Six Decades Back

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Text originally published in 1936 under the same title.

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Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

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SIX DECADES BACK:

EARLY DAYS ON THE SNAKE RIVER PLAIN

BY

CHARLES SHIRLEY WALGAMOTT

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

DEDICATION 6

AUTHOR’S PREFACE 7

AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION 10

PART I—FALLING IN LOVE WITH IDAHO 11

WHAT THE WEST SAID TO ME 11

CHRISTMAS DINNER SIXTY YEARS AGO 14

LOOKING FOR BETTER DIGGINGS 18

A DAY’S HUNT WITH INDIAN TOM 23

THE GLOVE-MAKER AT CITY OF ROCKS 27

HE LOST HIS PARD 30

THE LOCATING OF SHOSHONE FALLS 32

WHEN THEY STARTED TO HANG DAVE SIMPSON 38

HUNTING DEER WITH BUTTERMILK JOE 41

THE MEDICINE MAN 44

THE LANDLORD OF SHOSHONE FALLS ENTERTAINS THE PREACHERS 47

LOST IN A SNOW STORM 52

AMONG OUR FIRST SURVEYS 56

GOVERNOR BRAYMAN OF TERRITORIAL DAYS PAYS A VISIT TO GREAT SHOSHONE FALLS 59

PART II—IDAHO SIX DECADES BACK 65

THE LEGEND OF RED FISH LAKE OR THE INDIANS OF THE CLOUDS 65

THE MASSACRE OF ALMO CREEK 81

THE OLD OREGON TRAIL 84

A GOOD MESSENGER MEETS THE BROWN FAMILY ON THE OREGON TRAIL 86

EARLY DAYS ON THE OLD OREGON TRAIL AND THE PERSONAL EXPERIENCES OF NEWTON HIBBS 89

GOLD MINING IN THE SNAKE RIVER CANYON 93

GOLD MINING ON MUD CREEK BAR WITH ITS RESULTANT CRIME 97

VIGILANTE VS. MOB LAW 100

STAGE ROBBERIES OF SIXTY YEARS AGO 103

WHEN STAGE ROBBERS WERE GALLANT 110

JACK DAVIS, ALIAS DIAMOND-FIELD JACK 113

ROBBING THE TRADER’S STORE AT ROCK CREEK 121

WHEN GUNMEN DIED WITH THEIR BOOTS ON 124

FINDING MATERIAL TO START A GRAVEYARD 126

DESERT STAGE STATION 130

OLD WAGON DAYS AND THE COMING OF THE RAILROAD 132

THE CATTLE INDUSTRY OF EARLY DAYS IN IDAHO 135

TOPICS OF THE COW CAMP 138

COLLINS, THE HORSE WRANGLER 140

BIOGRAPHY OF JOHNNY COLLINS 143

COWBOYS OF THE EARLY CATTLE DAYS OF IDAHO 145

THE SQUAWMAN 151

WHITE CHILD STOLEN BY INDIANS 154

RESCUING AN INDIAN BABY 156

HUMOROUS ANTICS OF LAUGHING BROOKY 160

LIFE AND EXPLOITS OF JOHN F. HANSEN 163

IDAHO JACK AND THE MULDOON MINE 166

LOOKING FOR EASY MONEY 171

LAFE ROSE, THE BULLWHACKER 175

THE STORY OF TOM BELL AND HIS TRAGIC DEATH 178

THERE IS NO PLACE LIKE HOME 181

WILD HORSES OF THE GOOSE CREEK MOUNTAINS 184

SKELETON BUTTE AND HOW IT DERIVED ITS NAME 188

THE STORY OF GEORGE GOODHART AND BILL OSBORNE, HIS RIVAL IN LOVE 191

SEQUEL TO THE STORY OF GEORGE GOODHART AND BILL OSBORNE, HIS RIVAL IN LOVE 206

FOLLOWING THE TRAIL OF THE HORSE THIEVES 209

EARLY HISTORY OF CASSIA COUNTY 212

THE LOCATION OF BLUE LAKES 217

HISTORY OF THE NORTH SIDE TWIN FALLS IRRIGATION PROJECT 228

BIRTH OF THE TWINLAND EMPIRE CREATION OF THE CANYON THE BRIDGE—A PROPHECY 232

THE BRIDGE 233

SCENIC DRIVE 236

EPILOGUE—TO IDAHO 238

APPENDIX—SOUTH IDAHO’S NAMES 240

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 250

DEDICATION

I dedicate this book to my wife

LETTIE L. DUNN WALGAMOTT

who for half a century has earnestly endeavored to direct my footsteps over paths of thrift while she patiently limited her wants to suit my meager income.

C. S.W.

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

THE FIRST SETTLERS, men and women: Who among us are qualified to tell the story of their lives?

They went into the battle of the wilderness unheralded by the beating of drums and with no sound of the bugle to encourage them.

