THE
VIGILANTES OF MONTANA,

OR

POPULAR JUSTICE
IN THE
ROCKY MOUNTAINS.

BEING A CORRECT AND IMPARTIAL NARRATIVE OF THE CHASE, TRIAL, CAPTURE AND EXECUTION OF

HENRY PLUMMER’S
ROAD AGENT BAND,

TOGETHER WITH ACCOUNTS OF THE LIVES AND CRIMES OF MANY OF THE ROBBERS AND DESPERADOES, THE WHOLE BEING INTERSPERSED WITH SKETCHES OF LIFE IN THE

MINING CAMPS OF THE “FAR WEST;”

Forming the only reliable work on the subject ever offered the public.

By PROF. THOS. J. DIMSDALE.

VIRGINIA CITY, M. T.:
MONTANA POST PRESS, D. W. TILTON & CO., BOOK AND JOB PRINTERS.
1866.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865,
By THOS. J. DIMSDALE,
In the Clerk’s Office of the 1st Judicial District of
Montana Territory.

PREFACE.

The object of the writer in presenting this narrative to the public, is twofold. His intention is, in the first place, to furnish a correct history of an organization administering justice without the sanction of constitutional law; and secondly, to prove not only the necessity for their action, but the equity of their proceedings.

Having an intimate acquaintance with parties cognizant of the facts related, and feeling certain of the literal truth of the statements contained in this history, he offers it to the people of the United States, with the belief that its perusal will greatly modify the views of those even who are most prejudiced against the summary retribution of mountain law, and with the conviction that all honest and impartial men will be willing to admit both the wisdom of the course pursued and the salutary effect of the rule of the Vigilantes in the Territory of Montana.

It is also hoped that the history of the celebrated body, the very mention of whose name sounded as a death-knell in the ears of the murderers and Road Agents, will be edifying and instructive to the general reader. The incidents related are neither trivial in themselves, nor unimportant in their results; and, while rivaling fiction in interest, are unvarnished accounts of transactions, whose fidelity can be vouched by thousands.

As a literary production, the author commits it to the examination of the critical without a sigh. If any of these author-slayers are inclined to be more severe in their judgment than he is himself, he trusts they will receive the reward to which their justice entitles them; and if they should pass it by, he cannot but think that they will exercise a sound discretion, and avoid much useless labor. With all its imperfections, here it is.

Thos. J. Dimsdale.

CHAPTER I.
Introductory—Vigilance Committees.

“The teeth that bite hardest are out of sight.”—Prov.

The end of all good government is the safety and happiness of the governed. It is not possible that a high state of civilization and progress can be maintained unless the tenure of life and property is secure; and it follows that the first efforts of a people in a new country for the inauguration of the reign of peace, the sure precursor of prosperity and stability, should be directed to the accomplishment of this object. In newly settled mining districts, the necessity for some effective organization of a judicial and protective character is more keenly felt than it is in other places, where the less exciting pursuits of agriculture and commerce mainly attract the attention and occupy the time of the first inhabitants.

There are good reasons for this difference. The first is the entirely dissimilar character of the populations; and the second, the possession of vast sums of money by uneducated and unprincipled people, in all places where the precious metals may be obtained at the cost of the labor necessary to exhume them from the strata in which they lie concealed.

In an agricultural country, the life of the pioneer settler is always one of hard labor, of considerable privation, and of more or less isolation, while the people who seek to clear a farm in the wild forest, or who break up the virgin soil of the prairies are usually of the steady and hard-working classes, needing little assistance from courts of justice to enable them to maintain rights which are seldom invaded; and whose differences, in the early days of the country, are, for the most part, so slight as to be scarcely worth the cost of a litigation more complicated than a friendly and, usually, gratuitous, arbitration—submitted to the judgment of the most respected among the citizens.

In marked contrast to the peaceful life of the tiller of the soil, and to the placid monotony of his pursuits are the turbulent activity, the constant excitement and the perpetual temptations to which the dweller in a mining camp is subject, both during his sojourn in the gulches, or, if he be given to prospecting, in his frequent and unpremeditated change of location, commonly called a “stampede.” There can scarcely be conceived a greater or more apparent difference than exists between the staid and sedate inhabitants of rural districts, and the motley group of miners, professional men and merchants, thickly interspersed with sharpers, refugees, and a full selection from the dangerous classes that swagger, armed to the teeth, through the diggings and infest the roads leading to the newly discovered gulches, where lies the object of their worship—Gold.

Fortunately the change to a better state of things is rapid, and none who now walk the streets of Virginia would believe that, within two years of this date, the great question to be decided was, which was the stronger, right or might?

And here it must be stated, that the remarks which truth compels us to make, concerning the classes of individuals which furnish the law defying element of mining camps, are in no wise applicable to the majority of the people, who, while exhibiting the characteristic energy of the American race in the pursuit of wealth, yet maintain, under every disadvantage, an essential morality, which is the more creditable since it must be sincere, in order to withstand the temptations to which it is constantly exposed. “Oh, cursed thirst of gold,” said the ancient, and no man has even an inkling of the truth and force of the sentiment, till he has lived where gold and silver are as much the objects of desire, and of daily and laborious exertion, as glory and promotion are to the young soldier. Were it not for the preponderance of this conservative body of citizens, every camp in remote and recently discovered mineral regions would be a field of blood; and where this is not so, the fact is proof irresistible that the good is in sufficient force to control the evil, and eventually to bring order out of chaos.

Let the reader suppose that the police of New York were withdrawn for twelve months, and then let them picture the wild saturnalia which would take the place of the order that reigns there now. If, then, it is so hard to restrain the dangerous classes of old and settled communities, what must be the difficulty of the task, when, tenfold in number, fearless in character, generally well armed, and supplied with money to an extent unknown among their equals in the east, such men find themselves removed from the restraints of civilized society, and beyond the control of the authority which there enforces obedience to the law.

Were it not for the sterling stuff of which the mass of miners is made, their love of fair play, and their prompt and decisive action in emergencies, this history could never have been written, for desperadoes of every nation would have made this country a scene of bloodshed and a sink of iniquity such as was never before witnessed.

Together with so much that is evil, no where is there so much that is sternly opposed to dishonesty and violence as in the mountains; and though careless of externals and style, to a degree elsewhere unknown, the intrinsic value of manly uprightness is no where so clearly exhibited and so well appreciated as in the Eldorado of the west. Middling people do not live in these regions. A man or a woman becomes better or worse by a trip towards the Pacific. The keen eye of the experienced miner detects the imposter at a glance, and compels his entire isolation, or his association with the class to which he rightfully belongs.

Thousands of weak-minded people return, after a stay in the mountains, varying in duration from a single day to a year, leaving the field where only the strong of heart are fit to battle with difficulty, and to win the golden crown which is the reward of persevering toil and unbending firmness. There is no man more fit to serve his country in any capacity requiring courage, integrity, and self-reliance, than an “honest miner,” who has been tried and found true by a jury of mountaineers.

The universal license that is, at first, a necessity of position in such places, adds greatly to the number of crimes, and to the facilities for their perpetration. Saloons, where poisonous liquors are vended to all comers, and consumed in quantities sufficient to drive excitable men to madness and to the commission of homicide, on the slightest provocation, are to be found in amazing numbers, and the villainous compounds there sold, under the generic name of whiskey, are more familiarly distinguished by the cognomens of “Tangle-leg,” “Forty-rod,” “Lightning,” “Tarantula-juice,” etc., terms only too truly describing their acknowledged qualities.

The absence of good female society, in any due proportion to the numbers of the opposite sex, is likewise an evil of great magnitude; for men become rough, stern and cruel, to a surprising degree, under such a state of things.

In every frequent street, public gambling houses with open doors and loud music, are resorted to, in broad daylight, by hundreds—it might almost be said—of all tribes and tongues, furnishing another fruitful source of “difficulties,” which are commonly decided on the spot, by an appeal to brute force, the stab of a knife, or the discharge of a revolver. Women of easy virtue are to be seen promenading through the camp, habited in the gayest and most costly apparel, and receiving fabulous sums for their purchased favors. In fact, all the temptations to vice are present in full display, with money in abundance to secure the gratification of the desire for novelty and excitement, which is the ruling passion of the mountaineer.

One “institution,” offering a shadowy and dangerous substitute for more legitimate female association, deserves a more peculiar notice. This is the “Hurdy-Gurdy” house. As soon as the men have left off work, these places are opened, and dancing commences. Let the reader picture to himself a large room, furnished with a bar at one end—where champagne at $12 (in gold) per bottle, and “drinks” at twenty-five to fifty cents, are wholesaled, (correctly speaking)—and divided, at the end of this bar, by a railing running from side to side. The outer enclosure is densely crowded (and, on particular occasions, the inner one also) with men in every variety of garb that can be seen on the continent. Beyond the barrier, sit the dancing women, called “hurdy-gurdies,” sometimes dressed in uniform, but, more generally, habited according to the dictates of individual caprice, in the finest clothes that money can buy, and which are fashioned in the most attractive styles that fancy can suggest. On one side is a raised orchestra. The music suddenly strikes up, and the summons, “Take your partners for the next dance,” is promptly answered by some of the male spectators, who paying a dollar in gold for a ticket, approach the ladies’ bench, and—in style polite, or otherwise, according to antecedents—invite one of the ladies to dance.

The number being complete, the parties take their places, as in any other dancing establishment, and pause for the performance of the introductory notes of the air.

Let us describe a first class dancer—“sure of a partner every time”—and her companion. There she stands at the head of the set. She is of middle height, of rather full and rounded form; her complexion as pure as alabaster, a pair of dangerous looking hazel eyes, a slightly Roman nose, and a small and prettily formed mouth. Her auburn hair is neatly banded and gathered in a tasteful, ornamented net, with a roll and gold tassels at the side. How sedate she looks during the first figure, never smiling till the termination of “promenade, eight,” when she shows her little white hands in fixing her handsome brooch in its place, and settling her glistening ear-rings. See how nicely her scarlet dress, with its broad black band round the skirt, and its black edging, sets off her dainty figure. No wonder that a wild mountaineer would be willing to pay—not one dollar, but all that he has in his purse, for a dance and an approving smile from so beautiful a woman.

Her cavalier stands six feet in his boots, which come to the knee, and are garnished with a pair of Spanish spurs, with rowels and bells like young water wheels. His buckskin leggings are fringed at the seams, and gathered at the waist with a U. S. belt, from which hangs his loaded revolver and his sheath knife. His neck is bare, muscular and embrowned by exposure, as is also his bearded face, whose sombre hue is relieved by a pair of piercing dark eyes. His long, black hair hangs down beneath his wide felt hat, and, in the corner of his mouth, is a cigar, which rolls like the lever of an eccentric, as he chews the end in his mouth. After an amazingly grave salute, “all hands round” is shouted by the prompter, and off bounds the buckskin hero, rising and falling to the rhythm of the dance, with a clumsy agility and a growing enthusiasm, testifying his huge delight. His fair partner, with practiced foot and easy grace, keeps time to the music like a clock, and rounds to her place as smoothly and gracefully as a swan. As the dance progresses, he of the buckskins gets excited, and nothing but long practice prevents his partner from being swept off her feet, at the conclusion of the miner’s delight, “set your partners,” or “gents to the right.” An Irish tune or a hornpipe generally finishes the set, and then the thunder of heel and toe, and some amazing demivoltes are brought to an end by the aforesaid, “gents to the right,” and “promenade to the bar,” which last closes the dance. After a treat, the bar-keeper mechanically raps his blower as a hint to “weigh out,” the ladies sit down, and with scarcely an interval, a waltz, polka, shottische, mazurka, varsovienne, or another quadrille commences.

All varieties of costume, physique and demeanor can be noticed among the dancers—from the gayest colors and “loudest” styles of dress and manner, to the snugly fitted black silk, and plain, white collar, which sets off the neat figure of the blue-eyed, modest looking Anglo-Saxon. Yonder, beside the tall and tastily clad German brunette, you see the short curls, rounded tournure and smiling face of an Irish girl; indeed, representatives of almost every dancing nation of white folks, may be seen on the floor of the Hurdy-Gurdy house. The earnings of the dancers are very different in amount. That dancer in the low necked dress, with the scarlet “waist,” a great favorite and a really good dancer, counted fifty tickets into her lap before “The last dance, gentlemen,” followed by, “Only this one before the girls go home,” which wound up the performance. Twenty-six dollars is a great deal of money to earn in such a fashion; but fifty sets of quadrilles and four waltzes, two of them for the love of the thing, is very hard work.

As a rule, however, the professional “hurdies” are Teutons, and, though first rate dancers, they are, with some few exceptions, the reverse of good looking.

The dance which is most attended, is one in which ladies to whom pleasure is dearer than fame, represent the female element, and, as may be supposed, the evil only COMMENCES at the Dance House. It is not uncommon to see one of these syrens with an “outfit” worth from seven to eight hundred dollars, and many of them invest with merchants and bankers thousands of dollars in gold, the rewards and presents they receive, especially the more highly favored ones, being more in a week, than a well educated girl would earn in two years in an Eastern city.

In the Dance House you can see Judges, the Legislative corps, and every one but the Minister. He never ventures further than to engage in conversation with a friend at the door, and while intently watching the performance, lectures on the evil of such places with considerable force; but his attention is evidently more fixed upon the dancers than on his lecture. Sometimes may be seen gray haired men dancing, their wives sitting at home in blissful ignorance of the proceeding. There never was a dance house running, for any length of time, in the first days of a mining town, in which “shooting scrapes” do not occur; equal proportions of jealousy, whiskey and revenge being the stimulants thereto. Billiard saloons are everywhere visible, with a bar attached, and hundreds of thousands of dollars are spent there. As might be anticipated, it is impossible to prevent quarrels in these places, at all times, and, in the mountains, whatever weapon is handiest—foot, fist, knife, revolver, or derringer—it is instantly used. The authentic, and, indeed, LITERALLY exact accounts which follow in the course of this narrative will show that the remarks we have made on the state of society in a new mining country, before a controlling power asserts its sway, are in no degree exaggerated, but fall short of the reality, as all description must.

One marked feature of social intercourse, and (after indulgence in strong drink) the most fruitful source of quarrel and bloodshed is the all pervading custom of using strong language on every occasion. Men will say more than they mean, and the unwritten code of the miners, based on a wrong view of what constitutes manhood, teaches them to resent by force which should be answered by silent contempt.

Another powerful incentive to wrong doing is the absolute nullity of the civil law in such cases. No matter what may be the proof, if the criminal is well liked in the community, “Not Guilty” is almost certain to be the verdict of the jury, despite the efforts of the Judge and prosecutor. If the offender is a monied man, as well as a popular citizen, the trial is only a farce—grave and prolonged, it is true but capable of only one termination—a verdict of acquittal. In after days, when police magistrates in cities can deal with crime, they do so promptly. Costs are absolutely frightful, and fines tremendous. An assault provoked by drunkenness, frequently costs a man as much as thrashing forty different policemen would do, in New York. A trifling “tight” is worth from $20 to $50 in dust, all expenses told, and so on. One grand jury that we wot of, presented that it would be better to leave the punishment of offenders to the Vigilantes, who always acted impartially, and who would not permit the escape of proved criminals on technical and absurd grounds—than to have justice defeated, as in a certain case named. The date of that document is not ancient, and though, of course, refused and destroyed, it was the deliberate opinion, on oath, of the Grand Inquest, embodying the sentiment of thousands of good citizens in the community.

Finally, swift and terrible retribution is the only preventive of crime, while society is organizing in the far West. The long delay of justice, the wearisome proceedings, the remembrance of old friendships, etc., create a sympathy for the offender, so strong as to cause a hatred of the avenging law, instead of inspiring a horror of the crime. There is something in the excitement of continued stampedes that makes men of quick temperaments uncontrollably impulsive. In the moment of passion, they would slay all round them; but let the blood cool, and they would share their last dollar with the men whose life they sought, a day or two before.

Habits of thought rule communities more than laws, and the settled opinion of a numerous class is, that calling a man a liar, a thief, or a son of a b——h is provocation sufficient to justify instant slaying. Juries do not ordinarily bother themselves about the lengthy instruction they hear read by the court. They simply consider whether the deed is a crime against the Mountain Code; and if not, “not guilty” is the verdict, at once returned. Thieving, or any action which a miner calls MEAN, will surely be visited with condign punishment, at the hands of a Territorial jury. In such cases mercy there is none; but, in affairs of single combats, assaults, shootings, stabbings, and highway robberies, the civil law, with its positively awful expense and delay, is worse than useless.

One other main point requires to be noticed. Any person of experience will remember that the universal story of criminals, who have expiated their crimes on the scaffold, or who are pining away in the hardships of involuntary servitude—tells of habitual Sabbath breaking. This sin is so general in newly discovered diggings in the mountains, that a remonstrance usually produced no more fruit than a few jocular oaths and a laugh. Religion is said to be “played out,” and a professing Christian must keep straight, indeed, or he will be suspected of being a hypocritical member of a tribe, to whom it would be very disagreeable to talk about hemp.

Under these circumstances, it becomes an absolute necessity that good, law-loving, and order-sustaining men should unite for mutual protection, and for the salvation of the community. Being united, they must act in harmony; repress disorder; punish crime, and prevent outrage, or their organization would be a failure from the start, and society would collapse in the throes of anarchy. None but extreme penalties inflicted with promptitude, are of any avail to quell the spirit of the desperadoes with whom they have to contend; considerable numbers are required to cope successfully with the gangs of murderers, desperadoes and robbers, who infest mining countries, and who, though faithful to no other bond, yet all league willingly against the law. Secret they must be, in council and membership, or they will remain nearly useless for the detection of crime, in a country where equal facilities for the transmission of intelligence are at the command of the criminal and the judiciary; and an organization on this footing is a Vigilance Committee.

