Reminiscences of a Pioneer by Colonel William Thompson
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Colonel William Thompson >> Reminiscences of a Pioneer
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13 Reminiscences of a Pioneer
By Colonel William Thompson
Editor Alturas, Cal., Plaindealer
San Francisco 1912
Contents
Chapter
I Farewell to the Old Southern Home
II First Winter in the Willamette Valley
III Indian Outbreak of 1855
IV In Which Various Experiences Are Discussed
V Taking Revenge on Marauding Snakes
VI One Bad Tale From Canyon City History
VII Col. Thompson's First Newspaper Venture
VIII History of the Modoc Indians
IX The Ben Wright Massacre
X Treaty With the Modocs Made
XI Battle in the Lava Beds
XII The Peace Commission's Work
XIII Three Days Battle In the Lava Beds
XIV Trailing the Fugitives
XV The Great Bannock War
XVI Snake Uprising in Eastern Oregon
XVII Bannocks Double on Their Tracks
XVIII Another Attack That Miscarried
XIX Reign of the Vigilantes
XX Passing of the Mogans
XXI The Lookout Lynching
Illustrations
Colonel William Thompson Frontispiece
(From photo taken at close of Bannock War)
Typical Scene in the Lava Beds
Runway and Fort in Lava Beds
Captain Jack's Cave in the Lava Beds
Captain Jack
(From photo belonging to Jas. D. Fairchild, Yreka, Cal.)
Colonel William Thompson
(From photo taken at close of Modoc War)
Foreword
So rapidly is the Far West changing character, our pioneers should feel
in duty bound to preserve all they can of its early history. Many of
them are giving relics of frontier days to museums and historical
societies. And they do well. Yet such collections are unfortunately
accessible to only the few. Hence they do better who preserve the living
narratives of their times. For however unpretentious from the cold
aspect of literary art, these narratives breathe of courage and
fortitude amid hardships and perils, and tell as nothing else can of the
hopes and dreams of the hardy pathfinders, and of the compensations and
pleasures found in their sacrifices.
It is with this end in view, to preserve the life of the old days in its
many colors, that these recollections are penned. There was more to this
life than has been touched by the parlor romancers or makers of
moving-picture films. Perhaps some day these memories may serve to
illumine the historian delving in the human records of the past. And
perhaps, also, and this is the author's dearest wish, they may inspire
young readers to hold to the hardy traditions of the 'Fifties and to
keep this spirit alive in a country destined soon to be densely peopled
with newcomers from the long-settled parts of the world.
Reminiscences of a Pioneer
Chapter I.
Farewell to the Old Southern Home.
I have often wondered, when viewing a modern passenger coach, with its
palace cars, its sleeping and dining cars, if those who cross the "Great
American Desert," from the Mississippi to the Pacific in four days,
realize the hardships, dangers and privations of the Argonauts of
fifty-eight years ago. The "Plains" were then an unbroken wilderness of
three thousand miles, inhabited by hordes of wild Indians, and not too
friendly to the white man journeying through his country.
The trip then required careful preparation--oxen, wagons, provisions,
arms and ammunition must be first of all provided. These were
essentials, and woe to the hapless immigrant who neglected these
provisions. To be stranded a thousand miles from the "settlements" was a
fate none but the most improvident and reckless cared to hazard.
It is to recount some of the trials, adventures, hardships, privations,
as I remember them, that these lines are written. For truly, the
immigrants of the early 50's were the true "Conquerors of the
Wilderness." Cutting loose from home and civilization, their all,
including their women and children, loaded into wagons, and drawn by
slow-moving ox teams, they fearlessly braved three thousand miles of
almost trackless wilderness.
As a small boy I remember the first mention of California, the land of
gold. My father returned from New Orleans in January. On board the
steamer coming up the Mississippi river, he had fallen in with some
gentlemen "returning to the States." They had given him a glowing
description of the "land of gold," and almost the first words spoken
after the family greetings were over was, "We are going to California in
the spring." My mother was more than agreeable and from that time
nothing was talked or thought of but the journey to California. The old
refrain was sung from morning to night,
"In the spring we 're going to journey,
Far away to California."
My chum, Tant, a negro boy of my own age, and I seriously discussed the
prospects and dangers of the journey. Direful tales of the tomahawk and
scalping knife were recounted by the older children. But Tant's fears
were allayed by the assurance that the "Injuns" would not kill and scalp
a black boy with a woolly head. For once in my life I envied that imp of
darkness.