With youth and energy they faced the swollen streams, the desert, the solitude, the malaria, the wild animal, and the savage; and, it against these enemies they made a losing fight, an unmarked grave was their reward.

As they blazed the trail, felled the trees, built their rude cabins, cleared the land, and turned the streams, the thought that gladdened their hearts was that soon they would see ripening grain and flowers in bloom where before only desolation reigned.

They have seen capital and enterprise come in pleasure cars and luxury over the trails they blazed. Factories and schools have been built. Their youth is gone. As these old men and women late in the evening of their lives mingle with the folks of today, few realize the texture of manhood and womanhood that has consumed itself with them. But they are happy. The desolation of the desert is banished; the savage beast and the savage man, both red and white, have retreated before them; and in their old age their trail leads them into a garden of flowers. Deep down in their hearts they feel that the Keeper of Records has somewhere entered true account of their works and high thoughts.

To these men and women I give reverence and praise.

C.S.W.

Twin Falls, Idaho

AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION

IN OFFERING MY BOOK Six Decades Back to the reading public, I confess that my first incentive to write and record the interesting happenings of early Idaho days was induced by my great love for the country and my infatuation for the interesting people of that period, augmented by the selfish desire to keep fresh in my mind the pleasures these happenings furnish.

As I proceeded, the inspiration came to write and record these happenings in a manner so as to preserve them for the pleasure and information of the present and coming generations. This became my dominant thought, and now that the last chapter is written, I can conceive of no greater compensation than the knowledge that when my pen is still and I have passed over the Great Trail to future adventures, my book Six Decades Back will carry on.

CHARLES SHIRLEY WALGAMOTT

PART I—FALLING IN LOVE WITH IDAHO

WHAT THE WEST SAID TO ME

I WAS THE ONLY BOY in a family of seven, three older and three younger than myself, living in a small town in south-eastern Iowa where my parents settled in 1843; and a germ of frontier longing was early injected into my young blood.

As I listened to stories told around our fireside by my father and mother, relating the happenings of the early days in Iowa and my father’s boyhood experiences as a leader of a string band (now called an orchestra) playing on the lower Mississippi River steamboats; and later when my older sister with her husband staged to California in the employ of the Ben Halliday Stage Company, and my sister made frequent visits back home, bringing with her the atmosphere of the West, this germ of frontier longing developed into a pronounced case of Western fever that proved as contagious as it was pronounced, and was contracted also by a boyfriend.

The two of us made hasty preparation to depart over the Chicago and North-western Railroad, which had recently laid rails as far west as Council Bluffs, where it bridged the Missouri River and landed us in the frontier town of Omaha, Nebraska, to mingle with a crowd of emigrants seeking passage westward over the newly constructed Union Pacific Railroad. I was surprised to find in this crowd of twelve or fifteen cars of emigrants, bound westward, only two women. Both were en route to meet their husbands in California, while my friend, John Garber, and myself were the only two passengers en route for the Idaho territory.