Such was the state of affairs, when five men in Virginia, and four in Bannack, initiated the movement which resulted in the formation of a tribunal, supported by an omnipresent executive, comprising within itself nearly every good man in the Territory, and pledged to render impartial justice to friend and foe, without regard to clime, creed, race or politics. In a few short weeks it was known that the voice of justice had spoken, in tones that might not be disregarded. The face of society was changed, as if by magic; for the Vigilantes, holding in one hand the invisible, yet effectual shield of protection, and in the other, the swift descending and inevitable sword of retribution, struck from his nerveless grasp the weapon of the assassin; commanded the brawler to cease from strife; warned the thief to steal no more; bade the good citizen take courage, and compelled the ruffians and marauders who had so long maintained the “reign of terror” in Montana, to fly the Territory, or meet the just rewards of their crimes. Need we say that they were at once obeyed? yet not before more than one hundred valuable lives had been pitilessly sacrificed and twenty-four miscreants had met a dog’s doom as the reward of their crimes.

To this hour, the whispered words, “Virginia Vigilantes,” would blanch the cheek of the wildest and most redoubtable desperado, and necessitate an instant election between flight and certain doom.

The administration of the lex talionis by self-constituted authority is, undoubtedly, in civilized and settled communities, an outrage on mankind. It is there, wholly unnecessary; but the sight of a few of the mangled corpses of beloved friends and valued citizens; the whistle of the desperado’s bullet, and the plunder of the fruits of the patient toil of years spent in weary exile from home, in places where civil law is as powerless as a palsied arm, from sheer lack of ability to enforce its decrees—alter the basis of the reasoning, and reverse the conclusion. In the case of the Vigilantes of Montana, it must be also remembered that the Sheriff himself was the leader of the Road Agents, and his deputies were the prominent members of the band.

The question of the propriety of establishing a Vigilance Committee, depends upon the answers which ought to be given to the following queries: Is it lawful for citizens to slay robbers or murderers, when they catch them; or ought they to wait for policemen, where there are none, or put them in penitentiaries not yet erected?

Gladly, indeed, we feel sure, would the Vigilantes cease from their labor, and joyfully would they hail the advent of power, civil or military, to take their place; but, till this is furnished by Government, society must be preserved from demoralization and anarchy; murder, arson and robbery must be prevented or punished, and road agents must die. Justice, and protection from wrong to person or property, are the birth-right of every American citizen, and these must be furnished in the best and most effectual manner that circumstances render possible. Furnished, however, they must be by constitutional law, undoubtedly, wherever practical and efficient provision can be made for its enforcement. But where justice is powerless as well as blind; the strong arm of the mountaineer must wield her sword; for “self preservation is the first law of nature.”

CHAPTER II.
THE SUNNY SIDE OF MOUNTAIN LIFE.

“The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel.”—Shaks.

In the preceding chapter, it was necessary to show to the reader the dark side of the cloud; but it has a golden lining, and though many a cursory observer, or disappointed speculator, may deny this fact, yet thousands have seen it, and know to their heart’s content that it is there. Yes! Life in the mountains has many charms. The one great blessing is perfect freedom. Untrammelled by the artificial restraints of more highly organized society, character developes itself so fully and so truly, that a man who has a friend, knows it, and there is a warmth and depth in the attachment which unites the dwellers in the wilderness, that is worth years of the insipid and uncertain regard of so-called, polite circles, which, too often, passes by the name of friendship, and, sometimes, insolently apes the attributes, and dishonors the fame of love itself. Those who have slept at the same watch-fire, and traversed together many a weary league, sharing hardship and privations, are drawn together by ties which civilization wots not of. Wounded or sick, far from home, and depending for life itself, upon the ministration and tender care of some fellow traveller, the memory of these deeds of mercy and kindly fellowship often mutually rendered, is as an oasis in the desert, or as a crystal stream to the fainting pilgrim.

As soon as towns are built, society commences to organize, and there is something truly cheering in the ready hospitality, the unfeigned welcome, and the friendly toleration of personal peculiarities which mark the intercourse of the dwellers in the land of gold. Every one does what pleases him best. Forms and ceremonies are at a discount, and generosity has its home in the pure air of the Rocky Mountains. This virtue, indeed, is as inseparable from mountaineers of all classes, as the pick and shovel from the prospector. When a case of real destitution, is made public, if any well known citizens will but take a paper in his hand and go round with it, the amount collected would astonish a dweller in Eastern cities, and it is a fact that gamblers and saloon keepers are the very men who subscribe the most liberally. Mountaineers think little of a few hundreds of dollars, when the feelings are engaged, and the number of instances in which men have been helped to fortunes and presented with valuable property by their friends, is truly astonishing.

The Mountains also may be said to circumscribe and bound the paradise of amiable and energetic women. For their labor they are paid magnificently, and they are treated with a deference and liberality unknown in other climes. There seems to be a law, unwritten but scarcely ever transgressed, which assigns to a virtuous and amiable woman, a power for good which she can never hope to attain elsewhere. In his wildest excitement, a mountaineer respects a woman, and anything like an insult offered to a lady, would be instantly resented, probably with fatal effect, by any bystander. Dancing is the great amusement with persons of both sexes, and we might say, of all ages. The comparative disproportion between the male and female elements of society, ensures the possessor of personal charms of the most ordinary kind, if she be good natured, the greatest attention, and the most liberal provision for her wants, whether real or fancied.

If two men are friends, an insult to one is resented by both, an alliance offensive and defensive being a necessary condition of friendship in the mountains. A popular citizen is safe everywhere, and any man may be popular that has anything useful or genial about him.

“Putting on style,” or the assumption of aristocratic airs, is the detestation of everybody. No one but a person lacking sense attempts it. It is neither forgotten nor forgiven, and KILLS a man like a bullet. It should also be remembered that no people more admire and respect upright moral conduct, than do the sojourners in mining camps, while at the same time none more thoroughly despise hypocrisy in any shape. In fact, good men and good women may be as moral and as religious as they choose to be, in the mining countries, and as happy as human beings can be. Much they will miss that they have been used to, and much they will receive that none offered them before.

Money is commonly plentiful; if prices are high, remuneration for work is liberal, and, in the end, care and industry will achieve success and procure competence. We have travelled far and seen much of the world, and the result of our experience is a love for our mountain home, that time and change of scene can never efface.

CHAPTER III.
SETTLEMENT OF MONTANA.

“I hear the tread of pioneers,
Of nations yet to be;
The first low wash of waves, where soon
Shall roll a human sea.”—Whittier.

Early in the Spring of 1862, the rumor of new and rich discoveries on Salmon River, flew through Salt Lake City, Colorado, and other places in the Territories. A great stampede was the consequence. Faith and hope were in the ascendant among the motley crew that wended their toilsome way by Fort Hall and Snake river, to the new Eldorado. As the trains approached the goal of their desires, they were informed that they could not get through with wagons, and shortly after came the discouraging tidings that the new mines were overrun by a crowd of gold-hunters from California, Oregon, and other western countries; they were also told, that finding it impossible to obtain either claims or labor, large bands of prospectors were already spreading over the adjacent territory; and finally, that some new diggings had been discovered at Deer Lodge.

The stream of emigration diverged from the halting place, where this last welcome intelligence reached them. Some, turning towards Deer Lodge, crossed the mountains, between Fort Lemhi and Horse Prairie Creek, and, taking a cut-off to the left, endeavored to strike the old trail from Salt Lake to Bitter Root and Deer Lodge Valleys. These energetic miners crossed the Grasshopper Creek, below the Canon, and finding good prospects there, some of the party remained, with a view of practically testing their value. Others went on to Deer Lodge; but finding that the diggings were neither so rich nor so extensive as they had supposed, they returned to Grasshopper Creek—afterwards known as the Beaver Head Diggings—so named from the Beaver Head River, into which the creek empties. The river derives its appellation from a rock, which exactly resembles, in its outline, the head of a Beaver.

From this camp—the rendezvous of the emigration—started, from time to time, the bands of explorers who first discovered and worked the gulches east of the Rocky Mountains, in the world renowned country now the Territory of Montana. Other emigrants, coming by Deer Lodge, struck the Beaver Head diggings; then the first party from Minnesota arrived; after them, came a large part of the Fisk company who had travelled under Government escort, from the same State, and a considerable number drove through from Salt Lake City and Bitter Root, in the early part of the winter, which was very open.

Among the later arrivals were some desperadoes and outlaws, from the mines west of the mountains. In this gang were Henry Plummer, afterwards the SHERIFF, Charley Reeves, Moore and Skinner. These worthies had no sooner got the “lay of the country,” than they commenced operations. Here it may be remarked, that if the professed servants of God would only work for their master with the same energy and persistent devotion, as the servants of the Devil use for their employer, there would be no need of a Heaven above, for the earth itself would be a Paradise.

CHAPTER IV.
THE ROAD AGENTS.

“Thieves for their robbery have authority
When judges steal themselves.”—Shakespeare

It may easily be imagined that life in Bannack, in the early days of the settlement, was anything but pleasant. The ruffians, whose advent we have noticed, served as a nucleus, around which the disloyal, the desperate, and the dishonest gathered, and quickly organizing themselves into a band, with captain, lieutenants, secretary, road agents, and outsiders, became the terror of the country. The stampede to the Alder Gulch, which occurred early in June, 1863, and the discovery of the rich placer diggings there, attracted many more of the dangerous classes, who, scenting the prey from afar, flew like vultures to the battle field.

Between Bannack and Virginia, a correspondence was constantly kept up, and the roads throughout the Territory were under the surveillance of the “outsiders” before mentioned. To such a system were these things brought, that horses, men and coaches were marked in some understood manner, to designate them as fit objects for plunder, and thus the liers in wait had an opportunity of communicating the intelligence to the members of the gang, in time to prevent the escape of the victims.

The usual arms of a road agent were a pair of revolvers, a double-barrelled shot-gun, of large bore, with the barrels cut down short, and to this they invariably added a knife or dagger. Thus armed and mounted on fleet, well trained horses, and being disguised with blankets and masks, the robbers awaited their prey in ambush. When near enough, they sprang out on a keen run, with levelled shot-guns, and usually gave the word, “Halt! Throw up your hands you sons of b——s!” If this latter command were not instantly obeyed, there was the last of the offender; but, in case he complied, as was usual, one or two sat on their horses, covering the party with their guns, which were loaded with buck-shot, and one, dismounting, disarmed the victims, and made them throw their purses on the grass. This being done, and a search for concealed property being effected, away rode the robbers, reported the capture and divided the spoils.

The confession of two of their number one of whom, named Erastus Yager alias Red, was hung in the Stinkingwater Valley, put the Committee in possession of the names of the prominent men in the gang, and eventually secured their death or voluntary banishment. The most noted of the road agents, with a few exceptions were hanged by the Vigilance Committee, or banished. A list of the place and date of execution of the principle members of the band is here presented. The remainder of the red calendar of crime and retribution will appear after the account of the execution of Hunter:

NAMES, PLACE AND DATE OF EXECUTION.

George Ives, Nevada City, Dec. 21st 1863; Erastus Yager (Red) and G. W. Brown, Stinkingwater Valley, January 4th, 1864; Henry Plummer, Ned Ray and Buck Stinson, Bannack City, January 10th, 1864; George Lane, (Club-foot George,) Frank Parish, Haze Lyons, Jack Gallagher and Boone Helm, Virginia City, January 14th, 1864; Steven Marsland, Big Hole Ranche, January 16th, 1864; William Bunton, Deer Lodge Valley, January 19th, 1864; Cyrus Skinner, Alexander Carter, and John Cooper, Hell Gate, January 25th, 1864; George Shears, Frenchtown, January 24th, 1864; Robert Zachary, Hell Gate, January 25th, 1864; William Graves alias Whiskey Bill, Fort Owens, January 26th, 1864; William Hunter, Gallatin Valley, February 3d, 1864; John Wagoner, (Dutch John) and Joe Pizanthia, Bannack City, January 11th, 1864.

Judge Smith and J. Thurmond, the counsel of the road agents, were banished. Thurmond brought an action, at Salt Lake, against Mr. Fox, charging him with aiding in procuring his banishment. After some peculiar developments of justice in Utah, he judiciously withdrew all proceedings, and gave a receipt in full of all past and future claims on the Vigilance Committee, in which instance he exhibited a wise discretion—

“It’s no for naething the gled whistles.”

The Bannack branch of the Vigilantes also sent out of the country, H. G. Sessions, convicted of circulating bogus dust, and one H. D. Moyer, who furnished a room at midnight, for them to work in, together with material for their labor. A man named Kustar was also banished for recklessly shooting through the windows of the hotel opposite his place of abode.

The circumstances attending the execution of J. A. Slade, and the charges against him, will appear in full in a subsequent part of this work. This case stands on a footing distinct from all the others.

Moore and Reeves were banished, as will afterwards appear, by a miners’ jury, at Bannack, in the winter of 1863, but came back in the Spring. They fled the country when the Vigilantes commenced operations, and are thought to be in Mexico.

Charley Forbes was a member of the gang; but being wounded in a scuffle, or a robbery, a doctor was found and taken to where he lay. Finding that he was incurable, it is believed that Moore and Reeves shot him, to prevent his divulging what he knew of the band; but this is uncertain. Some say he was killed by Moore and Reeves, in Red Rock Canon.

The headquarters of the marauders was Rattlesnake Ranche. Plummer often visited it, and the robbers used to camp, with their comrades, in little wakiups above and below it, watching, and ready for fight, flight or plunder. Two rods in front of this building was a sign post, at which they used to practice with their revolvers. They were capital shots. Plummer was the quickest hand with his revolver of any man in the mountains. He could draw the pistol and discharge the five loads in three seconds. The post was riddled with holes, and was looked upon as quite a curiosity, until it was cut down, in the summer of 1863.

Another favorite resort of the gang was Dempsey’s Cottonwood Ranche. The owner knew the character of the robbers, but had no connection with them; and, in those days, a man’s life would not have been worth fifteen minutes purchase, if the possessor had been foolish enough even to hint at his knowledge of their doings. Daley’s, at Ramshorn Gulch, and ranches or wakiups on the Madison, the Jefferson, Wisconsin Creek, and Mill Creek, were also constantly occupied by members of the band.

By discoveries of the bodies of the victims, the confessions of the murderers before execution, and reliable information sent to the Committee, it was found that one hundred and two people had been certainly killed by those miscreants in various places, and it was believed, on the best information, that scores of unfortunates had been murdered and buried, whose remains were never discovered, nor their fate definitely ascertained. All that was known, was that they started, with greater or less sums of money, for various places, and were never heard of again.

CHAPTER V.
THE DARK DAYS OF MONTANA.

“Will all Neptune’s Ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand?”—Macbeth.

Henry Plummer, a sketch of whose previous career will appear in a subsequent part of this narrative, came to Montana Territory from Orofino. He and Reeves had there got into a difficulty with another man, and had settled the matter in the way usual in the trade—that is to say, they shot him.

Plummer—who, it seems, had for a long time contemplated a visit to the States—made at once for the River, intending to go down by boat; but finding that he was too late, he came back to Gold Creek, and there met Jack Cleveland, an old acquaintance, and former partner in crime. They made arrangements to pass the winter together at Sun River Farm. Plummer was to attend to the chores about the house, and Jack Cleveland was to get the wood. The worthy couple true to their instincts, did not long remain in harmony, but quarrelled about a young lady, whom Plummer afterwards married. Neither would leave, unless the other went also, and at last they both started, in company, for Bannack.

This town originated from the “Grasshopper Diggings,” which were first discovered in the month of July, by John White and a small party of prospectors, on the Grasshopper Creek, a tributary of the Beaverhead. The discoverer, together with Rodolph Dorsett, was murdered by Charley Kelly, in the month of December, 1863, near the Milk Ranche, on the road from Virginia City to Helena. Wash Stapleton and his party came in a short time after, and were soon joined by others, among whom were W. B. Dance, S. T. Hauser, James Morley, Drury Underwood, F. M. Thomson, N. P. Langford, James Fergus, John Potter, Judge Hoyt and Dr. Hoyt, Chas. St. Clair, David Thompson, Buz Caven, Messrs. Burchett, Morelle, Harby, J. M. Castner, Pat Bray and brother, Sturges, Col. McLean, R. C. Knox, and other well known citizens of Montana. The name, “Bannack,” was given to the settlement, from the Bannack Indians, the lords of the soil. It was the first “mining camp” of any importance, discovered on the eastern slope of the Mountains, and as the stories of its wonderful richness went abroad, hundreds of scattered prospectors flocked in, and before the following Spring, the inhabitants numbered upwards of a thousand.

It is probable that there never was a mining town of the same size that contained more desperadoes and lawless characters, than did Bannack, during the winter of 1862-3. While a majority of the citizens were of the sterling stock, which has ever furnished the true American pioneers, there were great numbers of the most desperate class of roughs and road agents, who had been roving though the mountains, exiles from their former haunts in the mining settlements, from which they had fled to avoid the penalties incurred by the commission of many a fearful crime. These men no sooner heard of the rich mines of Bannack, than they at once made for the new settlement, where, among strangers, ignorant of their crimes, they would be secure from punishment, at least until their true character should become known.