In February a gentleman came to our home and after dinner he and my
father rode over the plantation. The next morning they rode over to
Bolliver, the county seat. Returning in the evening my father announced
that the plantation was sold. Then began the real preparations for the
journey. My father was constantly in the saddle. Oxen, wagons, ox yokes,
ox bows, cattle, covers for wagons, arms, ammunition and provisions were
purchased and brought to the plantation. All was hurry and excitement.
Two shoemakers came to our home to make up the leather purchased at St.
Louis or from neighboring tanneries. Meantime Aunt Ann and the older
girls of the family were busy spinning and weaving. Every article of
wearing apparel must be made at home. "Store clothes" were out of the
question in those days. Wool must be carded and spun into thread for.
Aunt Ann's old wooden loom. The cloth was then fashioned into garments
for clothing to last a year after we should reach our goal far out on
the Pacific shores. The clank of the old wooden loom was almost
ceaseless. Merrily the shuttle sang to an accompaniment of a camp
meeting melody. Neighbors also kindly volunteered their services in
weaving and fashioning garments for the family. All was bustle and
hurry.
At last all was in readiness for the start. Spring with all its beauty
and glory was with us, and friends from the country round and about had
come to bid us a final farewell--friends, alas, we were destined never
to meet again. The parting I remember as the first real sorrow of a life
that has experienced most of the hardships, dangers, privations and
sufferings of a wild frontier life. It was a beautiful morning early in
April, 1852, that the leaders were pointed to the west and a start was
made. Four wagons were drawn by five yoke of oxen each, while the fifth,
the family wagon, was drawn by three yoke.
The first weeks of our journey were passed without anything happening
worthy of note. At Caw river we were detained several days by high
water. Here we began falling in with others, who, like, ourselves, were
bound for the golden shores of the Pacific. And it was here that we made
the acquaintance of families, and friendships formed that were to
survive not only the privations of the plains but were to last a life
time. Men were drawn together on the plains as in the everyday walks of
life, only the bonds were closer and far more enduring. The very dangers
through which they passed together rendered the ties more lasting. "Our
train" henceforth consisted of my father's, Littleton Younger, John
Gant, "Uncle" Johnny Thompson and a party of five Welsh gentlemen, under
the leadership of a gentleman named Fathergill, and a prince of a
gentleman he was. At that time there was not a cabin in what is now the
great and populous State of Kansas. Only vast undulating plains, waving
with grass, traversed here and there with timberskirted streams. Game
was abundant, consisting mostly of antelope and prairie chickens. Our
Welsh friends, being bachelors and having no loose stock, were the
hunters for the train, and supplied us with an abundance of fresh meat.
As we proceeded westward more immigrants were met, and often our camp
resembled a tented city. All was then a pleasure trip--a picnic, as it
were. No sooner was camp struck than a place was cleared and dancing
began to the sound of the violin. Many of these young ladies were well
dressed--actually wore "store clothes!" But alas, and alack, I was
destined to see these same young ladies who started out so gay and
care-free, in tattered dresses, barefooted and dusty, walking and
driving the loose cattle. Too many excursions and pleasure jaunts had
reduced their horses to skeletons before the real trials of the journey
had fairly begun. But the women of '52 and '53 were not of the
namby-pamby sort. When the trials came they were brave and faced
privations and dangers with the same fortitude as their stronger
brothers.
At Fort Laramie we crossed the Platte river by fording. The stream, as I
remember it, was near a mile wide, but not waist deep. Thirty and forty
oxen were hitched to one wagon, to effect the crossing. But woe to the
hapless team that stalled in the treacherous quicksands. They must be
kept going, as it required but a short stop for the treacherous sands to
engulf team and wagon alike. Men wading on either side of the string of
oxen kept them moving, and soon all were safely on the north side of the
Platte river.
We soon began to see great herds of buffalo. In fact, at times the hills
were black with the heaving, rolling, bellowing mass, and no meal was
served for many days without fresh buffalo. As we wended our way up the
valley of the Platte one could look back for miles and miles on a line
of wagons, the sinuous line with vari-colored wagon covers resembling a
great serpent crawling and wriggling up the valley. Fortunately for "our
train" we were well in advance and thus escaped the sickness that later
dotted the valley of the Platte with graves.
