -printed portion of the literature had been prepared by “experts” -copy-writers—and it is surprising how those fellows could make an -inferior proposition appeal to the gullible. - -The Fiscal Agent’s secretary, or outside girl, stationed near his -private office—he had a better looking secretary in his office—said -she believed the “boss” was not in. I gave her my name and stated my -business. She went into the private office, and returned saying, Mr. -so-and-so would see me. However, had I been a questionable caller, the -outside girl would have told me upon returning that he was not in, and -that she had learned from his inside secretary that he had gone out of -town and would not be back that day. This was the system. The “boss” did -not want to see any of his subscribers—nor an officer of the law. - -One of those Kansas City promotion companies was selling stock in what -was called a Ten Million Dollar Development—that is, ten million shares, -par-value one dollar, sold at two cents a share, the idea being to offer -the purchaser a lot for little money, out in our mining district -in Nevada. It was highly advertised as the “Extension of the Great -(Searchlight) Quartette Vein.” The outfit was actually sinking a shaft -about a half-mile out in the valley west of the mountain-situated -Quartette mine—a rich gold producer—without reasonable chance of picking -up anything in the way of values. Too many promotions like this were -victimizing the people. The Blue Sky Board’s function was to keep them -out of Kansas. - -In our own mine promotion, I did some newspaper advertising in -Topeka—but, first, I had to get a clearance from the Blue Sky Board (in -Bank Commissioner Dolley’s office) showing that our company was on the -square; that the stock was a fair risk; that purchasers were fully and -truthfully informed; and most important of all, that the purchasers -would get a run for their money—meaning that the money so collected must -not be used in paying for a “dead horse.” - -On full-page advertising in a number of papers, I received on the -average one inquiry for each 3,000 circulation—but I sold practically -all of them. This was only about one-hundredth part of the returns -the Kansas City fellows were getting. And I had strong copy, too. The -newspaper boys said it was unusually strong. But I made the mistake—from -the promoter’s view point—of telling the readers the truth, that we -had not carried the proposition to a point where we were about ready to -begin handing out dividends, which was the Kansas City boy’s big drawing -card. This was costing too much—and I discontinued selling the stock, -hoping that we might yet find an Agent who would have better luck. We -used up the funds on hand; then went at it individually again. And the -six miners continued on the job, taking their full wages in our treasury -stock. - -Let it be understood that the mining stock I sold was far from being in -the blue sky class—and that the job of selling it was “wished” on me. -While in the process of incorporating, our president, Frank Williams, -had made tentative arrangements with Los Angeles “Fiscal Agents”—that’s -what they called themselves then—to sell our treasury stock, but failed -to conclude a satisfactory contract with them. He had encountered the -same questionable line of approach out there that caused me to turn down -the Kansas City “Fiscal Agents.” - -Might say that in the first place, on his recommendation, I had joined -Frank Williams in the purchase of the initial lead-zinc-vanadium -claim—only lead discovered then—on which our corporation was mainly -based. Included in the corporation also were three (gold) claims in the -Crescent district, owned by Frank and his brother Tommy Williams, A. M. -Harter, and Jonah Jones. These Crescent claims were taken in on a basis -of one-sixth of the combined value. Our lead claim had the further -approval of that veteran millionaire miner, Green Campbell—indeed, had -he not died suddenly of pneumonia, Green, instead of I, would have -been Frank’s partner. Frank had been with Green Campbell, and his uncle -Elwood Thomas—all three of the men former Wetmore citizens, in the -Goodsprings district for twelve years, at that time. - -Then, too, those Crescent gold claims held appeal. What think you that -your heart would have done to you, had you been able to go out on your -own holdings and scrape up dirt—disintegrated rock, assaying $544 gold -to the ton—at a time when the fabulous production of the not too -distant Comstock mines in Nevada, with less glowing beginning, was being -proclaimed all over the land as having saved the credit of the Nation -during Civil War days. - - -And, by the way, isn’t it about time for us to dig again? - -Please—somebody, anybody, everybody—pray