On the platform of the Union Pacific Depot an old man with a long gray beard and gentlemanly appearance was employed by the railroad company as train director and entertainer. I remember that his name was Captain White. I had considerable conversation with him. He told me a great deal about Idaho, informing me where we left the train to take the stage, and about the bad Indians and the still worse white men. After we were placed in our cars and almost in readiness to start, the Captain passed through the train, accompanying his voice with a guitar, and singing all about the West. As he approached the seat which my friend John Garber and I occupied, he improvised the words of his song to describe Idaho. I remember the chorus ran like this:

Hurrah, hurrah for the U.P. Road and a ride over the rolling plain;

We are going out to Idaho and intend there to remain.

One of the verses in doggerel was to this effect:

And if the Indians capture you, you will be lucky to save your head;

They have a habit of taking your scalp unless your hair is red.

As Captain White gracefully dropped out of sight, the train slowly crept out of the siding onto the main line, heading into the mysterious West, with all on board in happy expectation except my friend Johnny, who was truly a homesick boy. He had seen all the West he wanted. Captain White’s song description of Idaho had had a bad effect on him.

As our train for hours each day plowed slowly over the western plains, we were aware that on account of the newness and unballasted condition of the road it would take several days to reach the mountains. We were thankful when we remembered that, only a short time before, the only available transportation was by ox or mule team, consuming an entire season to make the trip. After stage service was established, it required in the neighborhood of a month to travel from the Missouri River to the coast, and our travel, though slow, was unraveling new scenes and writing new lessons on the blackboards of our experiences.

From the car window we peered into the distance to get a glimpse of a remnant of the once great herds of buffalo that only a few months before had furnished meat for the construction crews of the Union Pacific Railroad through western Nebraska, and we watched the capering antelope with their white end toward us seeking shelter in the distance, or viewed with some suspicion groups of Sioux and other Indians, who from distant elevations watched our train pass as they sat straight as arrows on their ponies.

As we were pushed onto a siding at Laramie, Wyoming, to wait for a train, we could see from the car window an animal we took to be a wolf chained to a post. I persuaded my friend Johnny that we go and see it. We were told it was a coyote. It tugged nervously at the chain which fastened it to a post in front of a saloon. We could see through the open door the walls decorated with animal hides. Cautiously we stepped inside the door. Three or four men who occupied the room paid us very little attention, but I could see that the long-tailed linen dusters which we wore seemed to be a curiosity to them; and one of the men, wearing a six-shooter that hung swaggeringly over his hip, approached us and inquired if we were preachers. We told him that we were not. He seemed to doubt us and remarked that only preachers and sports wore that kind of coats in that country.

At this point two men alighted from a wagon and rather boisterously entered the saloon. One of them, seemingly a lively fellow, whom the bartender addressed as Tom, tossed a dollar on the bar, ordering drinks for himself and partner. As they were about to drink, the man who had interrupted us approached them and said: Tom, it has been some time since you danced for us. Tom retorted: Yes, and (as he made a pass to draw his gun) it will be a d—d sight longer. But the intruder beat him to it and exclaimed: Lay off that gun and dance! and as the bullet from the intruder’s gun entered the floor near Tom’s feet the dancing began. Much excited, I said to my friend Johnny: Let us go before they make us preach, and since I was as badly scared as Johnny, I was able to keep up with him as we raced for our train.

Later that evening I looked over Johnny’s shoulder to see him writing a letter to his mother explaining that he was sure the West was not going to agree with his health.

From this time on we stayed close to our train until we entered the Mormon territory of Utah, where from every sagebrush scampered a jackrabbit, juggling his hind feet as if in preparation for a real race.

We were reminded of Captain White’s song advising a side trip from the Mormon village of Ogden to Salt Lake City, the home of Brigham Young and his nineteen or more wives, but we traveled now over the Central Pacific Railroad, passing Promontory on the shore of the Great Salt Lake. Promontory was made famous in 1869 when the Golden Spike was driven there connecting the Union and Central Pacific railways.