On and on. Independence Rock, Sweet Water, and Devil's Gate were passed.
Members of our train had observed two men who traveled with us, yet held
themselves aloof. They appeared to prefer their own company, and while
they traveled along with us, probably for protection, they always camped
by themselves. Some said they were Mormons, while others asserted they
were merely a selfish pair. One day one of the men was missing. The
other on being questioned gave evasive and very unsatisfactory replies.
His actions excited the suspicions of our men. He appeared anxious to
get ahead and left us, making a long night drive. It was then determined
to make an investigation. Two of our party mounted good horses and
started back on the trail. Each camp was carefully examined until they
were rewarded by finding the body of a murdered man beneath the ashes of
a camp fire, buried in a shallow grave. By riding all night they
overtook the train, before starting back burying the body of the
unfortunate traveler. The news spread rapidly and a party followed the
murderer. He was soon overtaken and halted at the muzzles of rifles.
When the train came up a council was held. Probably a hundred wagons
were halted. It was determined to give the man a trial. The evidence was
conclusive, and after conviction the miserable wretch confessed all, but
begged for mercy. He said the murdered man had picked him up out of pity
and was taking him through for his company and his help. There being no
trees, three wagons were run together, the wagon tongues being raised to
form a tripod and to answer for a gallows. To the center of the tripod a
rope was attached with the other end around the neck of the trembling,
writhing, begging wretch. But he had committed a cruel, cold-blooded
murder and his crime could not be condoned. He was stood on the back of
a horse, and a sharp cut being given the animal the wretch was swung
into eternity. A grave had been dug and into this the body of the
murderer was placed. The property of the murdered man was taken through
to the settlements. His relatives were communicated with, the property
sold and the proceeds sent to the proper owners. Such was the swift but
terrible justice administered on the plains. Without law or officers of
the law, there was no other course to pursue consistent with safety to
the living.
July 4th, 1852, we reached Green river. Traders had established six
ferry boats at the crossing. In order to keep down competition, five of
the boats were tied up and the sum of $18 was demanded for each and
every wagon ferried over the stream. They had formed a kind of "trust,"
as it were, even in that day. The rate was pronounced exorbitant,
unfair, outrageous, and beyond the ability of many to pay. Train after
train had been blocked until a city of tents had been formed. On the
morning of the 4th a meeting of immigrants was called to discuss the
situation. A few counseled moderation, compromise, anything to prevent a
clash with the traders, who boasted that they could turn the Indians
loose on us. The great majority defied both traders and Indians and
boldly announced that they would fight before they would submit to being
robbed. Many fiery speeches were made, and about 10 o'clock a long line
of men, with shouldered rifles flashing in the sun, marched down and
took possession of the ferry boats. The traders fumed and threatened,
and Indians with war-whoops and yells mounted horses and rode off from
the opposite side. The traders said they were going after the tribe to
exterminate the entire train. They were plainly told that the first shot
fired by traders or Indians would sound their own death knell--that
they, the traders, would be shot down without mercy.
The ferry boats were then seized and the work of crossing the river
began. As fast as the wagons were crossed over they were driven down the
river, one behind another, forming a corral, with the open side facing
the river in the form of a half wheel. When the wagons had all been
crossed, the loose stock was swum over into the opening. There was no
confusion, but everything proceeded with almost military precision. A
committee had been appointed to keep tally on the number of wagons
crossed on the boats. The traders were then paid $4 for each and every
wagon. Still they fumed and threatened. The faces of the more timid
blanched and a few women were in tears. I beheld the whole proceedings
with childish wonder. But the circumstances of that 4th of July and the
execution of the murderer were burned into my brain with letters of
fire, never to be effaced while memory holds her sway.
Every man was under arms that night. Horses were tied up and the work
oxen chained to the wagons, a strict guard being kept on the traders in
the mean time. The next morning the long string of wagons started out on
the road. Two hundred men rode on either side to defend the train, while
scouting parties rode at a distance to guard against surprise. This
formation was kept up for several days, but seeing neither traders nor
Indians the different trains separated and each went its way unmolested.
Bear river and Soda Springs were next passed. A few miles this side of
Soda Springs the roads forked, one going to California and the other to
Oregon. Here a council was held. A portion of "our train" wanted to take
the California road. Others preferred the Oregon route. A vote was taken
and resulted in a majority for Oregon, and association and friendship
being stronger than mere individual preference, all moved out on the
Oregon road.