During their journey to Bannack, Cleveland often said, when a little intoxicated, that Plummer was his meat. On their arrival at their destination, they were, in Mountain phrase, “strapped;” that is, they were without money or means; but Cleveland was not thus to be foiled; the practice of his profession furnishing him with ample funds, at the cost of a short ride and a pistol cartridge. In February, 1863, a young man named George Evans, having a considerable sum of money on his person, was hunting stock belonging to William Bates, beyond Buffalo Creek, about eight miles from Bannack, and this man, it is believed, was shot by Cleveland, and robbed, as the murderer—who had no money at the time—was seen riding close to the place, and the next day he had plenty. Evans’ partner, Ed. Hibbert, got a horse from J. M. Castner, and searched for him in vain, returning impressed with the belief that he had frozen to death. In a short time, a herder named Duke, a partner of Jemmy Spence, was also hunting cattle, when he found Evans’ clothes tucked into a badger hole. A body, which, however, was never fully identified, was found naked in the willows, with a shot wound in the right armpit. It seems as if the victim had seen a man about to shoot, and had raised his arm deprecatingly.

Shortly after this, Cleveland came in to Goodrich’s saloon, and said he was CHIEF; that he knew all the d——d scoundrels from the “other side,” and would get even on some of them. A difficulty arose between him and Jeff. Perkins, about some money which the latter owed in the lower country. Jeff. assured him that he had settled the debt, and thereupon Jack said, “Well, if it’s settled, it’s all right;” but he still continued to refer to it, and kept reaching for his pistol. Plummer, who was present, told him that if he did not behave himself, he would take him in hand, for that Jeff. had settled the debt, and he ought to be satisfied. Jeff. went home for his derringers, and while he was absent, Jack Cleveland boastingly declared that he was afraid of none of them. Plummer jumped to his feet instantly, saying, “You d——d son of a b——h, I am tired of this,” and, drawing his pistol, he commenced firing at Cleveland. The first ball lodged in the beam overhead, where it still remains. The second struck him below the belt, and he fell to his knees, grasping wildly at his pistol, and exclaiming, “Plummer, you won’t shoot me when I’m down;” to which Plummer replied, “No you d——d son of a b——h; get up,” and, as he staggered to his feet, he shot him a little above the heart. The bullet, however, glanced on the rib, and went round his body. The next entered below the eye, and lodged in his head. The last missile went between Moore and another man, who was sitting on the bench. As may be supposed the citizen discovered that business called him outside immediately; and, met George Ives, with a pistol in his hand, followed by Reeves, who was similarly accoutred for the summary adjustment of “difficulties.”

Singular enough, it must appear to the inhabitants of settled communities, that a man was being shaved in the saloon at the time, and neither he nor the operator left off business—CUSTOM IS EVERYTHING, and fire-eating is demonstrably an acquired habit.

Ives and Reeves each took Plummer by the arm, and walked down street, asking as they went along: “Will the d——d strangling sons of b——s hang you now?”

Hank Crawford was, at this time, boarding with L. W. Davenport, of Bannack, and was somewhat out of health. His host came into the room, and said that there was a man shot somewhere up town, in a saloon. Crawford immediately went to where the crowd had gathered, and found that such was the fear of the desperadoes, that no one dared to lift the head of the dying man. Hank said aloud, that it was out of the question to leave a man in such a condition, and asked, “Is there no one that will take him home?” Some answered that they had no room; to which he replied, that he had not, either, but he would find a place for him; and, assisted by three others, he carried him to his own lodging—sending a messenger for the doctor.

The unfortunate man lived about three hours. Before his decease, he sent Crawford to Plummer for his blankets. Plummer asked Crawford what Jack had said about him; Crawford told him, “nothing.” “It is well for him,” said Plummer, “or I would have killed the d——d son of a b——h in his bed.” He repeated his question several times, very earnestly. Crawford then informed him that, in answer to numerous inquiries by himself and others, about Cleveland’s connections, he had said, “Poor Jack has got no friends. He has got it, and I guess he can stand it.” Crawford had him decently buried, but he knew, from that time, that Plummer had marked him for destruction, fearing that some of Cleveland’s secrets might have transpired, in which case he was aware that he would surely be hung at the first opportunity.

No action was taken about this murder for some time. It required a succession of horrible outrages to stimulate the citizens to their first feeble parody of justice. Shooting, duelling, and outrage, were from an early date, daily occurrences, in Bannack; and many was the foul deed done, of which no record has been preserved. As an instance of the free and easy state of society at this time, may be mentioned a “shooting scrape” between George Carrhart and George Ives, during the winter of ’62-3. The two men were talking together in the street, close to Carrhart’s cabin. Gradually they seemed to grow angry, and parted, Ives exclaiming aloud, “You d——d son of a b——h, I’ll shoot you,” and ran into a grocery for his revolver. Carrhart stepped into his cabin, and came out first, with his pistol in his hand, which he held by his side, the muzzle pointing downwards. George Ives came out, and turning his back on Carrhart, looked for him in the wrong direction—giving his antagonist a chance of shooting him in the back, if he desired to do so. Carrhart stood still till Ives turned, watching him closely. The instant Ives saw him, he swore an oath, and raising his pistol, let drive, but missed him by an inch or so, the bullet striking the wall of the house, close to which he was standing. Carrhart’s first shot was a miss-fire, and a second shot from Ives struck the ground. Carrhart’s second shot flashed right in Ives’s face, but did no damage, though the ball could hardly have missed more than a hairs’ breadth. Carrhart jumped into the house, and reaching his hand out, fired at his opponent. In the same fashion, his antagonist returned the compliment. This was continued till Ives’s revolver was emptied—Carrhart having one shot left. As Ives walked off to make his escape, Carrhart shot him in the back, near the side. The ball went through, and striking the ground in front of him, knocked up the dust ahead of him. Ives was not to be killed by a shot, and wanted to get another revolver, but Carrhart ran off down the street. Ives cursed him for a coward “shooting a man in the back.” They soon made up their quarrels, and Ives went and lived with Carrhart, on his ranche, for the rest of the winter.

Accidents will happen in the best regulated families, and we give a specimen of “casualties” pertaining to life in Bannack during this delightful period. Dr. Biddle, of Minnesota, and his wife, together with Mr. and Mrs. Short, and their hired man, were quietly sitting round their camp fire on Grasshopper Creek, when J. M. Castner, thinking that a lady in the peculiar situation of Mrs. Biddle would need the shelter of a house, went over to the camp, and sitting down, made his offer of assistance, which was politely acknowledged, but declined by the lady, on the ground that their wagon was very comfortably fitted up. Scarcely were the words uttered, when crack! went a revolver, from the door of a saloon, and the ball went so close to Castner’s ear, that it stung for two or three days. It is stated that he shifted the position of his head with amazing rapidity. Mrs. Biddle nearly fainted and became much excited, trembling with terror. Castner went over to the house, and saw Cyrus Skinner in the act of laying his revolver on the table, at the same time requesting a gentleman who was playing cards to count the balls in it. He at first refused, saying he was busy; but, being pressed, said, after making a hasty inspection, “Well, there are only four.” Skinner replied, “I nearly frightened the —— out of a fellow, over there.” Castner laid his hand on his shoulder, and said, “My friend, you nearly shot Mrs. Biddle.” Skinner declared that he would not have killed a woman “for the world,” and swore that he thought it was a camp of Indians, which would, in his view, have made the matter only an agreeable pastime. He asked Castner to drink, but the generous offer was declined. Probably the ball stuck in his throat. The Doctor accepted the invitation. These courtesies were like an invitation from a Captain to a Midshipman, “No compulsion, only you must.”

A little episode may here be introduced, as an illustration of an easy method of settling debts, mentioned by Shakespeare. The sentiment is the Earl of Warwick’s. The practical enforcement of the doctrine is to be credited in this instance, to Haze Lyons, of the Rocky Mountains, a self-constituted and energetic Receiver-General of all moneys and valuables not too hot or too heavy for transportation by man or horse, at short notice. The “King Maker” says:

“When the debt grows burdensome, and cannot be discharged
A sponge will wipe out all, and cost you nothing.”

The substitute for the “sponge” above alluded to, is, usually, in cases like the following, a revolver, which acts effectually, by “rubbing out” either the debt or the creditor, as circumstances may render desirable. Haze Lyons owed a board bill to a citizen of Bannack, who was informed that he had won $300 or $400 by gambling the night before, and accordingly asked him for it. He replied, “You son of a b——h, if you ask me for that again, I’ll make it unhealthy for you.” The creditor generously refrained from farther unpleasant inquiries, and the parties met again for the first time, face to face, at the gallows, on which Haze expiated his many crimes.

The next anecdote is suggestive of one, among many ways of incidentally expressing dislike of a man’s “style” in business matters. Buck Stinson had gone security for a friend, who levanted; but was pursued and brought back. A mischievous boy had been playing some ridiculous pranks, when his guardian, to whom the debt mentioned was due, spoke to him severely, and ordered him home. Buck at once interfered, telling the guardian that he should not correct the boy. On receiving for answer that it certainly would be done, as it was the duty of the boy’s protector to look after him, he drew his revolver, and thrusting it close to the citizen’s face, saying, “G—d d——n you, I don’t like you very well, any how,” was about to fire, when the latter seized the barrel and threw it up. A struggle ensued, and finding that he couldn’t fire, Stinson wrenched the weapon out of his opponent’s hand, and struck him heavily across the muscles of the neck, but failed to knock him down. The bar-keeper interfering, Stinson let go his hold, and swore he would shoot him; but he was quieted down. The gentleman being warned, made his way home at the double-quick, or faster, and put on his revolver and bowie, which he wore for fifteen days. At the end of this time, Plummer persuaded Stinson to apologize, which he did, and thereafter behaved with civility to that particular man.

The wild lawlessness and the reckless disregard for life which distinguished the outlaws, who had by this time concentrated at Bannack, will appear from the account of the first “Indian trouble.” If the facts here stated do not justify the formation of a Vigilance Committee in Montana, then may God help Uncle Sam’s nephews when they venture west of the River, in search of new diggings. In March, 1863, Charley Reeves, a prominent “clerk of St. Nicholas,” bought a Sheep-eater squaw; but she refused to live with him, alleging that she was ill-treated, and went back to her tribe, who were encamped on the rise of the hill, south of Yankee Flat, about fifty yards to the rear of the street. Reeves went after her, and sought to force her to come back with him, but on his attempting to use violence, an old chief interfered. The two grappled. Reeves, with a sudden effort, broke from him, striking him a blow with his pistol, and, in the scuffle, one barrel was harmlessly discharged.

The next evening, Moore and Reeves, in a state of intoxication, entered Goodrich’s saloon, laying down two double-barrelled shot-guns and four revolvers, on the counter, considerably to the discomfiture of the bar-keeper, who, we believe, would have sold his position very cheap, for cash, at that precise moment, and it is just possible that he might have accepted a good offer “on time.” They declared, while drinking, that if the d——d cowardly white folks on Yankee Flat, were afraid of the Indians, they were not, and that they would soon “set the ball a rolling.” Taking their weapons, they went off to the back of the houses, opposite the camp, and levelling their pieces, they fired into the tepee, wounding one Indian. They returned to the saloon and got three drinks more, boasting of what they had done, and accompanied by William Mitchell, of Minnesota, and two others, they went back, determined to complete their murderous work. The three above named then deliberately poured a volley into the tepee, with fatal effect. Mitchell, whose gun was loaded with an ounce ball and a charge of buckshot, killed a Frenchman named Brissette, who had run up to ascertain the cause of the first firing—the ball striking him in the forehead, and the buckshot wounding him in ten different places. The Indian chief, a lame Indian boy, and a pappoose, were also killed; but the number of the parties who were wounded has never been ascertained. John Burnes escaped with a broken thumb, and a man named Woods was shot in the groin, of which wound he has not yet entirely recovered. This unfortunate pair, like Brissette, had come to see the cause of the shooting, and of the yells of the savages. The murderers being told that they had killed white men, Moore replied, with great SANG FROID, “The d——d sons of b——s had no business there.”

CHAPTER VI.
THE TRIAL.

Desponding fear, of feeble fancies full,
Weak and unmanly, loosens every power.—Thomson.

The indignation of the citizens being aroused by this atrocious and unprovoked massacre, a mass meeting was held the following morning to take some action in the premises. Charley Moore and Reeves hearing of it, started early in the morning, on foot, towards Rattlesnake, Henry Plummer preceding them on horseback. Sentries were then posted all round the town, to prevent egress, volunteers were called for, to pursue the criminals, and Messrs. Lear, Higgings, O. J. Rockwell and Davenport at once followed on their track, coming up with them where they had hidden, in a thicket of brush, near the creek. The daylight was beginning to fade, and the cold was intense when a reinforcement arrived, on which the fugitives came out, delivered themselves up, and were conducted back to Bannack.

Plummer was tried and honorably acquitted, on account of Cleveland’s threats. Mitchell was banished, but he hid around the town for awhile, and never went away. Reeves and Moore were next tried. Mr. Rheem had promised the evening before to conduct the prosecution, and Judge Smith had undertaken the defense, when on the morning of the trial, Mr. Rheem announced that he was retained for the defense. This left the people without any lawyer or prosecutor. Mr. Coply at last undertook the case, but his talents not lying in that direction, he was not successful as an advocate. Judge Hoyt, from St. Paul, was elected Judge, and Hank Crawford, Sheriff. Owing to the peculiarly divided state of public opinion, it seemed almost impossible to select an impartial jury from the neighborhood, and therefore a messenger was sent to Godfrey’s Canon, where N. P. Langford, R. C. Knox, A. Godfrey, and others, were engaged in erecting a saw-mill, requesting them to come down to Bannack and sit on the jury. Messrs. Langford and Godfrey came down at once, to be ready for the trial the next day. The assembly of citizens numbered about five or six hundred, and to them the question was put, “Whether the prisoners should be tried by the people EN MASSE, or by a selected jury.” Some leading men advocated the first plan. N. P. Langford and several prominent residents took the other side, and argued the necessity for a jury. After several hours’ discussion, a jury was ordered, and the trial proceeded. At the conclusion of the evidence and argument, the case was given to the jury without any charge. The Judge also informed them that if they found the prisoners guilty, they must sentence them. At the first ballot, the vote stood: For death, 1; against it, 11. The question of the prisoners’ GUILT admitted of no denial. N. P. Langford alone voted for the penalty of death. A sealed verdict of banishment and confiscation of property was ultimately handed to the Judge, late in the evening. Moore and Reeves were banished from the Territory, but were permitted to stay at Deer Lodge till the Range would be passable.

In the morning, the Court again met, and the Judge informed the people that he had received the verdict, which he would now hand back to the foreman to read. Mr. Langford accordingly read it aloud.

From that time forward, a feeling of the bitterest hostility was manifested by the friends of Moore, Reeves and Mitchell toward all who were prominently connected with the proceedings.

During the trial, the roughs would swagger into the space allotted for the Judge and Jury, giving utterance to clearly understood threats, such as, “I’d like to see the G—d d——d Jury that would dare to hang Charley Reeves or Bill Moore,” etc., etc., which doubtless had fully as much weight with the Jury as the evidence had. The pretext of the prisoners that the Indians had killed some whites, friends of theirs, in ’49, while going to California, was accepted by the majority of the jurors as some sort of justification; but the truth is, they were afraid of their lives—and, it must be confessed, not without apparent reason.

To the delivery of this unfortunate verdict may be attributed the ascendancy of the roughs. They thought the people were afraid of them. Had the question been left to old Californians or experienced miners, Plummer, Reeves and Moore would have been hanged, and much bloodshed and suffering would have been thereby prevented. No organization of the Road Agents would have been possible.

CHAPTER VII.
PLUMMER VERSUS CRAWFORD.

“I had rather chop this hand off at a blow
And with the other fling it at thy face,
Than bear so low a sail, to strike to thee.”
Shakspeare—Henry VI.

Crawford, who was appointed Sheriff at the trial of Moore and Reeves, tendered his resignation on two or three different occasions; but was induced to continue in office by the strongest representations of his friends. They promised to stand by him in the execution of his duty, and to remunerate him for his loss of time and money. The arms taken from Plummer, Reeves and Mitchell were sold by Crawford to defray expenses.

Popular sentiment is shifting and uncertain as a quicksand. Shortly after this, “Old Tex,” one of the gang, collected a miners’ meeting, and at it, it was resolved to give the thieves their arms, Plummer and Tex claiming them as their property. The Sheriff had to go and get them, paying, at the same time, all expenses, including in the list even the board of the prisoners. For his services not a cent was ever paid to him. Popular institutions are of divine origin. Government by the people EN MASSE is the acme of absurdity.

Cleveland had three horses at the time of his death. One was at a Ranch at Bannack, and two were down on Big Hole. Crawford called two meetings, and was authorized to seize Cleveland’s property and sell it, in order to reimburse himself for his outlay, which was both considerable in amount and various in detail, and repay himself for his outlay and expenses of various kinds. He went to old Tex who said that Jack Cleveland had a partner, named Terwilliger, (another of the gang) who was absent, and that he had better leave them till he came back. One day Crawford wanted to go to Beaverhead, and wished to take one of the horses to ride. Tex said it would be wrong to do so. In a day or two after, Crawford saw the horse in town, and asking Tex if it was not the animal. He said “No, it was not;” but Crawford, doubting his statement, inquired of a man that he knew was perfectly well informed on the subject, and found that it was as he supposed, and that the ranchman had brought it in for Tex to ride during the journey he contemplated, with the intention of meeting Terwilliger. Crawford ordered the horse back, and desired that it should not be given to any one. The man took it as directed. When the men were banished, Plummer went to the Ranch, took the horse and rode it, when escorting the culprits out of town. He then brought it back. Crawford who had charge of the horse, asked Hunter if Tex had taken it. He said “no.”