On we went until we landed in Kelton, Utah, where we left the train to take the stage into Idaho. Kelton, at this time and for several years later, was a historical place situated on the north end of Great Salt Lake, a mere speck in the desert, consisting of some half a hundred houses built around the depot, and large commission warehouses for handling the freight for Idaho. Groups of blanket Indians loitered around the depot, curiously watching the incoming trains and passengers. Large ox and mule teams moved here and there, loaded for the interior, or preparing to load. Every other door was a saloon with gambling wide open.

A daily stage left Kelton for The Dalles, Oregon, passing through Idaho, which would furnish us our next experience; and as we balanced ourselves to conform to the rough swing of the Thurnabrac coach on our two-day stage trip, our minds drifted back to the homes and associates we had left. My mind was buoyant in expectation of new experiences, but poor Johnny had seen enough. I felt sorry for him and somewhat guilty for his state of mind, and tried to encourage him. It was the 8th of August, 1875, that we arrived at our destination, more than one hundred miles from a railroad at a junction of the Oregon Trail and stage road adjacent to the Snake River mines, the only settlement in south-eastern Snake River Valley Here Johnny procured employment with the stage company and I in a trader’s store.

Sixty days later, just when the mountains were putting on their fall coat of variegated colors with their high peaks capped in white, I bade Johnny goodbye as he happily climbed on the stage to return to his Iowa home. It made me homesick. I, too, had left a good home and associates, and as I turned my head to hide a tear, I mused: Oh, why should I stay?

Then I thought: I love the mountains, the mountain streams, the western atmosphere, and the hospitable people with their western ways, the smoky odor of Indian-tanned buckskin, so prevalent around the camp fires, mingled with the sage-sweetened air, and the ever-present element of risk even to the preservation of life; and even the frequent solitude has its fascination.

As I mused, the stage had disappeared in the east and Johnny was lost to me forever.

CHRISTMAS DINNER SIXTY YEARS AGO

IN THE EARLY FORTIES two young men whose homes were in Pennsylvania accepted employment with one of the many stage lines which were pushing their way into the West at that time. These two young men were the Trotter brothers, Charles and William. When they, in following their employment, reached Iowa, the younger of the two boys married my oldest sister. Accompanied by their families, they followed staging, which continually led them farther west, until along in the sixties when they reached the Missouri River and went into employment with the Overland Stage Company, a Ben Halliday line, running between Omaha, Nebraska, and the Pacific coast. These two men always held responsible positions with the stage company, usually serving as division agents.

The construction of the Central Pacific Railroad east from the Pacific coast, and the Union Pacific Railroad hurriedly pushing its way west from Omaha, Nebraska, shortened each day the overland stage road at both ends.

In 1868 the Trotter boys left the California line, coming into Idaho and taking employment on the stage line running from Fort Hall to Boise, a route which had been completed in 1864.

In 1869, when the two Pacific railroads were completed and a mail route was established from Kelton, Utah, to The Dalles, Oregon, the two Trotter boys moved on to that line, and, as they were getting along in years, and, with their families, wanted to settle down, they both took charge of eating stations. Charles Trotter, my brother-in-law, took the Rock Creek station, and William Trotter took the City of Rocks station, fifty miles east. Both of these stations sprang into prominence on account of the hospitality of the landlords and the appetizing meals served. My sister, Mrs. Trotter, from the year she was married, made annual trips back home, bringing with her the atmosphere of the West, and her graphic descriptions of frontier life made such an impression on my young mind that at the first opportunity (I made the opportunity), I came west, landing at Rock Creek station on the 8th day of August, 1875.