Snake river was finally reached, and here the real trials of the journey
began. From some cause, not then understood, our oxen began to die. The
best and fattest died first, often two and three in one camp. Cows were
drawn into the yoke and the journey resumed. But it soon became evident
that loads must be lightened. Wagons loaded with stores and provisions
were driven to the side of the road and an invitation written with
charcoal for all to help themselves. To add to the difficulties of our
situation, the Snake Indians were surly and insolent to a degree.
Gradually a gloom settled over all. No more of laughter, of dancing and
song. And faster and faster the oxen died. Camping places were almost
unbearable on account of the dead and decaying cattle. And then the
terrible mountains of which we had heard so much were before us. Would
we ever reach the settlements? This was a question that began to prey
upon the minds of many. A few of the young men shouldered a blanket and
some provisions and started on foot to reach the valley. Others began to
despair of ever reaching the promised land. If those who cross the
continent now in palace cars and complain of the tediousness of the
journey could take one look at the wreck and desolation that lined the
poisoned banks of Snake river, they would hide their heads in very
shame.
As our situation became more desperate it appeared the Indians became
more sullen and mean. Guards were kept night and day, the women and
children driving the teams and loose cattle and horses in order that the
men might get some rest. At one point the danger seemed imminent. The
men on night guard reported that the horses were snorting and acting as
if Indians were about. Mr. Fathergill's mule appeared especially uneasy.
The cattle and horses were then all driven to camp, the horses tied up
and the oxen chained to the wagons. The next morning moccasin tracks
were discovered within a hundred yards of our camp, showing plainly that
only extreme caution and foresight had saved us all from massacre. After
that camps were selected with a view to defense. A point was finally
reached where we were to bid farewell to the dread Snake river. Several
trains camped there that night. Among them was a man named Wilson, a
brother of ex-Senator Henry Wilson of Colusa county. Cattle had been
rounded up and oxen placed under the yoke. Wilson became involved in a
quarrel with a young man in his employ. Suddenly both drew revolvers
and began firing at each other. The duel ended by Wilson falling from
his mule, a dead man. The young man rode away and was seen no more. A
grave was dug, the dead man buried and within two hours the train was in
motion. There was no time for tears or ceremonies. Winter was coming on,
and the terrible mountains must be crossed. Besides the dread of an
Indian attack was ever present.
After leaving Snake river we lost no more cattle. We crossed the Blue
Mountains without any mishap. We met several settlers coming out with
teams to help any that might be in distress. They were told to go on
back, as others were behind far more in need of assistance than we. On
reaching the Columbia river we found the Indians very friendly and
obtained an abundance of fresh salmon. Trifles were traded for salmon
and wild currants, which formed a welcome addition to our bill of fare.
The dreaded Cascade Mountains were finally reached. A storm was raging
on the mountain and we were advised by settlers whom we met coming out
to assist the immigrants, to wait for better weather. Some disregarded
the advice and paid dearly for their temerity, losing many of their
cattle, and only for the help rendered by the settlers might themselves
have perished.
As soon as the storm spent its force a start was made and the dreaded
mountains passed in six days, and without any serious mishap. On
reaching the valley we were everywhere greeted with genuine western
hospitality. Vegetables were plentiful and cheap--in fact could be had
for the asking. But while wheat was abundant there were no mills to
grind it into flour, and we soon discovered that that very necessary
article could not be had for love or money. We were therefore soon
reduced to a daily diet of boiled wheat, potatoes, pumpkins and wild
meat, the latter requiring but little exertion to secure. But we were as
well off as anybody else, and with the remnants of clothing saved from
the wreck of the desert and plains passed the winter in health and some
degree of comfort.
Chapter II.
Our First Winter in the Willamette Valley.
The winter of 1852-53 will forever be memorable in the annals of pioneer
days in Oregon. Indeed, nothing comparable had been experienced by
immigrants in former years. Deep snows encompassed us from without, and
while we were sheltered from the storms by a comfortable log cabin, and
were supplied with a fair amount of provisions such as they were, a
gloom settled over all. Cattle and horses were without forage and none
could be had. Reduced to skin and bone by the long and toilsome journey
across the plains, they were illy prepared to stand the rigors of such a
winter. In this extremity recourse was had to the forest. The Oregon
woods, as all are aware, are covered by long streamers of yellow moss,
and in the cutting of firewood it was discovered this moss was devoured
with a relish by cattle and horses.