The next evening, Crawford and some acquaintances went down to the bakery to take a drink, and there met Plummer, who accused him of ordering the horse to be kept from him, which he denied, and said he never mentioned his name. Hunter being called by Plummer confirmed the statement. He also observed, that he thought that as Plummer had killed the man, he need not wish to take his money and his goods also. Plummer then remarked that Bill Hunter did not stand to what he had said, and left the house. He had dared Crawford to remain and face Hunter’s testimony, expecting to raise a row and shoot him. Crawford accepted the challenge, and, surrounded by his friends, with their hands on their six shooters, awaited his coming. If he had moved his hand to his pistol, he would have died on the spot, and knowing this, he cooled off.

The next day he sent word to Crawford, by an old mountaineer, that he had been wrongly informed, and that he wished to meet him as a friend. He replied that he had been abused without cause, and that, if he wanted to see him, he must come himself, as he was not going to accept of such apologies by deputy. Plummer sent word two or three times, to Hank, in the same way, and received the same reply; till at last some of the boys brought them together, and they shook hands, Plummer declaring that he desired his friendship ever after.

In a few days, Hank happened to be in a saloon, talking to a man who had been fighting, when a suspicious looking individual came up to him, and asked what he was talking about. He replied that it was none of his business. The man retorted with a challenge to fight with pistols. Hank said, “You have no odds of me with a pistol.” The fellow offered to fight with fists. Hank agreed, and seeing that the man had no belt on, took off his own, and laid his pistol in, on the bar. The man stepped back into a dark corner, and Crawford going up, slapped him across the face. He instantly leveled a six shooter at Crawford, which he had concealed; but Hank was too quick, and catching him by the throat and hand, disarmed him. Plummer joined the man, and together, they wrested the pistol from his hand, and made a rush at him. Hank and Harry Flegger, however, kept the pistol in spite of them. Harry fetched his friend out, saying, “Come on Hank; this is no place for you; they are set on murdering you, any way.” He then escorted him home. The owner of the saloon told Crawford, afterwards, that it was all a plot. That the scheme was to entice him out to fight with pistols, and that the gang of Plummer’s friends were ready with double-barrelled shot-guns, to kill him, as soon as he appeared.

Everything went on quietly for a few days, when Hank found he should have to start for Deer Lodge, after cattle. Plummer told him that he was going to Benton. Hank asked him to wait a day or two, and he would go with him; but Plummer started on Monday morning, with George Carrhart, before Hank’s horses came in. When the animals were brought in, Hank found that private business would detain him, and accordingly sent his butcher in his place. The next day Plummer, finding that he was not going, stopped at Big Hole, and came back. Hank afterwards learned that Plummer went out to catch him on the road, three different times, but, fortunately, missed him.

During the week, Bill Hunter came to Hank, and pretended that he had said something against him. To this Hank replied, that he knew what he was after, and added, “If you want anything, you can get it right straight along.” Not being able “to get the drop on him,” (in mountain phrase) and finding that he could not intimidate him, he turned and went off, never afterwards speaking to Hank.

On the following Sunday, Plummer came into a saloon where Hank was conversing with George Purkins, and, addressing the latter, said, “George, there’s a little matter between you and Hank that’s got to be settled.” Hank said, “Well, I don’t know what it can be,” and laughed. Plummer observed, “You needn’t laugh, G—d d——n you. It’s got to be settled.” Turning to Purkins, he stated that he and Crawford had said he was after a squaw, and had tried to court “Catharine.” He commenced to abuse Purkins and telling him to “come out,” and that he was “a cowardly son of a b——h.” He also declared that he could “lick” both him and Hank Crawford. George said that he was a coward, and no fighting man, and that he would not go out of doors with any body. Plummer gave the same challenge to Hank, and received for a reply, that he was not afraid to go out with any man, and that he did not believe one man was made to scare another. Plummer said, “come on,” and started ahead of Hank towards the street. Hank walked quite close up to him, on his guard all the time, and Plummer at once said, “Now pull your pistol.” Hank refused, saying, “I’ll pull no pistol; I never pulled a pistol on a man, and you’ll not be the first.” He then offered to fight him in any other way. “I’m no pistol shot,” he added, “and you would not do it if you hadn’t the advantage.” Plummer said, “If you don’t pull your pistol, I’ll shoot you like a sheep.” Hank quietly laid his hand on his shoulder, and, fixing his eyes on him, said slowly and firmly, “If that’s what you want, the quicker you do it, the better for you,” and turning round, walked off. Plummer dared not shoot without first raising a fuss, knowing that he would be hung. During the altercation above narrated, Hank had kept close to Plummer ready for a struggle, in case he offered to draw his pistol, well knowing that his man was the best and quickest shot in the mountains; and that if he had accepted his challenge, long before he could have handled his own revolver, three or four balls would have passed through his body. The two men understood one another, at parting. They looked into each other’s eyes. They were mountaineers, and each man read, in his opponent’s face, “Kill me, or I’ll kill you.” Plummer believed that Hank had his secret, and one or the other must therefore die.

Hank went, at once, to his boarding house, and taking his double-barrelled shot gun, prepared to go out, intending to find and kill Plummer at sight. He was perfectly aware that all attempts at pacification would be understood as indications of cowardice, and would render his death a mere question of the goodness of Plummer’s ammunition. Friends, however, interfered, and Hank could not get away till after they left, late in the evening.

By the way, is it not rather remarkable, that if a man has a few friends round him, and he happens to become involved in a fight, the aforesaid sympathizers, instead of restraining his antagonist, generally hold HIM, and wrestle all the strength out of him, frequently enabling his opponent to strike him while in the grasp of his officious backers? A change of the usual programme would be attended with beneficial results, in nine cases out of ten. Another suggestion we have to make, with a view to preventing actual hostilities, and that is, that when a man raves and tears, shouting, “let go,” “let me at him,” “hold my shirt while I pull off my coat,” or makes other bellicose requests, an instant compliance with his demands will at once prevent a fight. If two men, also, are abusing one another, in loud and foul language, the way to prevent blows is to seize hold of them and commencing to strip them for a fight, form a ring. This is commonly a settler. No amount of coin could coax a battle out of them. Such is our experience of all the loud mouthed brigade. Men that mean “fight” may hiss a few muttered anathemas, through clenched teeth; but they seldom talk much, and never bandy slang.

Hank started and hunted industriously for Plummer, who was himself similarly employed, but they did not happen to meet.

The next morning, Hank’s friends endeavored to prevail upon him to stay within doors until noon; but it was of no avail. He knew what was before him, and that it must be settled, one way or the other. Report came to him, that Plummer was about to leave town, which at once put him on his guard. The attempt to ensnare him into a fatal carelessness was too evident.

Taking his gun, he went up town, to the house of a friend—Buz Caven. He borrowed Buz’s rifle, without remark, and stood prepared for emergencies. After waiting some time, he went down to the butcher’s shop which he kept, and saw Plummer frequently; but he always had somebody close beside him, so that, without endangering another man’s life, Hank could not fire.

He finally went out of sight, and sent a man to compromise, saying they would agree to meet as strangers. He would never speak to Crawford, and Crawford should never address him. Hank was too wary to fall into the trap. He sent word back to Plummer that he had broken his word once, and that his pledge of honor was no more than the wind, to him; that one or the other had to suffer or leave.

A friend came to tell Hank that they were making arrangements to shoot him in his own door, out of a house on the other side of the street. Hank kept out of the door, and about noon, a lady, keeping a restaurant, called to him to come and get a dish of coffee. He went over without a gun. While he was drinking the coffee, Plummer, armed with a double-barrelled gun, walked opposite to his shop door, watching for a shot. A friend, Frank Ray, brought Hank a rifle. He instantly leveled at Plummer, and fired. The ball broke his arm. His friends gathered round him, and he said, “some son of a b——h has shot me.” He was then carried off. He sent Hank a challenge to meet him in fifteen days; but he paid no attention to a broken armed man’s challenge, fifteen days ahead. In two days after, while Hank was in Meninghall’s store, George Carrhart came in. Hank saw there was mischief in his look, and went up to him at once, saying, “Now, George, I know what you want. You had better go slow.” Stickney got close to him on the other side, and repeated the caution. After a while he avowed that he came to kill him; but, on hearing his story, he pulled open his coat, showing his pistol ready in the band of his pants, and declared at the same time that he would be his friend. Another party organized to come down and shoot Crawford, but failed to carry out their intention. Some of the citizens, hearing of this, offered to shoot or hang Plummer, if Crawford would go with them; but he refused, and said he would take care of himself. On the 13th of March, he started for Wisconsin, riding on horseback to Fort Benton. He was followed by three men, but they never came up with him, and taking boat at the river, he arrived safely at home. It was his intention to come out in the Fall, and his brothers sent him money for that purpose; but the coach was robbed, and all the letters taken. The money, unfortunately, shared the fate of the mail. Crawford was lately living at Virginia City—having returned shortly after his marriage in the States.

The account of the troubles of one man, which we have given above, has been inserted with the object of showing the state of society which could permit such openly planned and persistent outrages, and which necessitated such a method of defense. Crawford, or any of the others, might as well have applied to the Emperor of China, for redress or protection, as to any civil official.

The ball which struck Plummer in the arm ran down his bone, and lodged in the wrist. After his execution, it was found brightened by the constant friction of the joint. His pistol hand being injured for belligerent purposes, though the limb was saved by the skill of the attendant physician—Plummer practiced assiduously at drawing and shooting with his left; attaining considerable proficiency; but he never equalled the deadly activity and precision he had acquired with the other hand, which he still preferred to use.

CHAPTER VIII.
A CALENDAR OF CRIMES.

The murderer’s curse, the dead man’s fixed still glare,
And fears and death’s cold sweat, they all are there.

Others connected with the mock trial which we have described, fared badly, being waylaid and cruelly beaten. Mr. Ellis, the principal witness was dogged every time he went to, or returning from his claim, and finally was compelled to return to the States. He was followed to Fort Benton, a distance of three hundred miles, escaping death at the hands of his pursuers by slipping away secretly down the river, and hiding till the steamer came past, when springing joyfully from his place of concealment, and hailing her, he was taken on board.

N. P. Langford was an especial object of hatred to them. They had counted on his favoring them, at the trial, because he voted for a jury; but when they found that his ballot was cast for the death penalty, they vowed vengeance against him, and a gentleman, his particular friend. The latter could never go to his claim without a loaded gun and a revolver. Once, the roughs had the plot all completed for the assassination of Mr. Langford; but accident revealed their preparations and intentions, and, through the timely warning of a friend, the conspiracy failed. The combination of the comrades of the two gentlemen, which embraced the order loving of the community, was too strong to be openly defied by the roughs. The danger of sudden surprise and assassination was, however, continued.

One day, as Langford’s friends were sauntering down Main street, he saw Plummer approaching. He immediately drew a small bowie knife from his belt, and began to whittle a billet of wood, which he picked up for the purpose. Soon he came face to face with Plummer, who, looking with suspicious intelligence at the weapon, asked: “Why do you begin to whittle when you meet me?” The citizen regarding him with a stern and determined look, promptly answered: “Mr. Plummer, you know what opinion I hold concerning you and your friends, and I don’t never intend to let you get the advantage of me. I don’t want to be shot down like a dog.”

Finding that Mitchell had not gone away from town, a great many citizens thought it would be the height of injustice to keep Moore and Reeves away at Hell Gate, where the snow prevented the passage of the mountains, and, on Sunday, a miners’ meeting was called, at which their sentence was remitted, by vote, and they accordingly came back.

An attempt had also been made, before this to rob the store of Messrs. Higgins & Worden, of Deer Lodge; but the proprietors got word in time to hide the safe.

The Walla Walla Express was robbed by the band of Road Agents. Plummer directed this affair, and it is thought Long John had some share in it. The men actually engaged in it are not known.

A Mr. Davenport and his wife were going to Benton, from Bannack, intending to proceed by steamboat to the States. While taking a lunch at Rattlesnake, a man masked in black suddenly came out of the willows, near which they were camped, and demanded their money. Davenport said he had none; the fellow laughed, and replied that his wife had, and named the amount. A slight application of a Colt’s corkscrew, which was pointed at Davenport’s head, brought forth his money, and he was ordered, on pain of death, not to go back to Bannack at once; but to leave his wife somewhere ahead. This Davenport promised, and performed, after which he returned, and obtained some money from the citizens to assist him in his necessity. His wife proceeded to the States, where she arrived in safety. Davenport never knew who robbed him.

The house of a Frenchman, named Le Grau, who kept a bakery and blacksmith shop at the back of Main street, Bannack, was broken into, and everything that could be found was stolen, after which the robbers threw the curtains into a heap and tried to burn down the house, but they failed in this. The greater part of the owner’s money was, fortunately, hidden, and that they missed.

We have before spoken of Geo. Carrhart. He was a remarkably handsome man, well educated, and it has been asserted that he was a member of one of the Western Legislatures. His manners were those of a gentleman, when he was sober; but an unfortunate love of whiskey had destroyed him. On one or two occasions, when inebriated, he had ridden up and down the street, with a shot-gun in his hand, threatening everybody. He was extremely generous to a friend, and would make him a present of a horse, an interest in a Ranch, or indeed, of anything that he thought he needed. His fondness for intoxicating liquors threw him into bad company, and caused his death.

One day, while sleeping in Skinner’s saloon, a young man of acknowledged courage, named Dick Sap, was playing “poker” with George Banefield, a gambler, whose love of money was considerably in excess of his veneration for the eighth commandment. For the purpose of making a “flush,” this worthy stole a card. Sap at once accused him of cheating, on which he jumped up, drew his revolver, and leveled at Sap, who was unarmed. A friend supplied the necessary weapon, and quick as thought, Sap and Banefield exchanged all their shots, though, strange to say, without effect, so far as they were personally concerned.

The quarrel was arranged after some little time, and then it was found that Buz Caven’s dog, “Toodles,” which was under the table, had been struck by three balls, and lay there dead. A groan from Carrhart attracted attention, and his friends looking at him, discovered that he had been shot through the bowels, accidentally, by Banefield. Instantly Moore called to Reeves and Forbes, who were present, “Boys, they have shot Carrhart; let’s kill them,” and raising his pistol, he let fly twice at Sap’s head. Sap threw up his hands, having no weapon, and the balls came so close that they cut one little finger badly, and just grazed the other hand. The road agents fired promiscuously into the retreating crowd, one ball wounding a young man, Goliath Reilly, passing through his heel. Banefield was shot below the knee, and felt his leg numbed and useless. He, however, dragged himself away to a place of security, and was attended by a skillful physician; but, refusing to submit to amputation, he died of mortification.

In proof of the insecurity of life and property in places where such desperadoes as Plummer, Stinson, Ray and Skinner make their headquarters, the following incident may be cited:

Late in the Spring of ’63, Winnemuck, a warrior chief of the Bannacks, had come in with his band, and had camped in the brush, about three-fourth of a mile above the town. Skinner and the roughs called a meeting, and organized a band for the purpose of attacking and murdering the whole tribe. The leaders, however, got so drunk that the citizens became ashamed, and drooped off by degrees, till they were so few that the enterprise was abandoned. A half-breed had in the meantime, warned Winnemuck, and the wily old warrior lost no time in preparing for the reception of the party. He sent his squaws and pappooses to the rear, and posted his warriors, to the number of three or four hundred, on the right side of a canyon, in such a position that he could have slaughtered the whole command at his ease. This he fully intended to do, if attacked, and also to have sacked the town and killed every white in it. This would have been an achievement requiring no extraordinary effort, and had not the drunkenness of the outlaws defeated their murderous purpose, would undoubtedly have been accomplished. In fact, the men whom the Vigilantes afterwards executed, were ripe for any villainy, being Godless, fearless, worthless, and a terror to the community.

In June of the same year, the report came in that Joe Carrigan, William Mitchell, Joe Brown, Smith, Indian Dick, and four others had been killed by the Indians, whom they had pursued to recover stolen stock, and that overtaking them, they had dismounted and fired into their tepees. The Indians attacked them when their pieces were emptied, killed the whole nine, and took their stock.

Old Snag, a friendly chief, came into Bannack with his band, immediately after this report. One of the tribe—a brother-in-law of Johnny Grant, of Deer Lodge—was fired at by Haze Lyons, to empty his revolver, for luck, on general principles, or for his pony—it is uncertain which. A number of citizens, thinking it was an Indian fight, ran out, and joined in the shooting. The savage jumped from his horse, and, throwing down his blanket, ran for his life, shouting “Good Indian.” A shot wounded him in the hip. (His horse’s leg was broken.) But, though badly hurt, he climbed up the mountain and got away, still shouting as he ran, “Good Indian,” meaning that he was friendly to the whites. Carroll, a citizen of Bannack, had a little Indian girl living with him, and Snag had called in to see her. Carroll witnessed the shooting we have described, and running in, he informed Snag, bidding him and his son ride off for their lives. The son ran out and jumped on his horse. Old Snag stood in front of the door, on the edge of the ditch, leaning upon his gun, which was in a sole leather case. He had his lariet in his hand, and was talking to his daughter, Jemmy Spence’s squaw, named Catherine. Buck Stinson, without saying a word, walking to within four feet of him, and drawing his revolver, shot him in the side. The Indian raised his right hand and said, “Oh! don’t.” The answer was a ball in the neck, accompanied by the remark, enveloped in oaths, “I’ll teach you to kill whites,” and then again he shot him through the head. He was dead when the first citizen attracted by the firing, ran up. Carroll, who was standing at the door, called out, “Oh don’t shoot into the house; you’ll kill my folks.” Stinson turned quickly upon him and roared out, with a volley of curses, topped off with the customary expletive form of address adopted by the roughs, “Put in your head, or I’ll shoot the top of it off.” Cyrus Skinner came up and scalped the Indian. The band scattered in flight. One who was behind, being wounded, plunged into the creek, seeking to escape, but was killed as he crawled up the bank, and fell among the willows. He was also scalped. The remainder of them got away, and the chief’s son, checking his horse at a distance, waved to the men who had killed his father to come on for a fight, but the bullets beginning to cut the ground about him, he turned his horse and fled.