It was customary in those day for all emigrants, or tender-feet, to have the mountain fever immediately after arriving in this country, and as soon as I was aware of what was expected of me developed quite a severe case of so-called mountain fever, and for a couple of weeks I was certainly a sick kid. If I had not been so sick I might have been homesick, which would have been about as bad, but after some two weeks we got the fever broken, or it wore itself out, or I changed the thought, or something. At any rate I lost my fever; but not until it had burned up all my surplus flesh and more too, leaving me in a very weakened condition.

In the absence of a doctor (one could not be secured nearer than Boise) my friends prescribed sagebrush tea. I have always thought the early popularity of sagebrush was mostly on account of its plentifulness; but at any rate I drank at least enough to fill two wash boilers of strong sagebrush tea. This was to break my fever, and, as I said, the fever left me in a very weakened condition.

In a short time I began to mend and regain my strength, and soon found myself with a very great desire to eat food. I wanted to eat all the time and at Rock Creek station, where I was boarding, the stage arrivals made necessary the serving of four meals each day, and I ate at all of them. My friends became alarmed, feeling that I would overeat and have a relapse, and advised that I make a trip to the City of Rocks station and stay with Bill Trotter until I was able to go to work.

I found when I arrived at the City of Rocks that on account of the time of the stage arrivals they had five meals a day. Mr. Trotter undertook to tramp on my toes when he thought I had had enough to eat, but he soon gave it up, as I always had beaten him to it, and on each day I gained strength and flesh.

I was doing so well that Mr. Trotter persuaded me to stay with him and run helper over the summit. My duties would be to ride on an outrigger, or projecting seat on the sled opposite the driver, and at frequent intervals, which would be indicated by the driver, stick a willow into the snow as a guide to where the road was when we came back. My employment was not to begin until the snow came, which might be any time after November first. That would give me plenty of time to regain my strength.

I decided to stay. I liked City of Rocks station, built on the east side of the mountain among scattering pines on the headwaters of Raft River, and on the line of the old California emigrant road. The buildings were of logs and, as it was handy for material, they were built commodiously but with low ceilings. The sitting room, or barroom, was about thirty feet long east and west by some fourteen feet wide. The large fireplace in the west end, the dining room, kitchen, and three bedrooms were as commodious; but at any time except meal time or when I was out running over the mountains, I could be found in the barroom, watching the snow fall, hoping that the fall would be sufficient to put on a sled, or probably sitting by the open fireplace talking to Glove-Maker Jim, who sat tailor fashion on a table nearby working on some buckskin articles, as he would relate his experiences of fifty years ago when he was trapping with the John Grant Fur Company with headquarters at old Fort Hall. I don’t know what the glove-maker’s surname was; I only remember that he was called Jim, the Glove-Maker. He was an old friend of William Trotter, and was a man of about seventy years of age—a hale, hearty, tidy old man, ripe in the experiences of the West. My eagerness to listen was an incentive for him to talk, and I could always get a story from him about his Indian experience or his life as a trapper fifty years ago.

A great many Indians came to the City of Rocks at that time of year. Many came to gather pine nuts, and some came to sell their venison. I greatly enjoyed getting some of these Indians into the house and having Glove-Maker Jim talk to them. Jim spoke Indian and apparently was equally conversant with either Bannack, Shoshone, or Piute, all of whom came to the pine nut country. Usually Jim would translate these Indian conversations for my benefit, and the time passed swiftly and pleasantly at City of Rocks; and when the first of December was with us I had stored up more energy than it required to tramp out several four-horse stage outfits floundering in the snow.