with me for a redeeming -Comstock as of yore, only let it be such stepped up magnitude as to -save, beyond the possibility of a slip, the credit of our Uncle Sam, -even in his magnanimous undertaking to tide, piggyback, all those -unstable old country states over the troubled waters of world unrest—in -an effort to convince a certain belligerent-minded Old World character -that war is, a la Sherman, indeed “hell.” - -But remember, mines are made—not found. - -Before incorporating, we (Frank and I), worked the lead claim for nearly -two years—or rather, Frank did the work and I paid him one-half of the -prevailing miner’s wage. We were trying our best to make a paying mine -of it—and may I say that, encouraged by occasional shipments, there were -times when we believed we were right at the door of accomplishment. - -The point I’m trying to stress here is, that we did not acquire the -mining claims for the purpose of launching a stock-selling enterprise, -as was so of ter done about that time. But we learned that more often -than not even promising mining prospects require the expenditure of -more money than we, as individuals, could devote to it—hence the -incorporation. - -Thus it is that, in the fullness of Time, I have tried mining—to the -tune of Six Thousand Dollars, plus; out of pocket—and I’ve tried oil, -not once but three times; and I’ve even tried real estate speculation -in the boom days of Port Arthur, Texas—all avenues leading up to the -coveted get-rich-quick-field—and so help me, I have never taken down a -dollar. - -I promised my companion of the day that I wouldn’t tell about our -“investments” in Port Arthur town lots. But that was a long time ago, -between the time he was elected Governor of Kansas, from Nemaha County, -and the time he served as Governor of the Federal Reserve Bank in Kansas -City, Missouri. So I opine that it doesn’t matter now, since he is -safely beyond the pale of political patronage. In the new boom town of -Port Arthur that warm January day about the turn of the century, the -“boomers” showed us the location, with rock foundation all ready in -place, for a bank building, with brick enough piled on the site to build -an edifice big enough to house all the money in the world. But the -most revealing report I ever got from my friend, the Governor, on our -investments, was that the restless bank foundation and its companion -brick pile had gone on the prowl, virtually slipped from one end of the -plotted business section to the other end, taking now and then a rest -period. - -The old regulars in our group of “investors” are about all dead now—or -have dropped the Big Idea. Joe Searles, at present prescription clerk in -a Sabetha drugstore, never in too deeply with the old group, is in line -to get his now. He has taken on both leases and royalties in the Strahm -field. The development so far has been done by the Carter Oil Company, -holding most of the leases. But private interests are trafficking in -royalties in a big way. Should Joe make good—that is, break into the big -money where the Internal Revenue take would warrant him in throwing -away a portion of his winnings in “wildcatting,” I suggest that he come -home—and finish the Haigh-Lapham oil test. This—and other betterments -for the old home town—is what I planned on doing, had I become burdened -with mine-made money. - -Also, let it be understood that I took no part in the organization -of our group of “investors,” or the promotion of any of our oil -speculations. - -And now a last word. - -Since it appeared that our Southern Kansas co-partners had risked their -own money, or more likely their credit, in completing the drilling, -incurring disappointment—and, crowded by an unseen hand, (which I -believe I could have put my finger on), had taken the wrong way out of -the dilemma, and if I were not mistaken they yet had a long, long way -to go to get out of the woods; so then, let us be lenient. Why say an -unkind word about your neighbor—when it gets you nothing? Don’t know -if they ever sold any more of the newly voted stock, or if they did any -more drilling. Never heard from them again. - -In tolerance of human frailty, let me say that our old Bancroft -farmer-friend, allied with keener personalities, had always been -a reputable man—that the doctor-secretary, and the merchant-prince -apparently stood high among their fellowmen—and then there was Ella J., -holder of some mining stock. But, even so, had I not lost interest in -the investigation, considered it hopeless, I believe I could have found -“sticks” in more than one eye. - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Memory's Storehouse Unlocked, True -Stories, by John T. 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