While the firing was going on, two ladies were preparing for a grand ball supper in a house adjoining the scene of the murder of Snag. The husband of one of them being absent, cutting house logs among the timber, his wife, alarmed for his safety, ran out with her arms and fingers extended with soft paste. She jumped the ditch at a bound, her hair streaming in the wind, and shouted aloud, “Where’s Mr. ——? Will nobody fetch me my husband?” We are happy to relate that the object of her tender solicitude turned up uninjured, and if he was not grateful for this display of affection, we submit to the ladies, without any fear of contradiction, that he must be a monster.

The scalp of old Snag, the butchered chief, now hangs in a Banking House, in Salt Lake City.

We have recorded a few, among many, of the crimes and outrages that were daily committed in Bannack. The account is purposely literal and exact. It is not pleasant to write of blasphemous and indecent language, or to record foul and horrible crimes; but as the anatomist must not shrink from the corpse, which taints the air, as he investigates the symptoms and examines the results of disease, so, the historian must either tell the truth for the instruction of mankind, or sink to the level of a mercenary pander, who writes, not to inform the people, but to enrich himself.

CHAPTER IX.
PERILS OF THE ROAD.

“I’ll read you matter deep and dangerous,
As full of peril and adventurous spirit,
As to o’erwalk a current, roaring loud,
On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.”—Shak.

On the 14th day of November, 1863, Sam. T. Hauser, and N. P. Langford started for the States, in company with seven or eight freighters. Owing to some delay in their preparations, they were not ready to start at the hour proposed (twelve o’clock P. M.) and after considerable urging, they prevailed upon one of the freighters to delay his departure till five o’clock P. M. representing to him that by driving during part of the night, they would be enabled to overtake the rest of the train at Horse Prairie, where they were to camp for the night. These arrangements were all made at the store of George Chrisman, where Plummer had his office, and consequently their plans for departure were all known to this arch-villain.

During that afternoon, it was reported in Bannack that a silver lode had been discovered, and Plummer, whose residence in Nevada had given him some reputation as a judge of silver ores, was requested to go out and examine it. Plummer had, on several occasions, been sent for to go out and make minute examinations, and it had never been surmised that his errands on these occasions were different from what they purported to be. This notice to Plummer that a “silver lode” had been discovered, was the signal that the occasion demanded the presence of the chief of the gang, who was needed to head some marauding expedition that required a skillful leader, and promised a rich booty as the reward of success. Plummer always obeyed it, and in this instance, left Bannack a little while after noon, taking a northerly direction, towards Rattlesnake; but, after getting out of town, he changed his course and went south, towards Horse Prairie.

Before leaving Bannack, he presented Mr. Hauser with a woolen scarf, telling him that he would “find it useful on the journey these cold nights.”

The two gentlemen did not complete their arrangements for starting till half past seven in the evening; and, as they were about leaving Hauser’s cabin, a splash, caused by the fall of some heavy body in the water, and calls for assistance were heard from the brow of the hill, south of Bannack. Upon going to the spot, it was found that Henry Tilden, in attempting to cross the Bannack Ditch, had missed the bridge, and his horse had fallen upon him in the water. On being relieved from his dangerous situation, he went to the house of Judge (now Governor) Edgerton, and reported that he had been robbed by three men—one of whom was Plummer—between Horse Prairie and Bannack. After he had detailed the circumstances, the greatest anxiety was felt for the safety of Messrs. Langford and Hauser, who, it was generally supposed had started at five o’clock on the same road.

The unconscious wayfarers, however, knew nothing of the matter, but they were, nevertheless, on the alert all the time. Hauser had that morning communicated to his friend Langford, his suspicion that they were being watched, and would be followed by the road agents, with the intention of plundering them, and while Langford was loading his gun with twelve revolver balls in each barrel, George Dart asked him why he was “filling the gun-barrel so full of lead;” to which Langford replied, that if they had any trouble with the road agents, it would be on that night. So well satisfied were they that an attack upon them, was contemplated, that they carried their guns in their hands, ready cocked, throughout the whole journey to Horse Prairie, a distance of twelve miles, but they saw nothing of the ruffians who robbed young Tilden.

It is supposed that Plummer and his gang had concluded that the non-appearance of the party was owing to the knowledge of what had happened in the afternoon, and that they were not coming out at all, that night. This is the more probable, from the fact that Tilden arrived home in time to have communicated the story of his robbery to them before they started, and the freighter with whom they took passage had told them that morning, in the presence of Plummer, that he would leave them behind if they were not ready to start by five o’clock P. M. It is not to be thought that Plummer would have risked a chance of missing them, by robbing Tilden of so small an amount as $10, unless he had felt sure that they would start at the time proposed. It is also likely that, as his intended victims did not make their appearance, he feared that the citizens of Bannack might turn out in search of the Road Agents who had attacked Tilden, and that it would be prudent to return home by a circuitous route, which he did. One thing is certain. When they missed them, Plummer went, in hot haste, to Langford’s boarding house, to inquire whether he was gone, and on receiving an answer in the affirmative, rode off at once in pursuit.

In the wagon with Langford and Hauser, was a third passenger—a stranger to the rest of the party—who had sent forward his blankets by one of the vehicles which left at noon, and on his arrival at camp, he found them appropriated by some of the party, who had given up all ideas of seeing the others before morning, and had laid down for the night.

Rather than disturb the sleepers, Langford directed his fellow traveller, who was in delicate health, to occupy the wagon with Hauser, while he himself took a buffalo robe and made a bedstead of mother earth.

The night was a cold one, and becoming chilled through Langford arose and at first walked briskly up and down by the camp, in order to warm himself. After awhile, he turned his steps towards the creek, which was about one hundred and fifty yards distant, but with the instinctive caution engendered by a residence in the mountains, he armed himself with his trusty “double-barrel,” and then, with his thoughts wandering to other scenes and other days, he slowly sauntered by the rippling waters.

His musings were brought to a sudden close by the murmur of voices, born on the breeze, accompanied by the well known tramp of horses at speed. The banks of the rivulet were lined with willows, and lay in deep shadow, except where an opening in the thicket disclosed the prairie that lay beyond, sleeping peacefully in the moonlight. Drawing aside the bushes he saw three mounted men in the act of passing one of these avenues, at the gallop. Roused to a sense of danger, he cocked his gun and followed them down stream, to a place where an interval between the thickets that lined both sides of the creek gave him a good sight of the night rangers, and stood in full view, his piece lying in the hollow of his hand, ready for instant service.

As soon as he emerged from the shelter of the willows, and the horsemen became aware of his presence, they stopped for a few moments, and then bore away down the valley, determined to see the end of the matter, and having the brush for cover, while his friends were still within hail, if needed, the watcher pushed on for about two hundred yards and wading to the other bank, he had no sooner reached the top, than he saw four men at that moment mounting their horses. No sooner did they observe him than they drove their spurs into their horses’ flanks, and started on a run for Bannack. These men were Plummer, Buck Stinson, Ned Ray and George Ives, who, on their return to the town by another road, after the robbery of Tilden, having found, as before related, that Langford and Hauser had really gone—followed at once upon their track.

But for the providential circumstances connected with the chance appropriation of the blankets, and the consequent sleeping of Langford on the ground, together with his accidental appearance with his gun in his hand, as if on guard—the whole party would have been murdered, as it was known to their pursuers that they had a considerable amount of treasure with them.

The scarf which Plummer presented to Hauser was given for the purpose of enabling the cunning robber to identify his man by night.

It is a somewhat singular coincidence that Plummer was hung on the next birth day of Hauser, (the 10th of January, 1864.)

The party proceeded on their journey without interruption, and on their arrival at Salt Lake City, they were besieged by their acquaintances with inquiries concerning several parties who were known to have preceded them on the road thither by about a week; but the unfortunate objects of their solicitude never reached their destination, or were afterwards heard of. They sleep in bloody graves; but where, how, and when they met their death, at the hands of the Road Agents, will probably never be known. The fate that could not be avoided was, nevertheless avenged.

CHAPTER X.
THE REPULSE.

“Though few the numbers—theirs the strife,
That neither spares nor speaks for life.”—Byron.

In the present and succeeding chapters, will be found accounts of actual experiences with Road Agents, in the practice of their profession. The exact chronological order of the narrative has, in these cases, been broken in upon, that the reader may have a correct notion of what an attack by Road Agents usually was. We shall show at a future time what it too often became when bloodshed was added to rapine. As the facts related are isolated, the story is not injured by the slight anachronism.

About three weeks after the occurrences recorded in the last chapter, M. S. Moody, (Milt Moody) with three wagons started, in company with a train of packers, for Salt Lake City. Among the later were John McCormick, Billy Sloan, J. S. Rockfellow, J. M. Bozeman, Henry Branson and M. V. Jones.

In the entire caravan there was probably from $75,000 to $80,000 in gold, and it must not be supposed that such a splendid prize could escape the lynx-eyed vigilance of the Road Agents.

Plummer engaged Dutch John and Steve Marshland for the job, and his selection was not a bad one, so far as Dutch John was concerned, for a more courageous, stalwart or reckless desperado never threw spurs on the flanks of a cayuse, or cried “Halt!” to a true man. Steve Marshland was a bold fellow when once in action; but he preferred what mountaineers call a “soft thing,” to an open onslaught. This unprofessional weakness not only saved the lives of several whom we are proud to call friends, but ensured his own and his friends capture and death, at the hands of the Vigilantes.

In Black Tail Deer Canyon, the party were seated at breakfast, close to a sharp turn in the road, when they heard two men conversing, close at hand, but hidden by the brush. Says the “First Robber,” “You take my revolver and I’ll take yours, and you come on right after me.” Every man found his gun between his knees in less than no time, and not a few discovered that their revolvers were cocked. Pulsation became more active, and heads were “dressed” towards the corner. In a few moments, Dutch John and Steve Marshland rode round the bend, with their shot-guns ready. On seeing the party prepared to receive them, they looked confused, and reined up. Steve Marshland recognized Billy Sloan, and called out, “How do you do, Mr. Sloan?” to which Billy replied, “Very well, THANK YOU.” The last two words have been a trouble to Sloan ever since, being too figurative for his conscience. By way of excuse for their presence, the Road Agents asked if the party had seen any horses, and whether they had any loose stock, saying that they had been informed by some half-breeds that the animals which they claimed to be lost had been with their train. A decided negative being vouchsafed, they rode on.

The Robbers did not expect to come upon them so soon, and were not masked. But for this fact, and the sight of the weapons on hand for use, if required, the train would have been relieved of the responsibility attaching to freighting treasure in those days, without any delay.

Little did the party imagine that the safety of their property and their lives hung upon a thread, and that, the evening before, the “prudence” of Steve Marshland had saved six or eight of the party from unexpected death. Yet so it was. Wagner and Marshland had followed their trail, and hitching their steeds to the bush, with their double-barrelled guns loaded with buckshot, and at full cock, they crawled up to within fifteen feet of the camp, and leisurely surveyed them by the light of the fire. The travellers lay around in perfect ignorance of the proximity of the Road Agents; their guns were everywhere but where they ought to be, and without a sentry to warn them of the approach of danger, they carelessly exposed themselves to death, and their property to seizure.

Wagner’s proposal was that he and Marshland should select their men, and kill four with their shot-guns; that then they should move quickly around, and keep up a rapid fire with their revolvers, shouting loudly at the same time, to make them believe that they were attacked by a large concealed force. There was no fear of their shooting away all their charges, as the arms of the men who would inevitably fall would be at their disposal, and the chances were a hundred to one that the remainder would take to flight, and leave their treasure—for a considerable time, at all events—within reach of the robbers. Steve, however, “backed down,” and the attack was deferred till the next day.

It was the custom of the packers to ride ahead of the train towards evening, in order to select a camping place, and it was while the packers were thus separated from the train that the attack on the wagons took place.

On top of the Divide, between Red Rock and Junction, the robbers rode up to the wagons, called on them to halt, and gathering the drivers together, Dutch John sat on his horse, covering them with his shot-gun, while Steve dismounted and searched both them and their wagons.

Moody had slipped a revolver into his boot, which was not detected; $100 in greenbacks, which were in his shirt pocket, were also unnoticed. The material wealth of Kit Erskine and his comrade driver, appeared to be represented by half a plug of tobacco, for the preservation of which Kit pleaded; but Steve said it was “Just what he wanted,” and appropriated it forthwith.

After attending to the men, Steve went for the wagons, which he searched, cutting open the carpet sacks, and found $1,500 in treasury notes; but he missed the gold, which was packed on the horses, in cantinas. In the hind wagon was a sick man, named Kennedy, with his comrade, Lank Forbes; but the nerves of the first mentioned gentleman was so unstrung that he could not pull trigger, when Steve climbed up and drew the curtain. Not so with Forbes. He let drive and wounded Steve in the breast. With an oath and a yell, Steve fell to his knees, but recovered, and jumping down from the wagon again fell, but rose and made, afoot, for the tall timber, at an amazing speed. The noise of the shot frightened Dutch John’s horse, which reared as John discharged both barrels at the teamsters, and the lead whizzed past, just over their heads, Moody dropped his hand to his boot, and seizing the revolver, opened fire on Dutch John, who endeavored to increase the distance between him and the wagons, to the best of his horse’s ability.

Three balls were sent after him, one of which took effect in his shoulder. Had Moody jumped on Marshland’s horse and pursued him, he could have killed him easily, as the shot gun was at his saddle bow. These reflections, and suggestions, however, occur more readily to a man sitting in an easy chair, than to the majority of the unfortunate individuals who happen to be attacked by masked highwaymen.

John’s wound and Marshland’s were proof conclusive of their guilt, when they were arrested. John made for Bannack and was nursed there. Steve Marshland was taken care of at Deer Lodge.

The packers wondered what had become of the wagons, and, though their anxiety was relieved, yet their astonishment was increased, when, about 8 o’clock P. M. Moody rode up and informed them that his train had been attacked by Road Agents, who had been repulsed and wounded.

Steve’s horse, arms and equipage, together with twenty pounds of tea, found lying on the road, which had been stolen from a Mormon train, previously, were, as an acquaintance of ours expresses it, “confiscated.”

J. S. Rockfellow and two others rode back, and striking the trail of Steve, followed it till eleven P. M. When afterwards arrested, this scoundrel admitted that they were within fifteen feet of him at one time.

On the ground, they found scattered along the trail of the fugitive robber, all the stolen packages, and envelopes, containing Treasury notes; so that he made nothing by his venture, except frozen feet; and he lost his horse, arms and traps. J. X. Beidler met Dutch John, and bandaged up his frozen hands, little knowing who his frigid acquaintance was. He never tells this story without observing, “That’s just my darned luck;” at the same time polishing the butt of his “Navy” with one hand, and scratching his head with the other, his gray eye twinkling like a star before rain, with mingled humor and intelligence.

Lank Forbes claimed the horse and accoutrements of Steve as the lawful spoil of his revolver, and the reward of his courage. A demurrer was taken to this by Milt Moody, who had done the agreeable to Dutch John, and the drivers put in a mild remonstrance on their own behalf, on the naval principle that all ships in sight share in the prize captured. They claimed that their “schooners,” were entitled to be represented by the “steersmen.” The subject afforded infinite merriment to the party at every camp. At last a Judge was elected, a jury was empannelled, and the attorneys harangued the judicial packers. The verdict was that Lank should remain seized and possessed of the property taken from the enemy, upon payment of $20 to each of the teamsters, and $30 to Milt, and thereupon the court adjourned. The travellers reached Salt Lake City in safety.

CHAPTER XI.
THE ROBBERY OF PEABODY & CALDWELL’S COACH.

“On thy dial write, ‘Beware of thieves.’”—O. W. Holmes.

Late in the month of October, 1863, the sickness of one of the drivers making it necessary to procure a substitute, William Rumsey was engaged to take the coach to Bannack. In the stage, as passengers, were Messrs. Mattison, Percival and Wilkinson. After crossing the hills in the neighborhood of Virginia City, it began to snow furiously, and the storm continued without abatement, till they arrived within two miles of John Baker’s Ranch, on Stinkingwater, a stream which owes its euphonious appellation to the fact that the mountaineers who named it found on its banks the putrifying corpses of Indians, suspended horizontally according to their usual custom, from a frame work of poles.

The corral at the station was found to be empty, and men were despatched to hunt up the stock. The herdsmen came back at last with only a portion of Peabody & Caldwell’s horses, the remainder belonging to A. J. Oliver & Co. This detained them two hours, and finding that they could do no better, they hitched up the leaders, that had come in with the coach, and putting on two of Oliver’s stock for wheelers, they drove through to Bob Dempsey’s on a run, in order to make up for lost time.

At this place they took on board another passenger, Dan McFadden, more familiarly known as “Bummer Dan.” The speed was maintained all the way to Point of Rocks, then called Copeland’s Ranch. There they again changed horses, and being still behind time, they went at the gallop to Bill Bunton’s Ranch, on Rattlesnake, at which place they arrived about sunset.

Here they discovered that the stock had been turned loose an hour before their arrival, the people stating that they did not expect the coach after its usual time was so long passed. Rumsey ordered them to send a man to gather up the team, which was done, and, at dark, the fellow came back, saying that he could not find them anywhere. The consequence was that they were obliged to lie over for the night. This was no great affliction; so they spent the time drinking whiskey, in mountain style—Bill Bunton doing the honors and sharing the grog. They had sense enough not to get drunk, being impressed with a reasonable conviction of the probability of the violation of the rights of property, if such should be the case. The driver had lost a pair of gauntlet gloves at the same place, before. At daylight, all arose, and two herders went out for the stock. One of them came back about 8 o’clock, and said that the stock was gone. A little before nine o’clock, the other herder came in with the stock that had hauled the coach over the last route.