You know those old stage horses that have had great experience don’t struggle in the deep snow, but when it gets too deep quietly lie down; then the helper gets among them and tramps the snow down solid, and when the driver speaks to them, they get up and move on. Usually the experienced snow horse will run through the snow route in the winter and will be removed to the low valleys in the summer; and when I learned that the company was moving its snow horses to the mountains I realized that my work was about to commence. I was pleased one afternoon when William Trotter told me to go to the creek and cut four bundles of willows about the size of my little finger and some eighteen inches long, leaving the bush on. I was to cut about one hundred in all, and he continued to tell me that when the stage went west on the next morning they would go by sled. I cut the willows and was anxious for the experience that I would get in my new position; and, sure enough, when I peeked out in the morning the snow was sifting along with the wind flurries in places forming great drifts; and the side of the mountain looked like a rough sea of snow. When the stage arrived, Mr. Trotter took me into his room and told me that I would have to take great precautions not to get snow-blind and the only sure preventive was to black my face. He had a burned cork already prepared and he proceeded to apply it, not stopping with my face, but blackening my neck, and when he had finished he asked me to look in the glass, and I was surely a dandy young negro. I thought the precaution was all right until he took me out to the stage, where I found the driver had only a black mark under each eye and a black strip down his nose. Everyone laughed at my appearance, and after I had gotten over my embarrassment, which was hard to detect through my burnt cork, I entered into the spirit of the fun with as much enjoyment as the passenger and driver. Our first day’s experience was about a duplicate of every other day. During the winter I took my seat on the outrigger, and at certain places indicated by the driver I would poke a willow down into the snow, just leaving the brush or part of the willow sticking up. When we encountered a drift and the leaders could plunge through we would always make it. If it was too deep the horses would always lie down, and then I would take off my fur coat and get among their legs and tramp the snow solid around them, then put on my coat and get back on the seat; and when the driver would speak to the horses we would move on. There was one place at a dugaway where we struck Birch Creek, where we were compelled to tramp out each way on every trip that winter. We would travel east toward Oakley station until we would meet the eastbound stage, which would be a coach. Here the passengers, mail, and express from the sled would be transferred to the coach, which would be turned back; and the driver who came with me would go on and I would return with the eastern driver, the eastbound passengers, and the mail.

At night, after arriving at City of Rocks, I always told Glove-Maker Jim of my day’s experiences, and listened to his stories. He told me about the massacre of six wagon of emigrants at City of Rocks proper, which happened in the early seventies, and also of the massacre of a larger and well-armed train at Almo Creek, which was at a much earlier date.

As it came near Christmas time, Mrs. Trotter and the woman cook began great preparations for Christmas dinner. Turkeys were ordered from Corinne, Utah, and everything on the market was sent for. The women folks made fruit cakes and prepared to make steam pudding and mince pie. I remember that they did not put cider into the mince pie.

Finally the Christmas morning stage arrived in a blinding snowstorm. We transferred the load onto the sled and with the passengers, two ladies and a little girl about twelve years old, we started; and goodness, how it did snow! It was not so very cold but we were out in an open sled with lots of buffalo hides and robes, and before we were out half an hour the sled was full of snow and we were virtually covered up.

The driver was trying to make a little better time than usual as the Trotters at Rock Creek, where we would stay all night, were having a big Christmas dinner, and he did not want to be late. As we were urging the team along through the falling snow, one of the leaders stepped off the road into the deep snow and fell, dragging the other horses and the sled off the road. The sled upset, or stood on its side, spilling everybody and everything out. The women were greatly excited and seemed afraid to move in the deep snow. The driver could not leave his team, but gave me the cue as to what to do, and I took one of the robes and spread it on the snow and took the little girl and sat her on the robe. With a little effort I packed the two women (one at a time, of course) and placed them also on the robes giving them some covers; and in a few minutes we were back on the road and loaded.

We met the stage on time and when we, on our return trip, arrived at City of Rocks we were met with all kinds of Christmas greetings and on that Christmas evening, sixty years ago, we sat down to a Christmas dinner that only youth and vigor could do justice to.

After the meal we went into the living room, where Glove-Maker Jim had erected a Christmas tree, and decorated it with cranberries and popcorn, and on its branches hung little tokens of remembrance to each one present. Jim acted as Santa Claus; and we all sang, or tried to. An old fiddle was brought out and the ladies sang as I played and Jim kept time by tapping a scribe-awl on a carpenter’s square. So passed Christmas in Idaho, a half-century ago.