Then began the struggle to save our stock. From early morning to night
the ring of the ax was unceasing. The cattle, especially, soon learned
the meaning of the cracking of a tree and bolted for the spot. To
prevent them being killed by the falling trees, the smaller children
were pressed into service to herd them away until the tree was on the
ground. The stock soon began to thrive and cows gave an increased amount
of milk which was hailed with delight by the small children and afforded
a welcome addition to their bill of fare--boiled wheat, potatoes, meat,
and turnips.
Thus wore away the terrible winter of 1852-53. I say terrible, and the
word but poorly expresses our situation during that memorable winter. To
fully understand our situation one has but to imagine oneself in a
strange land, far from human aid, save from those environed as
ourselves. We were three thousand miles from "home," surrounded by a
primeval wilderness, in which ever lurked the treacherous savage.
Happily for us and for all, no annoyance or real danger threatened us
from that quarter. A few years before, a salutary lesson had been taught
the savages. The deadly rifles of the pioneers had instilled into their
bosoms a wholesome fear. Information had reached the settlers that the
Indians contemplated a massacre--that they were going to break out. The
information reached them through the medium of a friendly Indian. The
result was that the settlers "broke out" first. A company was formed,
consisting of about all of the able-bodied men within reach. The savages
were encountered on the Molalley and after a sharp fight were dispersed
or killed. Several were left dead on the ground. The whites had one man
wounded. Thus the war power of the Molalleys was destroyed forever.
In this connection I wish to make a digression, which I trust my readers
will pardon. It has often been urged that the white man has shown little
gratitude and no pity for the aborigines of this country. This I wish to
refute. The Indian that brought the word of warning to the white
settlers was ever after the object of tender solicitude on the part of
those whom he had befriended. I have seen that Indian, then old and
possibly worse off for his association with civilization, sitting down
and bossing a gang of Chinamen cutting and splitting wood for Dan'l
Waldo. The Indian, "Quinaby," always contracted the sawing of the wood
at $2.00 per cord and hired the Chinamen to do the work for 50 cents per
cord. He had a monopoly on the wood-sawing business for Mr. Waldo,
Wesley Shannon, and other old pioneers. It mattered not to "Quinaby"
that prices went down, his contract price remained the same, and the old
pioneers heartily enjoyed the joke, and delighted in telling it on
themselves.
But enough of this. Spring came at last and a new world burst upon the
vision of the heretofore almost beleaguered pioneers. We had wintered on
a "claim" belonging to a young man named John McKinney, two miles from
the present town of Jefferson. He had offered his cabin as a shelter
with true Western hospitality, including the free use of land to plant a
crop. Accordingly about twenty acres were plowed and sown to wheat. This
work was performed by my elder brothers. Meantime my father had started
out to look for a claim. Nine miles north of Eugene City he purchased a
"claim" of 320 acres, paying therefor an Indian pony and $40 in cash. To
this place we moved early in May, and there began the task of building
up a home in the western wilds. A small cabin of unhewn logs constituted
the only improvement on the "claim," but a new house of hewn logs was
soon erected and a forty-acre field inclosed with split rails. We had
plenty of neighbors who, like ourselves, were improving their lands, and
mutual assistance was the rule.
As summer approached it became necessary to return to our wintering
place, where a crop had been sown, and harvest the same. Accordingly, my
father, accompanied by my two older brothers, the late Judge J. M.
Thompson of Lane County, and Senator S. C. Thompson, Jr., of Wasco, then
boys of 12 and 14 years, went back and cared for the grain. The wheat
was cut with a cradle, bound into bundles and stacked. A piece of ground
was then cleared, the grain laid down on the "tramping floor" and oxen
driven around until the grain was all tramped out. After the grain was
all "threshed out," it was carried on top of a platform built of rails
and poured out on a wagon sheet, trusting to the wind to separate the
wheat kernels from the straw and chaff. By this primitive method the
crop was harvested, threshed, cleaned, and then sacked. It was then
hauled by ox teams to Albany where a small burr mill had been erected by
a man named Monteith, if my memory serves me correctly, and then ground
to flour.
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