The only way they could manage was to put on a span of the coach horses, with two old “plugs” for the wheel. The whole affair was a plan to delay the coach, as the horses brought in were worn down stock, turned out to recruit, and not fit to put in harness. During the previous evening, Bob Zachary, who seemed a great friend of Wilkinson’s, told them that he had to go on horseback to Bannack, and to take a spare horse with him, which he wanted him to ride. The offer was not accepted at that time, but in the morning Bob told him that he must go, for he could not bring the horse alone by himself. The miserable team being brought out and harnessed up, Oliver’s regular coach, and an extra one came in sight, just at the creek crossing. Soon Rumsey shouted, “all aboard,” the other stages came up, and all the passengers of the three vehicles turned in, on the mutual consolation principle, for a drink. Rumsey who sat still on the box, called, “All aboard for Bannack,” and all took their seats but Wilkinson, who said he had concluded to go with Bob Zachary. Bill Bunton came out with the bottle and the glass, and gave Rumsey a drink, saying that he had not been in with the rest, telling him at the same time that he was going to Bannack himself, and that he wanted them to wait till he had got through with the rest of the passengers, for that then he would go with them. While Bunton was in the house, Rumsey had been professionally swinging the whip, and found his arm so lame from the exercise of the day before, that he could not use it. He thereupon asked the boys if any of them were good at whipping? but they all said “No.” It was blustering, cold and cloudy—blowing hard; they let down the curtains. Finally, Bunton appeared and Rumsey said, “Billy, are you good at whipping?” To which he answered, “Yes,” and getting up, whipped away, while Rumsey drove. A good deal of this kind of work was to be done, and Bunton said he was “a d——d good whipper.” They crossed the creek and went on the table land at a run. The horses, however, soon began to weaken, Bunton whipping heavily, his object being to tire the stock. Rumsey told him to “ease up on them,” or they would not carry them through. Bunton replied that the wheelers were a pair that had “played out” on the road, and had been turned out to rest. He added that if they were put beyond a walk they would fail. They went on, at a slow trot, to the gulch, and there fell into a walk, when Bunton gave up the whip, saying that Rumsey could do the little whipping, necessary, and got inside. He sat down on a box beside Bummer Dan. Percival and Madison were on the fore seat, with their backs to the driver.

The stage moved on for about four minutes after this, when the coachman saw two men wrapped in blankets, with a hood over their heads, and a shot-gun apiece. The moment he saw them, it flashed through his mind, “like gunpowder,” (as he afterwards said,) that they were Road Agents, and he shouted at the top of his voice, “Look! look! boys! See what’s a coming! Get out your arms!” Each man looked out of the nearest hole, but Matteson, from his position was the only man that had a view of them. They were on full run for the coach, coming out of a dry gulch, ahead, and to the left of the road, which ran into the main canyon. He instantly pulled open his coat, threw off his gloves, and laid his hand on his pistol, just as they came up to the leaders, and sang out, “Up wid your hands,” in a feigned voice and dialect. Rumsey pulled up the horses; and they again shouted, “Up with your hands, you ——” (See formula.) At that, Bill Bunton cried, imploringly, “Oh! for God’s sake, men don’t kill one.” (He was stool-pitching a little, to teach the rest of the passengers what to do.) “For God’s sake don’t kill me. You can have all the money I’ve got.” Matteson was just going for his pistol, when the Road Agents again shouted, “Up wid you’r hands,” etc., “and keep them up.” Bunton went at his prayers again, piteously exclaiming, “Oh! for God’s sake, men, don’t kill me. I’ll come right to you. You can search me; I’ve got no arms.” At the same time he commenced getting out on the same side of the coach as they were.

The Road Agents then roared out, “Get down, every —— of you, and hold up your hands, or we’ll shoot the first of you that puts them down.” The passengers all got down in quick time. The robbers then turned to Rumsey, and said, “Get down, you ——” (as usual) “and take off the passengers’ arms.” This did not suit his fancy, so he replied, “You must be d——d fools to think I’m going to get down and let this team run away. You don’t want the team; it won’t do you any good.” “Get down, you ——,” said the spokesman, angrily. “There’s a man that has shown you he has no arms; let him take them,” suggested Billy. (Bunton had turned up the skirts of his coat to prove that he had no weapons on.) Bunton, who knew his business, called out, “I’ll hold the horses! I’ll hold the horses!” The Road Agent who did the talking, turned to him, saying, “Get up, you long-legged ——, and hold them.” Bunton at once went to the leaders, behind the two Road Agents, and they wheeling round to Billy Rumsey, ordered him down from the box. He tied the lines round the handle of the brake and got down, receiving the following polite reminder of his duty, “Now, you ——, take them arms off.”

“Needs must, when the Devil drives,” says the proverb, so off went Billy to Bummer Dan, who had on two “Navies,” one on each side. Rumsey took them, and walked off diagonally, thinking that he might get a shot at them; but they were too knowing, and at once ordered him to throw them on the ground. He laid them down, and going back to Matteson, took his pistol off, laying it down besides the others, the robbers yelling to him, “Hurry up, you ——.” He then went to Percival, but he had no arms on.

The Road Agents next ordered him to take the passengers’ money, and to throw it on the ground with the pistols. Rumsey walked over to Percival, who taking out his sack, handed it to him. While he was handing over, Bill Bunton took out his own purse, and threw it about half way to Rumsey, saying, “There’s a hundred and twenty dollars for you—all I have in the world; only don’t kill me.”

Billy next went to Bummer Dan, who handed out two purses from his pocket. Rumsey took them, and threw them on the ground besides the pistols. The next man was Matteson; but as he dropped his hands to take out his money, the leader shouted, “Keep up your hands, you ——. Take his money.” Rumsey approached him, and putting his hand into his left pocket, found there a purse and a porte monnaie. Seizing the opportunity, he asked—in a whisper—if there was anything in the porte monnaie. He said “No.” Rumsey turned to the robbers and said, “You don’t want this, do you?” holding up the porte monnaie. Matteson told them that there was nothing in it but papers. They surlily answered, “We don’t want that.” On examining the other pocket, the searcher found a purse, which he threw out on the ground with the pistols.

They then demanded of Rumsey whether he had all; and on his answering “Yes,” turning to Matteson the leader said, “Is that all you’ve got?” “No,” said he, “there’s another in here.” He was holding up his hands when he spoke, and he nudged the pocket with his elbow. The Road Agent angrily ordered Rumsey to take it out, and not leave “Nothing.” He did as he was bidden, and threw the purse on the ground, after which he started for the coach, and had his foot on the hub of the wheel, when the robbers yelled out, “Where are you going, you ——?” “To get on the coach, you fool,” said the irate driver, “You’ve got all there is.” He instantly retorted, “Go back there and get that big sack,” and added pointing to Bummer Dan, “You’re the man we’re after. Get that strap off your shoulder, you d——d Irish ——.” Bummer Dan had a strap over his shoulder, fastened to a large purse, that went down into his pants. He had thrown out two little sacks before.

Seeing that there was no chance of saving his money, he commenced unbuckling the strap, and when Rumsey got to him he had it off. Billy took hold of the tab to pull it out, but it would not come; whereupon he let go and stepped back. Dan commenced to unbutton his pants, the “Cap” ordering Rumsey to jerk it off, or he would shoot him in a minute. While he was speaking, Rumsey saw that Dan had another strap round his body, under his shirt. He stepped back again, saying, “You fools! you’re not going to kill a man who is doing all he can for you. Give him time.” They ordered him to hurry up, calling him “An awkward ——,” and telling him that they hadn’t any more time to lose. Dan had by this time got the belt loose, and he handed Rumsey a big, fringed bag, containing two other sacks. He received it, and tossed it beside the pistols.

The Road Agents finished the proceedings by saying, “Get aboard, every —— of you; and get out of this; and if we ever hear a word from one of you, we’ll kill you surer than h—l.”

They all got aboard, with great promptitude, Bunton mounting beside the driver, (he did not want to get inside then,) and commenced to whip the horses, observing that that was a d——d hot place for him, and he would get out of it as soon as he could. Rumsey saw, at a turn of the road by looking over the coach, that the Road Agents had dismounted, one holding the horses, while the other was picking up the plunder, which amounted to about $2,800.

The coach went on to Bannack, and reported the robbery at Peabody’s Express Office. George Hilderman was in Peabody’s when the coach arrived. He seemed as much surprised as any of them. His business was to hear what would happen, and to give word if the passengers named either of the robbers, and then, on their return, they would have murdered them. It was at this man’s place that Geo. Ives and the gang with him were found. He was banished when Ives was hung. Had he been caught only a little time afterwards, he would have swung with the rest, as his villainies were known.

The Road Agents had a private mark on the coach, when it carried money, and thus telegraphed it along the road. Rumsey told in Bannack whom he suspected; but he was wrong. Bummer Dan and Percival knew them, and told Matteson; but neither of them ever divulged it until the men were hung. They were afraid of their lives. Frank Parish confessed his share in this robbery. George Ives was the other.

CHAPTER XII.
THE SETTLEMENT OF VIRGINIA CITY AND THE MURDER OF DILLINGHAM.

Early in June, 1863, Alder Gulch was discovered by Tom Cover, Bill Fairweather, Barney Hughes, Edgar and some others. It was a sheer accident. After a long and unsuccessful tour, they came thither on their way to Bannack, and one of them took a notion to try a pan of dirt. A good prospect was obtained, and the lucky “panner” gave his name to the far famed “Fairweather District.”

Tom Cover and some others of the party returned to Bannack for provisions, and for the purpose of communicating the discovery to their friends. A wild stampede was the consequence.

One poor fellow, while in the willows at Beaverhead, being mistaken for a beaver, was accidentally shot by his comrade. He lived several days, and was carefully nursed by his slayer, who was greatly grieved at the occurrence. The stampeders came in with pack animals. Colonel McLean brought the first vehicle to the Gulch. The stampede reached the Gulch on the 6th of June. The course of the stream was marked by the alders, that filled the Gulch so densely as to prevent passage, in many places. Some people camped on the edge of the brush, about three-fourths of a mile above the town, accidentally set it on fire, and with a tremendous roar, the flames swept down the creek, and burned up the entire undergrowth.

Almost immediately after the first great rush from Bannack—in addition to the tents, brush wakiups and extempore fixings for shelter—small log cabins were erected. The first of these was the Mechanical Bakery, now standing near the lower end of Wallace street. Morier’s saloon went up at about the same time, and the first dwelling house was built by John Lyons. After this beginning, houses rose as if by magic. Dick Hamilton, Root & Davis, J. E. McClurg, Hall & Simpson, N. Story and O. C. Matthews, were among the first merchants. Dr. Steele was first President of the Fairweather District. Dr. G. G. Bissel was the first Judge of the Miners’ Court. The duty of the Recorder’s Office was, we believe, performed by James Furgus.

Among the citizens were S. S. Short, Sweney and Rogers, (discoverers,) Johnny Green, Nelson Ptomey, Judge Potter of Highland, Jem Galbraith, Judge Smith, (afterwards banished,) W. F. Bartlett, C. Crouch, Bixter & Co., Tom Conner, William Cadwell, W. Emerick, Frank Heald, Frank Woody, Marcellus Lloyd, Washburne Stapleton, John Sharp, Jerry Nowlan, E. C. Stickney, Frank Watkins, T. L. Luce, (Mechanical Bakery,) Robinson and Cooley, the first bakers, (open air,) Hugh O’Neil, of fistic fame, Jem Vivian, Jack Russell, the first man who panned out “wages” in the Grasshopper Creek, Sargent Tisdale, W. Nowlan, of the Bank, Tom Duffy, John Murphy, Jem Patton, Jno. Kane, Pat Lynch, John Robertson, Worcester Wymans and Charley Wymans, Barney Gilson, and many others.

The first name given to the present capital of Montana, was “Varina,” in honor of Jeff Davis’s wife, but it was soon changed to “Virgina.” Dr. (Judge) G. G. Bissel was the first man that wrote it Virginia. Being asked to head a legal document with “Varina,” he bluntly said he would see them d——d first, for that was the name of Jeff. Davis’s wife; and, accordingly, as he wrote it, so it remained. From this little circumstance it will be seen that politics were anything but forgotten on the banks of Alder Creek; but miners are sensible men, in the main, and out in the mountains, a good man makes a good friend, even where political opinions are widely different. The mountaineer holds his own like a vice, and he extends the same privilege to others. The theory is, “You may drive your stake where you darned please; only, if you try to jump my claim, I’ll go for you, sure.”

That is the basis of the mountain man’s creed, in love, law, war, mining, and in fact, in everything regulated by principle.

Of course a number of the roughs came over when the Gulch was settled, prominent among whom was Cyrus Skinner. Per contra, “X,” was among the early inhabitants, which fact reminds us of the line in Cato’s soliloquy,

“My bane and antidote are both before me.”

The celebrated “Rogues Antidote,” aforesaid, has, however, survived all the renowned Road Agents of the period alluded to. The true Western man is persistent, tough, and hard to abolish. Fierce, flighty spirits, like Lord Byron—when they get into trouble—say:

“Better perish by the shock,
Than moulder piece-meal on the rock.”

The motto of the Mountaineer, put into similar shape, would read:

Never say die, but brave the shock,
While there’s a shell-fish on the rock.

Which sentiment, though equally forcible, we reluctantly admit, is, perhaps, a shade less poetical; but it is nevertheless, good philosophy, which, with all respect for his lordship, is the reverse of what should be said of the teaching derivable from the beautiful lines of that erring genius.

As a proof of the address and tact of Plummer, and of the terrible state of society, it may be mentioned that he got himself elected Sheriff, at Bannack, despite of his known character, and immediately appointed two of his Road Agents; Buck Stinson and Ned Ray, as Deputies. Nor did he remain contented with that; but he had the effrontery to propose to a brave and good man, in Virginia that he should make way for him there, and as certain death would have been the penalty for a refusal, he consented. Thus Plummer was actually Sheriff of both places at once. This politic move threw the unfortunate citizens into his hands completely, and by means of his robber deputies—whose legal functions cloaked many a crime—he ruled with a rod of iron.

The marvellous riches of the great Alder Gulch attracted crowds from all the West, and afterwards from the East, also; among whom were many diseased with crime to such an extent that for their cure, the only available prescription was a stout cord and a good drop.

Plummer had appointed as his Deputies, Jack Gallagher, Buck Stinson and Ned Ray. The head Deputy was a man of another stripe, entirely, named Dillingham, who had accurate knowledge of the names of the members of the Road Agent Band, and was also acquainted with many of their plans, though he himself was innocent. He told a man named Dodge, who was going to Virginia with Wash Stapleton and another, that Buck Stinson, Haze Lyons and Charley Forbes intended to rob them. Dodge, instead of keeping his council, foolishly revealed the whole affair to the robbers, who, of course, were much struck at the news. Hays ejaculated, “——, is that so?” The three men at once concluded to murder Dillingham.

At Rattlesnake, Haze Lyons came to Wash Stapleton, who was on the road between Bannack and Virginia, and asked him if he had heard about the intended robbery, adding that he had followed Dillingham that far, and that he had come to kill him, but he said that he feared that he had heard about it, and had got out of the country. Wash who says he has felt more comfortable, even when sleeping in church—at once replied, “No; this is the first I’ve heard of it. I have only $100 in greenbacks, and they may as well take them, if they want them, and let me go.” The other swore it was all a d——d lie, and they separated.

The robbers went on to Virginia. Jack Gallagher came to X, and wanted a pony for his friend Stinson to ride down the Gulch. At first his request was refused, the owner saying that he wanted to ride it down the Gulch, himself. Jack insisted, and promising that he would be back in half an hour, X lent it to him. He was away for two hours, and the proprietor was “as hot as a wolf,” when he came back. The truth was that they had been consulting and fixing the programme for the murder, which was arranged for the next day, they having discovered that Dillingham was in the gulch.

In the morning, Buck Stinson, Haze Lyons and Charley Forbes might be seen engaged in a grand “Medicine talk,” in the neighborhood of a brush wakiup, where Dr. Steele was holding court, and trying the right to a bar claim, the subject of a suit between F. Ray and D. Jones. Dillingham was standing close by the impromptu Hall of Justice, when the three Road Agents came up. “We want to see you,” said Haze; Stinson walked a pace or two ahead of the others. Haze was on one side and Forbes was behind. “Bring him along! Make him come!” said Buck Stinson, half turning and looking over his shoulder. They walked on about ten paces, when they all stopped, and the three faced towards Dillingham. “—— you, take back those lies,” said Haze, and instantly the three pulled their pistols and fired, so closely together that eye-sight was a surer evidence of the number of shots discharged than hearing. There was a difference, however; Haze fired first; his ball taking effect in the thigh. Dillingham put his hand to the spot, and groaned. Buck Stinson’s bullet went over his head; but Charley Forbes’ shot passed through his breast. On receiving the bullet in the chest, Dillingham fell like an empty sack. He was carried into a brush wakiup, and lived but a very short time.

Jack Gallagher, being Deputy Sheriff, settled the matter very neatly and effectively (for his friends.) He rushed out, as per agreement, and took their pistols, putting them together and reloading Buck Stinson’s, so that no one knew (that would tell) whose pistols fired the fatal shots.

The men were, of course, arrested. Red tape is an institution not yet introduced among miners. A captain of the guard, elected by the people, and a detail of miners, took charge of the prisoners, who were lodged in a log building, where John Mings’ store now stands.