LOOKING FOR BETTER DIGGINGS

AS A BOY OF NINETEEN I took employment with a merchant who was selling goods to the Snake River miners at Springtown. It was early in the spring of 1876. The employment was not permanent, as I was anxious to be free to go at any time, especially being anxious to do some mining and prospecting, and get some knowledge of camp life and camp cooking. I had been raised in a family of girls in Iowa, and had never as much as washed or dried a dish at home, and now to see the western men preparing their camp meals seemed to me an art that I was anxious to master. We had arranged that I was to take charge of the Springtown store while the merchant made a trip to Corinne to buy goods and to attend to other business matters. There was really enough romance in this position to suit most people who were looking for western life. The Springtown store was situated under the wall rock and a few feet back from the river’s edge, built from miscellaneous material that happened to be available, such as rock, drift logs, dirt, and canvas.

I eagerly entered into the course of instructions that the merchant knew was necessary before he could trust and leave me in charge. The goods were all marked and were to be sold for cash. Gold dust was cash and in fact the only cash that was used at Springtown.

For good clean Snake River dust we allowed eighteen dollars per ounce troy, making one pennyweight worth ninety cents and one grain, twenty-six and a half cents, which we called two bits, giving us a little the best of it. At that time the smallest articles, whether a box of matches, a paper of pins, or a drink of booze, sold for two bits.

It was during this time that a great many white men were leaving the canyon and were being replaced by Chinamen. We found a great deal of difference in trading with a white man or with a Chinaman. When the white man brought his dust to market he would dump the contents of his gold sack into the little pan kept near the gold scales for that purpose, then usually watch the operation, which consisted of bringing the scales to balance, and after weighing out the proper amount, putting the remaining gold dust back into the sack and handing it to the miner as his change.

The Chinaman invariably carried a little pocket scale made like steelyards, neat little affairs with ivory or bone beams and Chinese figures, or marks, which seemed to be self-calculating. In paying out their dust they would first weigh it themselves on these little scales, then tender it to the merchant, who weighed it as usual and in most cases found the Chinaman’s calculation to be correct.

The Chinese were good miners, and it was very interesting to the writer to see the ingenuity which they used in building their cabins and fixing up their living quarters. They seemed to have a natural knack for taking the material at hand and transforming it into something useful. I want to relate a little circumstance that happened which will give some insight into the Chinese resourcefulness and the Chinaman’s aptitude for adapting himself to new conditions.

One day at the store some of us white men were talking about our great desire for something green to eat. It was along about the first of March, and while our systems craved some green stuff, there was nothing obtainable. A Chinaman who was listening to the conversation bought a few pounds of California beans of the navy variety, and as he was leaving the store he said to me: Pretty soon me tell you come to my house, me have good greens and bacon.

Just above the Springtown store there is a large spring that breaks out from under the wall rock. It was from this that Springtown took its name. Its waters are lukewarm and from where it gushes from the wall rock and spreads out in a thin sheet over a sandy formation of its own depositing, it flows to the river. The Chinaman took the beans which he had purchased at the store, sprinkled them around on the sand and in the lukewarm water, and in a few days harvested a big mess of sprouted beans. Then he invited me to dinner, and I must say I ate those sprouted beans with a great deal of relish.

One day, during the merchant’s absence, a white miner came to the store. His name was Benham. He was mining at Jenny’s Flat, several miles down the river and on the south side opposite the Blue Lakes ranch of the present day. Benham and I had met before and a friendship sprang up between us. He requested that I come to his camp on Jenny’s Flat as soon as I could be relieved at the Springtown store, and said that he would give me a half interest in what remained of his mining claim, consisting of pay gravel enough for some two months’ work for one man; or, if we both worked at it, it could be cleaned up in about thirty days and net us good wages. Then we would still have time to do some prospecting on the river before high water came.

In a few days I joined Benham at Jenny’s