A people’s court was organized and the trial commenced. It was a trial by the people EN MASSE. For our own part, knowing as we do the utter impossibility of all the voters hearing half the testimony; seeing, also, that the good and the bad are mingled, and that a thief’s vote will kill the well considered verdict of the best citizen, in such localities and under such circumstances, verdicts are as uncertain as the direction of the wind on next Tibb’s Eve. We often hear of the justice of the masses—“in the LONG run;” but a man may get hung “in the SHORT run”—or may escape the rope he has so remorselessly earned, which is, by a thousand chances to one, the more likely result of a mass trial. The chance of a just verdict being rendered is almost a nullity. Prejudice, or selfish fear of consequences, and not reason, rules the illiterate, the lawless, and the uncivilized. These latter are in large numbers in such places, and if they do right, it is by mistake. We are of Tenterden’s opinion in the matter of juries, (in cases like these.) “Gentlemen of the Jury,” said his Lordship, to eleven hard looking followers of a consequential foreman, in an appalling state of watch-chain and shirt frill, “Allow me to congratulate you upon the soundness of your verdict; it is highly creditable to you.” “My Lord,” replied the pursy and fussy little bald-pated and spectacled foreman, “The ground on which we based our verdict, was—” “Pardon me, Mr. Foreman,” interrupted the Judge, “Your verdict is perfectly correct; the ground on which it is based is most probably entirely untenable.” The favors of the dangerous classes are bestowed, not on the worthy, but on the popular, who are their uncommissioned leaders. Such favors are distributed like sailors’ prize money, which is nautically supposed to be sifted through a ladder. What goes through is for the officers; what sticks on the rounds is for the men.

James Brown and H. P. A. Smith, were in favor of a trial by twelve men; but E. R. Cutler opposed this, for he knew that the jury would have been impanneled by a Road Agent Sheriff. A vote was taken on the question, by “Ayes” and “Noes;” but this failing, two wagons were drawn up, with an interval between them. Those in favor of a trial by a jury of twelve went through first. Those who preferred a trial by the people traversed the vehicular defile afterwards. The motion of a jury for the whole prevailed.

Judge G. G. Bissell was appointed President by virtue of his office. He stated that it was an irregular proceeding, but that if the people would appoint two reliable men to sit with him, he would carry it through. This was agreed to, Dr. Steel and Dr. Rutar being chosen as associates. Three Doctors were thus appointed Judges, and naturally enough directed the “medicine talk” on the subject.

E. R. Cutler, a blacksmith, was appointed Public Prosecutor; Jem Brown was elected assistant; Judge H. P. A. Smith was for the defense, and the whole body of the people were Jurors. We may add that the jury box was Alder Gulch, and that the throne of Justice was a wagon, drawn up at the foot of what is now Wallace street.

The trial commenced by the indictment of Buck Stinson and Haze Lyons, and continued till dark, when the court adjourned. The prisoners were placed under a strong guard at night. They were going to chain them, but they would not submit. Charley Forbes said he “would suffer death first.” This (of course?) suited the guard of miners, and quick as a flash, down came six shot guns in a line with Charley’s head. The opinion of this gentlemen on the subject of practical concatenation underwent an instantaneous change. He said, mildly, “Chain me.” The fetters were composed of a light logging chain and padlocks.

All was quiet during the rest of the night; but Haze sent for a “leading citizen,” who, covered by the guns of the guard, approached and asked him what he wanted. “Why,” said he, “I want you to let these men off. I am the man that killed Dillingham. I came over to do it, and these men are innocent. I was sent here by the best men in Bannack to do it.” Upon being asked who they were, he named some of the best citizens, and then added, “Henry Plummer told me to shoot him.” The first half of the statement was an impossible falsehood, many of the men knowing nothing of the affair for several days after. The last statement was exactly true.

After breakfast, the trial was resumed, and continued till near noon. The attorneys had by this time finished their pleas, and the question was submitted to the people, “Guilty, or not Guilty?” A nearly unanimous verdict of “Guilty,” was returned. The question as to the punishment to be inflicted was next submitted by the President, and a chorus of voices from all parts of the vast assembly, shouted, “Hang them.” Men were at once appointed to build a scaffold and to dig the graves of the doomed criminals.

CHAPTER XII.

In the meantime, Charley Forbes’ trial went on. An effort was made to save Charley on account of his good looks and education, by producing a fully loaded pistol, which they proved (?) was his. It was, however, Buck Stinson’s, and had been “set right” by Gallagher. The miners had got weary, and many had wandered off, when the question was put; but his own masterly appeal, which was one of the finest efforts of eloquence ever made in the mountains, saved him.

Forbes was a splendid looking fellow—straight as a ramrod; handsome, brave and agile as a cat, in his movements. His friends believed that he excelled Plummer in quickness and dexterity at handling his revolver. He had the scabbard sewn to the belt, and wore the buckle always exactly in front, so that his hand might grasp the butt, with the forefinger on the trigger and the thumb on the cock, with perfect certainty, whenever it was needed, which was pretty often.

Charley told a gentleman of the highest respectability that he killed Dillingham, and he used to laugh at the “softness” of the miners who acquitted him. He moreover warned the gentleman mentioned that he would be attacked on his road to Salt Lake; but the citizen was no way scary, and said, “You can’t do it, Charley; your boys are scattered and we are together, and we shall give you ——, if you try it.” The party made a sixty mile drive the first day, and thus escaped molestation. Charley had corresponded with the press, some articles on the state and prospects of the Territory having appeared in the California papers, and were very well written.

Charley was acquitted by a nearly unanimous vote. Judge Smith burst into tears, fell on his neck and kissed him, exclaiming, “My boy! my boy!” Hundreds pressed round him, shaking hands and cheering, till it seemed to strike them all at once, that there were two men to hang, which was even more exciting, and the crowd “broke” for the “jail.”

A wagon was drawn up by the people to the door, in which the criminals were to ride to the gallows. They were then ordered to get into the wagon, which they did, several of their friends climbing in with them.

At this juncture, Judge Smith was called for, and then, amidst tremendous excitement and confusion; Haze Lyons crying and imploring mercy; a number of ladies, much affected, begged earnestly to “Save the poor young boys’ lives.” The ladies admit the crying; but declare that they wept in the interest of fair play. One of them saw Forbes kill Dillingham, and felt that it was popular murder to hang Stinson and Lyons, and let off the chief desperado, because he was good looking. She had furnished the sheet with which the dead body was covered.

We cannot blame the gentle hearted creatures; but we deprecate the practice of admitting the ladies to such places. They are out of their path. Such sights are unfit for them to behold, and in rough and masculine business of every kind, women should bear no part. It unsexes them and destroys the most lovely parts of their character. A woman is a queen in her own home; but we neither want her as a blacksmith, a plough-woman, a soldier, a lawyer, a doctor, nor in any such professions or handicraft. As sisters, mothers, nurses, friends, sweethearts and wives, they are the salt of the earth, the sheet anchor of society, and the humanizing and purifying element in humanity. As such, they cannot be too much respected, loved and protected. But from Blue Stockings, Bloomers, and strong-minded she-males, generally, “Good Lord, deliver us.”

A letter (written by other parties to suit the occasion) was produced, and a gentleman—a friend of Lyons—asked that “The letter which Haze had written to his mother, might be read.” This was done, amid cries of “Read the letter,” “—— the letter;” while others who saw how it would turn out, shouted, “Give him a horse and let him go to his mother.” A vote was taken again, after it had all been settled, as before mentioned—the first time by ayes and noes. Both parties claimed the victory. The second party was arranged so that the party for hanging should go up-hill, and the party for clearing should go down-hill. The down-hill men claimed that the prisoners were acquitted; but the up-hills would not give way. All this time, confusion confounded reigned around the wagon. The third vote was differently managed. Two pairs of men were chosen. Between one pair passed those who were for carrying the sentence into execution, and between the other pair marched those who were for setting them at liberty. The latter party ingeniously increased their votes by the simple but effectual expedient of passing through several times, and finally, an honest Irish miner, who was not so weak-kneed as the rest, shouted out, “Be ——, there’s a bloody naygur voted three times.” The descendant of Ham broke for the willows at top speed, on hearing this announcement. This vote settled the question, and Gallagher, pistol in hand, shouted, “Let them go, they’re cleared.” Amidst a thousand confused cries of, “Give the murderers a horse,” “Let them go,” “Hurrah!” etc., one of the men, seeing a horse with an Indian saddle, belonging to a Blackfoot squaw, seized it, and mounting both on the same animal, the assassins rode at a gallop out of the gulch. One of the guard remarked to another—pointing at the same time to the gallows—“There is a monument of disappointed Justice.”

While all this miserable farce was being enacted, the poor victim of the pardoned murderers lay stark and stiff on a gambling table, in a brush wakiup, in the gulch. Judge Smith came to X, and asked if men enough could not be found to bury Dillingham. X said there were plenty, and, obtaining a wagon, they put the body into a coffin, and started up the “Branch,” towards the present graveyard on Cemetery Hill, where the first grave was opened in Virginia, to receive the body of the murdered man. As the party proceeded, a man said to Judge Smith; “Only for my dear wife and daughter, the poor fellows would have been hanged.” A citizen, seeing that the so-called ladies had not a tear to shed for the VICTIM, promptly answered, “I take notice that your dear wife and daughter have no tears for poor Dillingham; but only for two murderers.” “Oh,” said the husband, “I cried for Dillingham.” “Darned well you thought of it,” replied the mountaineer. A party of eight or ten were around the grave, when one asked who would perform the burial service. Some one said, “Judge, you have been doing the talking for the last three days, and you had better pray.” The individual addressed knelt down and made a long and appropriate prayer; but it must be stated that he was so intoxicated that kneeling, was, at least, as much a convenience as it was a necessity. Some men never “experience religion” unless they are drunk. They pass through the convivial and the narrative stages, into the garrulous, from which they sail into the religious, and are deeply affected. The scene closes with the lachrymose or weeping development, ending in pig like slumbers. Any one thus moved by liquor is not reliable.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE ROBBERY OF THE SALT LAKE MAIL COACH BY GEORGE IVES, BILL GRAVES alias WHISKEY BILL, AND BOB ZACHARY.

“Which is the villain? Let me see his eyes,
That when I note another man like him
I may avoid him.”—Shakspeare.

At the latter end of the month of November, 1863, Oliver’s Salt Lake coach, driven by Thos. C. Caldwell, left Virginia for Salt Lake City, carrying as passengers Leroy Southmayde and Captain Moore. There was also a discharged driver named Billy. At about three P. M., they reached Loraine’s Ranch, where George Ives rode up and stopped. He wanted to get a change of horses, but could not obtain them. He then ordered grain for his horse, standing beside Southmayde all the time. Suddenly he said, “I have heard of Tex; he is at Cold Spring Ranch,” and then ordered his horse. Steve Marshland was in his company. Between Loraine’s and Cold Spring Ranch, they passed the coach, and sure enough there the three were, in conversation at the Ranch, as the stage drove up.

Tex, alias Jem Crow, afterwards stated that they told him they were going to rob the stage that night. Old Tex was watching the coach when it started from Virginia, and Captain Moore observing him and knowing his character, told Southmayde that he did not like to see him there. Circumstances and conclusive testimony have since proved that he was the spy, and being furnished with a fleet horse, he rode across the country, at full speed, heading the coach, as before described.

They drove on to the point of Rocks, and there they lay over till morning. At Stone’s Ranch, the Road Agents made a circuit and passed the coach unobserved. Ives had been joined, in the meanwhile, by Whiskey Bill and Bob Zachary. About 11 A. M., the travelers overtook the three Road Agents. Each one had his shot gun lying over his left arm, and they appeared, from behind, like hunters. As the stage came up, they wheeled their horses, at once, and presented their pieces. Bill Graves drew a bead on Tom Caldwell; Ives covered Southmayde, while Bob Zachary, keeping his gun pointed at the coach, watched Captain Moore and Billy.

Southmayde had the opportunity of looking down the barrels of Ives’s gun, and could almost see the buckshot getting ready for a jump. As a matter of taste, he thinks such a sight anything but agreeable or edifying, and if his luck should bring him in the vicinity of Road Agents in pursuit of their calling, he confidentially informs us that he would prefer a side view of the operation, as he would then be able to speak dispassionately of the affair. To report without “Fear, favor or affection,” is rather hard when the view is taken in front, at short range. Without “Favor or affection” can be managed; but the observance of the first condition would necessitate an indifference to a shower of “cold pewter,” possessed only by despairing lovers of the red-cover novellette class, and these men never visit the mountains; alkali, sage brush fires, and “beef-straight” having a decidedly “material” tendency, and being very destructive of sentiment. Ives called out, “halt! throw up your hands,” and then bade Zachary “Get down and look after those fellows.”

Accordingly Bob dismounted, and leaving his horse, he walked, gun in hand, up to Southmayde. While engaged in panning out Southmayde’s dust, he trembled from head to foot (and that not with cold.)

The appearance of the Road Agents, at this moment, was striking, and not at all such as would be desired by elderly members of the “Peace party.” Each man had on a green and blue blanket, covering the body entirely. Whiskey Bill wore a “plug” hat, (the antitype of the muff on a soup-plate usually worn in the East.) His sleeves were rolled up above the elbow; he had a black silk handkerchief over his face, with holes for sight and air, and he rode a gray horse, covered from the ears to the tail with a blanket, which, however, left the head and legs exposed to view. George Ives’ horse was blanketed in the same way. It was a dappled gray, with a roached mane. He himself was masked with a piece of a gray blanket, with the necessary perforations. Zachary rode a blue-gray horse, belonging to Bob Dempsey, (“All the country” was their stable)—blanketed like the others—and his mask was a piece of a Jersey shirt.

Ives was on the off side of the driver, and Graves on the near side. When Zachary walked up to Southmayde, he said, “Shut your eyes.” This Southmayde respectfully declined, and the matter was not pressed. Bob then took Leroy’s pistol and money, and threw them down.

While Southmayde was being robbed, Billy, feeling tired, put down his hands; upon which Ives instantly roared out, “Throw them up, you ——.” It is recorded that Billy obeyed with alacrity, though not with cheerfulness.

Zachary walked up to Captain Moore and made a similar request. The Captain declared with great solemnity, as he handed him his purse, that it was “All he had in the world;” but it afterwards appeared that a sum of $25 was not included in that estimate of his terrestial assets; for he produced this money when the Road Agents had disappeared.

Continuing his search, the relieving officer came to Billy, and demanded his pistol, which was immediately handed over. Ives asked, “Is it loaded,” and being answered in the negative, told Bob to give it back to the owner. Tom Caldwell’s turn came next. He had several small sums belonging to different parties, which he was carrying for them to their friends, and also he had been commissioned to make some purchases. As Bob approached him, he exclaimed, “My God! what do you want with me; I have nothing.” Graves told Zachary to let him alone, and inquired if there was anything in the mail that they wanted. Tom said he did not think that there was. Zachary stepped upon the brake bar and commenced an examination, but found nothing. As Caldwell looked at Zachary while he was thus occupied, Ives ordered him not to do that. Tom turned and asked if he might look at him. Ives nodded.

Having finished his search, Zachary picked up his gun, and stepped back. Ives dismissed the “parade” with the laconic command, “Get up and ‘skedaddle.’”

The horses were somewhat restive, but Tom held them fast, and Southmayde, with a view to reconnoitering, said in a whisper, “Tom, drive slow.” Ives called out, “Drive on.” Leroy turned round on his seat, determined to find out who the robbers were, and looked carefully at them for nearly a minute, which Ives at last observing, he yelled out, “If you don’t turn round, and mind your business, I’ll shoot the top of your head off.” The three robbers gathered together, and remained watching, till the coach was out of sight.

Leroy Southmayde lost $400 in gold, and Captain Moore delivered up $100 in Treasury Notes, belonging to another man.

The coach proceeded on its way to Bannack without further molestation, and on its arrival there, Plummer was in waiting, and asked, “Was the coach robbed to-day?” and being told that it had been, as Southmayde jumped down, he took him by the arm, and knowing him to be Sheriff, Southmayde was just about to tell him all about it, when Judge G. G. Bissell gave Leroy a slight nudge, and motioned for him to step back, which he did, and the Judge told him to be very careful what he told that man, meaning Plummer; Southmayde closed one eye as a private signal of comprehension, and rejoined Plummer, who said, “I think I can tell you who it was that robbed you.” Leroy asked, “Who?” Plummer replied, “George Ives was one of them.” Southmayde said, “I know; and the others were Whiskey Bill and Bob Zachary; and I’ll live to see them hanged before three weeks.” Plummer at once walked off, and though Leroy was in town for three days, he never saw him afterwards. The object of Plummer’s accusation of Ives was to see whether Southmayde really knew anything. Some time after, Judge Bissell—who had overheard Southmayde telling Plummer who the thieves were—remarked to him, “Leroy, your life is not worth a cent.”

On the second day after, as Tom was returning, he saw Graves at the Cold Spring Ranch, and took him on one side asking him if he had heard of the “little robbery.” Graves replied that he had, and asked him if he knew who were the perpetrators. Tom said, “No,” adding, “And I wouldn’t for the world; for if I did, and told of them, I shouldn’t live long.” “That’s a fact, Tom,” said Graves, “You wouldn’t live fifteen minutes. I’ll tell you of a circumstance as happened to me about bein’ robbed in Californy:

“One night about ten o’clock, me and my partner was ridin’ along, and two fellers rode up and told us to throw up our hands, and give up our money. We did it pretty quick I guess. They got $2,000 in coined gold from us. I told ’em, ‘Boys,’ sez I, ‘It’s pretty rough to take all we’ve got.’ So the feller said it was rather rough, and he gave us back $40. About a week after, I seen the two fellers dealin’ Faro. I looked pretty hard at them, and went out. One of the chaps follered me, and sez he, ‘Ain’t you the man that was robbed the other night?’ ‘No,’ sez I, for I was afraid to tell him the truth. Sez he, ‘I want you to own up; I know you’re the man. Now I’m agoing to give you $4,000 for keeping your mouth shut,’ and he did, ——. Now you see, Tom, that’s what I got for keepin’ my mouth shut. I saved my life, and got $4,000.”

Ives made for Virginia City, and there told, in a house of ill-fame, that he was the Bamboo chief that made Tom Caldwell throw up his hands, and that, ——, he would do it again. He and a Colorado driver, who was a friend of Caldwell’s went together to Nevada. Each of them had a shot-gun. Ives was intoxicated. The driver asked Ives whom did he suppose to be the robbers; to which he quickly replied, “I am the Bamboo chief that robbed it,” etc., etc., as before mentioned. The man then said, “Don’t you think Tom knows it?” “Of course I do,” said George. As they came back to town, the driver saw Tom, and waved to him to keep back, which he did, and sent a man to inquire the reason of the signal. The messenger brought him back information of what had passed, and told him to keep out of Ives’ way, for he was drunk and might kill him.

The same evening, Tom and his friend went to the Cold Spring Ranch together, on the coach, and the entire particulars came out, in conversation. The driver finished the story by stating that he sat on his horse, ready to shoot Ives, if he should succeed in getting the “drop” on Caldwell.

Three days after, when Southmayde was about to return from Bannack, Buck Stinson and Ned Ray came into the Express Office, and asked who were for Virginia. On being told that there were none but Southmayde, they said, “Well, then, we’ll go.” The Agent came over and said to Leroy, “For God’s sake, don’t go; I believe you’ll be killed.” Southmayde replied, “I have got to go; and if you’ll get me a double-barrelled shot gun, I will take my chances.” Oliver’s Agent accordingly provided Leroy Southmayde, Tom Caldwell, and a young lad about sixteen years of age, who was also going by the coach to Virginia, with a shot gun each. Leroy rode with Tom. They kept a keen eye on a pair of Road Agents, one driving and the other watching.

The journey was as monotonous as a night picket, until the coach reached the crossing of the Stinkingwater, where two of the three men that robbed it (Bob Zachary and Bill Graves) were together, in front of the station, along with Aleck Carter. Buck Stinson saw them, and shouted, “Ho! you —— Road Agents.” Said Leroy to Tom Caldwell, “Tom, we’re gone up.” Said Tom, “That’s so.”

At the Cold Spring Station, where the coach stopped for supper, the amiable trio came up. They were, of course fully armed with gun, pistols and knife. Two of them set down their guns at the door, and came in. Aleck Carter had his gun slung at his back. Bob Zachary feigning to be drunk, called out, “I’d like to see the —— man that don’t like Stone.” Finding that, as far as could be ascertained, everybody present, had a very high opinion of Stone, he called for a treat to all hands, which having been disposed of, he bought a bottle of whiskey and behaved “miscellaneously” till the coach started.

After going about a quarter of a mile, they wheeled their horses and called “Halt.” The instant the word left their lips, Leroy dropped his gun on Aleck Carter; Tom Caldwell, and the other passenger each picked his man, and drew a bead on him, at the same moment. Aleck Carter called out, “We only want you to take a drink; but you can shoot and be ——, if you want to.” Producing the bottle, it was handed round; but Leroy and Tom only touched their lips to it. Tom believed it to be poisoned. After politely inquiring if any of the —— wanted any more, they wheeled their horses, saying, “We’re off for Pete Daley’s,” and clapped spurs to their horses, and headed for the Ranch, going on a keen run.

Before leaving Cold Spring Ranch, Leroy Southmayde told Tom that he saw through it all, and would leave the coach; but Tom said he would take Buck up beside him, and that surely the other fellow could watch Ray. Buck did not like the arrangement; but Tom said, “You’re an old driver, and I want you up with me, ——.”

The two passengers sat with their shot guns across their knees, ready for a move on the part of either of the robbers.

At Lorraine’s Ranch, Leroy and Caldwell went out a little way from the place, with the bridles in their hands, and talked about the “situation.” They agreed that it was pretty rough, and were debating the propriety of taking to the brush, and leaving the coach, when their peace of mind was in no way assured by seeing that Buck Stinson was close to them, and must have overheard every word they had uttered. Buck endeavored to allay their fears by saying there was no danger. They told him that they were armed, and that if they were attacked, they would make it a warm time for some of them; at any rate, they would “get” three or four of them. Buck replied, “Gentlemen, I pledge you my word, my honor, and my life, that you will not be attacked between this and Virginia.”

The coach went on, directly the horses were hitched up, and Buck commenced roaring out a song, without intermission, till at last he became tired, and then, at his request, Ray took up the chorus. This was the signal to the other three to keep off. Had the song ceased, an attack would have been at once made, but, without going into Algebra, they were able to ascertain that such a venture had more peril than profit, and so they let it alone. The driver, Southmayde and the young passenger were not sorry when they alighted safe in town. Ned Ray called on Southmayde and told him that if he knew who committed the robbery he should not tell; for that death would be his portion if he did.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE OPENING OF THE BALL—GEORGE IVES.

They mustered in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress.

As a matter of course, after the failure of Justice in the case of the murderers of Dillingham, the state of society, bad as it was rapidly deteriorated, until a man could hardly venture to entertain a belief that he was safe for a single day. We have been repeatedly shown places where bullets used to come through the chinks between the logs separating one of the stores in town from a saloon. Wounded men lay almost unnoticed about the city, and a night or day without shooting, knifing or fighting would have been recognized as a small and welcome instalment of the millennium. Men dared not go from Virginia to Nevada or Summit after dark. A few out of the hundreds of instances must suffice. A Dutchman, known as Dutch Fred, was met by one of the band, who ordered him to throw up his hands, as usual. Finding he had $5 in Treasury Notes with him, the robber told him he would take them at par, and added with a volley of curses, “If ever you come this way with only $5, I’ll shoot you; —— you, I’ll shoot you anyhow,” and raising his pistol, he shot him in the arm. Another man was robbed of two or three dollars, about two or three miles below Nevada, and was told that if ever he came with as little money again they would kill him.

George Ives was a young man of rather prepossessing appearance, probably twenty-seven years old. His complexion and hair were light, and his eyes blue. He wore no whiskers. His height was nearly six feet, and he wore a soldier’s overcoat and a light felt hat. The carriage of this renowned desperado was sprightly, and his coolness was imperturbable. Long practice in confronting danger had made him absolutely fearless. He would face death with an indifference that had become constitutional, and the spirit of reckless bravado with which he was animated made him the terror of the citizens. He would levy black mail under the guise of a loan and as a matter of sport, and to show the training of his horse, he would back the animal into the windows of a store, and then ride off laughing. In looking at Ives a man would, at first sight, be favorably impressed; but a closer examination by any one skilled in physiognomy, would detect in the lines of the mouth and in the strange, fierce and sinister gleam of the eye, the quick spirit which made him not only the terror of the community, but the dread of the band of ruffians with whom he was associated.

As before mentioned, he was with Henry Plummer when he started to rob Langford and Hauser; he assisted at the robbery of the coaches in October and November, and, after that, he figured as a highwayman with Aleck Carter, down on Snake River, under the alias of Lewis.

In company with a friend, he visited his comrades, Hunter and Carter, at Brown’s Gulch, and on their way back, among the hills which form, as it were, the picket line of the Ramshorn Mountains, the two met Anton M. Holter, now a citizen of Virginia. They politely invited him to replenish their exchequers by a draft on his own, which, under the circumstances, he instantly did; but he was able at the moment to honor only a small check. They read him a lecture upon the impropriety of travelling with so small a sum in his possession, and then, as an emphatic confirmation of their expressed displeasure, George drew his revolver, and, aiming at his head, sent a ball through his hat, grazing his scalp. A second shot, with more deliberate aim, was only prevented by the badness of the cap. After this failure, this “Perfect gentleman” went his way, and so did Holter, doubtless blessing the cap maker.

Tex was a frequent companion of Ives, who was also intimate with Plummer, and George used frequently to show their letters, written in cypher, to unskilled if not unsuspecting citizens. He spent a life of ceaseless and active wickedness up to the very day of his capture.

Perhaps the most daring and cold blooded of all his crimes was the murder which he committed near the Cold Spring Ranch. A man had been whipped for larceny near Nevada, and to escape the sting of the lash, he offered to give information about the Road Agents. Ives heard of it, and meeting him purposely between Virginia and Dempsey’s, he deliberately fired at him with his double-barrelled gun. The gun was so badly loaded, and the man’s coat so thickly padded that the buckshot did not take effect, upon which he coolly drew his revolver and, talking to him all the time, shot him dead. This deed was perpetrated in broad daylight, on a highway—a very Bloomingdale Road of the community—and yet, there, in plain view of Daley’s and the Cold Spring Ranch, with two or three other teams in sight, he assassinated his victim, in a cool and business like manner, and when the murdered man had fallen from his horse, he took the animal by the bridle and led it off among the hills.

Ives then went to George Hilderman and told him that he should like to stay at his wakiup for a few days, as he had killed a man near Cold Spring Ranch, and there might be some stir and excitement about it.

In about half an hour after, some travellers arrived at the scene of murder. The body was still warm, but lifeless, and some of the neighbors from the surrounding ranches dug a lonely grave in the beautiful valley, and there, nameless, uncoffined and unwept, the poor victim:

“Life’s fitful fever over,
Sleeps well.”

The passer-by may even now notice the solitary grave, where he lies, marked as it still is by the upheaved earth, on the left side of the road as he goes down the valley, about a mile on the Virginia side of the Cold Spring Ranch.

All along the route the ranchmen knew the Road Agents, but the certainty of instant death in case they revealed what they knew enforced their silence, even when they were really desirous of giving information or warning.

Nicholas Tbalt had sold a span of mules to his employers, Butschy & Clark, who paid him the money. Taking the gold with him, he went to Dempsey’s Ranch to bring up the animals. Not returning for some time, they concluded that he had run away with the mules, and were greatly grieved that a person they had trusted so implicitly should deceive them. They were, however, mistaken. Faithful to his trust, he had gone for the mules, and met his death from the hand of George Ives, who shot him, robbed him of his money, and stole his mules. Ives first accused Long John of the deed; but he was innocent of it, as was also Hilderman, who was a petty thief and hider, but neither murderer nor Road Agent. His gastronomic feats at Bannack had procured him the name, the American Pie-Eater. Ives contradicted himself at his execution, stating that Aleck Carter was the murderer; but in this he wronged his own soul. His was the bloody hand that committed the crime. Long John said, on his examination at the trial, that he did not see the shots fired, but that he saw Nicholas coming with the mules, and George Ives going to meet him; that Ives rode up shortly after with the mules, and said that the Dutchman would never trouble anybody again.

The body of the slaughtered young man lay frozen, stiff and stark, among the sage brush, whither it had been dragged, unseen of man; but the eye of Omniscience rested on the blood-stained corpse, and the fiat of the Eternal Judge ordered the wild bird of the mountains to point out the spot, and, by a miracle, to reveal the crime. It was the finger of God that indicated the scene of the assassination, and it was His will stirring in the hearts of the honest and indignant gazers on the ghastly remains of Tbalt that organized the party which, though not then formally enrolled as a Vigilance Committee, was the nucleus and embryo of the order—the germ from which sprang that goodly tree, under the shadow of whose wide-spreading branches the citizens of Montana can lie down and sleep in peace.

Nicholas Tbalt was brought into Nevada on a wagon, after being missing for ten days. William Herren came to Virginia and informed Tom Baume, who at once went down to where the body lay. The head had been pierced by a ball, which had entered just over the left eye. On searching the clothes of the victim, he found in his pocket a knife which he had lent him in Washington Gulch, Colorado, two years before, in presence of J. X. Beidler and William Clark.

The marks of a small lariat were on the dead man’s wrists and neck. He had been dragged through the brush, while living, after being shot, and when found lay on his face, his right arm bent across his chest and his left grasping the willows above him.

William Palmer was coming across the Stinkingwater Valley, near the scene of the murder, ahead of his wagon, with his shot-gun on his shoulder. A grouse rose in front of him, and he fired. The bird dropped dead on the body of Tbalt. On finding the grouse on the body, he went down to the wakiup, about a quarter of a mile below the scene of the murder, and seeing Long John and George Hilderman there, he told them that there was the body of a dead man below, and asked them if they would help him to put the corpse into his wagon, and that he would take it to town, and see if it could be identified. They said “No; that is nothing. They kill people in Virginia every day, and there’s nothing said about it, and we want to have nothing to do with it.”

The man lay for half a day exposed in the wagon, after being brought up to Nevada. Elk Morse, William Clark and Tom Baume got a coffin made for him; took him up to the burying ground above Nevada; interred him decently, and, at the foot of the grave, a crotched stick was placed, which is, we believe still standing.

The indignation of the people was excited by the spectacle. The same afternoon, three or four of the citizens raised twenty-five men, and left Nevada at 10 P. M. The party subscribed an obligation before starting, binding them to mutual support, etc., and then travelled on, with silence and speed, towards the valley of the Stinkingwater. Calling at a Ranch on their way, they obtained an accession to their numbers, in the person of the man who eventually brought Ives to bay, after he had escaped from the guard who had him in charge. Several men were averse to taking him with them, not believing him to be a fit man for such an errand; but they were greatly mistaken, for he was both honest and reliable, as they afterwards found.

Avoiding the travelled road, the troop rode round by the bluff, so as to keep clear of Dempsey’s Ranch. About six miles further on, they called at a cabin and got a guide, to pilot them to the rendezvous.

At about half-past three in the morning, they crossed Wisconsin Creek, at a point some seven miles below Dempsey’s, and found that it was frozen, but that the ice was not strong enough to carry the weight of man and horse, and they went through one after another, at different points, some of the riders having to get down, in order to help their horses, emerging half drowned on the other side, and continuing their journey, cased in a suit of frozen clothes, which, as one of them observed, “Stuck to them like death to a dead nigger.” Even the irrepressible Tom Baume was obliged to take a sharp nip on his “quid,” and to summon all his fortitude to his aid to face the cold of his ice-bound “rig.”

The leader called a halt about a mile further on, saying, “Every one light from his horse, hold him by the bridle, and make no noise till day break.” Thus they stood motionless for an hour and a half. At the first peep of day the word was given, “Boys, mount your horses, and not a word pass, until we are in sight of the wakiup.” They had not travelled far when a dog barked. Instantly they put spurs to their horses, and breaking to the right and left, formed the “surround,” every man reining up with his shot-gun bearing on the wakiup. The leader jumped from his horse, and seeing eight or ten men sleeping on the ground in front of the structure, all wrapped up in blankets, sang out, “The first man that raises will get a quart of buckshot in him, before he can say Jack Robinson.” It was too dark to see who they were, so he went on to the wakiup, leaving his horse in charge of one of the party, half of whom had dismounted and the others held the horses. “Is Long John here?” he asked. “Yes,” said that longitudinal individual. “Come out here; I want you.” “Well,” said he, “I guess I know what you want me for.” “Probably you do; but hurry up; we have got no time to lose.” “Well,” said John, “Wait till I get my moccasins on, won’t you?” “Be quick about it then,” observed his captor. Immediately after he came out of the wakiup, and they waited about half an hour before it was light enough to see distinctly. The captain took four of his men and Long John, and walked to the place where the murder had been committed, leaving the remainder of the troop in charge of the other men. They went up to the spot, and there Long John was charged with the murder. Palmer showed the position in which the body was found. He said, “I did not do it, boys.” He was told that his blood would be held answerable for that of Nicholas Tbalt; for that, if he had not killed him, he knew well who had done it, and had refused to help to put his body into a wagon. “Long John,” said one of the men, handling his pistol as he spoke, “You had better prepare for another world.” The leader stepped between and said, “This won’t do; if there is anything to be done, let us all be together.” Long John was taken aside by three of the men, and sat down. They looked up, and there, in the faint light—about a quarter of a mile off—stood Black Bess, the mule bought by X. Beidler in Washington Gulch. Pointing to the animal, they said, “John, whose mule is that?” “That’s the mule that Nick rode down here,” he answered. “You know whose mule that is, John. Things look dark. You had better be thinking of something else now.” The mule was sent for, and brought before him, and he was asked where the other two mules were. He said he did not know. He was told that he had better look out for another world, for that he was played out in this. He said, “I did not commit that crime. If you give me a chance, I’ll clear myself.” “John,” said the leader, “You never can do it; for you knew of a man lying dead for nine days, close to your house, and never reported his murder; and you deserve hanging for that. Why didn’t you come to Virginia and tell the people?” He replied that he was afraid and dared not do it. “Afraid of what?” asked the captain. “Afraid of the men round here.” “Who are they?” “I dare not tell who they are. There’s one of them round here.” “Where?” “There’s one of them here at the wakiup, that killed Nick.” “Who is he?” “George Ives.” “Is he down at the wakiup?” “Yes.” “You men stand here and keep watch over John, and I’ll go down.” Saying this he walked to the camp.

On arriving at the wakiup, he paused, and picking out the man answering to the description of George Ives, he asked him, “Is your name George Ives?” “Yes,” said that worthy. “I want you,” was the laconic reply. “What do you want me for?” was the natural query. “To go to Virginia City,” was the direct but unpleasing rejoinder. “All right,” said George, “I expect I have to go.” He was at once given in charge of the guard.

So innocent were some of the troop, that they had adopted the “Perfect gentleman” hypothesis, and laid down their arms in anger, at the arrest of this murderous villain. A little experience prevented any similar exhibition of such a weakness, in the future.