The following appeared in 1939 in both the Portland Oregonian and the Pierre
Capitol Journal: Scanned from the Capitol Journal in April 2004
AN ILL-FATED WILD WEST SHOW
The following article, written Judge S. C. Polley, appeared in the magazine section
of the Portland Oregonian early in April:
By Samuel C. Polley
Rending the air with war whoops and dancing to the rhythm of a tom-tom, the first
wild west show that ever came out of the west had its birth on the hurricane deck
of the steamship John L. Stevens, as she pulled out of the Portland docks, San
Francisco bound, on the 29th day of April, 1874.
Made up of a small band of Warm Springs Indians, consisting of 26 bucks, four or
five squaws and some half dozen small children, they were enjoying great national
fame, and much popularity because of the part they had played in bringing the socalled Modoc war to a successful termination.
The time of the embarkation was a warm beautiful afternoon, and a large crowd of people were assembled on the wharf to watch the ship's departure. About the
time the ship cast off one the two head men of the Indians asked the ship's
captain if they might give a dance on the hurricane deck while the ship was getting
under way. The captain's assent was readily granted, and in no time at all the
Indians was assembled on the hurricane deck fully togged out in their war paint
and feathers. The first war whoop had scarcely rent the air when apparently
every man, woman and child in the city of Portland was headed for the wharf.
Immediately the wharf, the streets leading toward the river, the house tops, and
even the windows facing the river were black with people, excitedly and curiously
watching the spectacle, which continued until the ship passed the outskirts of the
city. Then the drum stopped beating, and the Indians quieted down. They sat or
reclined on the deck talking and visiting until sunset. Darkness fell as the ship
nosed out into the Columbia River and the Indians retired to their sleeping
quarters for the night.
At daylight on the following morning the ship was riding at anchor just within the
mouth of the river. A terrific storm was raging out over the ocean. The clouds
were black and angry, and the breakers, mountain high, were rolling in over the
bar. No attempt was made to take the ship out to sea during that day, but toward
evening the storm subsided and early next morning a pilot boarded the ship and
steered her out over the bar.
The remainder of the trip was uneventful. The ship reached San Francisco late in
the afternoon of a clear, spring day. She rode in through the Golden Gate and on
up the bay to the landing place. Permission had been given to the Indians to put on
another dance and shortly after entering the bay they reassembled in their war
regalia and the dance began. The scene at the Portland docks was instantly
repeated, for the echo of the first war whoop had scarcely faded in the distance
until it looked like every body in San Francisco was hurrying toward the
waterfront.
From San Francisco the Indians continued their journey to the eastern states,
where they toured the larger cities as a wild west show. Their success was so
great that they grew more ambitious and sailed for England, where they showed in
London and other large English cities. After an absence from home of some thing
more than two years they grew homesick and decided to return to their native
land. They embarked on an ocean liner for New York but while crossing the
Atlantic their ship foundered during a severe storm. Nearly everyone on board
including all of the Indians was drowned so that not a single one of them ever
returned to his homeland.
This colorful pageantry, which ended so tragically, was the direct outgrowth of
the Modoc war. The Modocs were a small tribe of Indians who inhabited a tract of
country along the boundary line between Oregon and California in the
neighborhood of Rhett Lake. Part or all of their country was commonly referred
to as the "Lava Beds."
Sometime during the 1860s the government set aside a tract of something
more than 600,000 acres of land in southwestern Oregon as a permanent
reservation for the Modocs and transported them to such new home, but for some
reason the Indians did not like it and soon returned to their old home in the Lava
Beds.
Long drawn out but fruitless negotiations took place between the Indian
department and the Modocs, and finally removal by force was more than
intimated. A member of the tribe who was known as Captain Jack was the
recognized headman of a small band of these Indians. Captain Jack was an
untamed savage. He was bold, treacherous and unscrupulous, an implacable enemy
of the whites, and absolutely refused to be moved or to consider going to the new
reservation.
Every offer by a peace commission that had been appointed to treat with the
Modocs was insolently rejected; and on one occasion he appeared before the
commission with the scalps of several white people he had murdered, dangling from
his belt. His insolence and daring grew until finally, at a parley held by the
commission with Captain Jack and his partisans, and where all parties were
presumed to be unarmed, the Indians drew pistols they had concealed on their
persons, and deliberately murdered several members of the commission, including
General Canby, who was the head of the commission.
Captain Jack and his followers fled to the Lava Beds and defied the whole United
States army. The order then went out from army headquarters that Captain Jack
and others participating in the murder must be captured and punished for their
crime. This was attempted, but the nature of the country in which the Indians
were concealed was such a character that military maneuvers were impossible.
At this point the band of Warm Springs Indians introduced at the opening or this
narrative adjacent to the Modocs. They were friendly to the whites but unfriendly
to the Modocs, and volunteered their services in an effort to capture Captain
Jack. The offer was accepted, and this little band went into the Lava Beds to look
for Captain Jack. As familiar with the surroundings as the Modocs themselves,
these Indians knew where to look for Captain Jack, and how to capture him when
they found him.
Presently they returned with Captain Jack and his companions, securely bound, and
turned them over to a military commission appointed to deal with the culprits. The
Indians were tried by this commission on the fifth day of July 1873. Six of them,
namely Captain Jack, Schonchin, Boston, Charlie, Black Jim, Slotuck and Barncho,
were convicted of murder and sentenced to be hanged.
(Editor's note; the contributor of the above article, Samuel C. Polley, is a judge on
the South Dakota Supreme Court. Judge Polley, then a lad of 10, made the trip to
San Francisco described in the article.)
MRS. ASKEW'S STORY
(The White Silk Gown)
by John C. Stevenson
Three women were talking in a church lobby after the Sunday Service. The
eldest, who was far into her nineties, was saying, "My uncle was Judge Rice in
Deadwood." ---We were hundreds of miles from Deadwood and these ladies
seemed politely to have never heard of the place. Besides it was 1963 and
Deadwood was no longer famous like it had once been. In 1876 Deadwood, Dakota
Territory had been the scene of a gold rush. The gold rush to the Black Hills of
the Dakota Territory brought a stampede of the young, the restless, the
entrepreneurial, the lonely, gunslingers, prostitutes, thieves, refugees and the
get-rich-quick crowd. This bunch was soon followed by a wave of ministers,
merchants, teachers, doctors, and even a few attorneys. From among the
attorneys and teachers my Maternal Grandparents had met, courted, married (in
1899), and then produced my Mom and two Uncles. — Interrupting the ladies'
conversation and addressing the elderly one I said: "My Grandfather was Judge
Polley, wasn't Judge Rice his law partner at one time? I had a new friend and she
was sixty-three years older than I, she was amazed to find someone who could
remember her uncle. The way I remembered him Judge Rice had been a kindly old
man with snowy white hair. He had given me heaps of gold, actually it was fool's
gold but I was only five or six at the time, I thought it was real gold and the year
must have been about 1938. We were in his office watching a parade in the street
below. It was a Days of ‘76 parade in the main street of Deadwood, Deadwood
Gulch, Deadwood City. During the time that I knew Mrs. Askew she told me the
most interesting story about herself, it had to do with being a little girl during the
1870's.
She said that she had been born in Ohio where her father was a coal miner. When
she was still very young, eight or nine, word came that there was gold in Dakota in
a place called Deadwood. Her father who was adventurous knew that he would get
rich quick. He persuaded his family to pack as much of their belongings as they
could into a covered wagon and to go to the gold fields of Dakota. It is never easy
for a little girl to put aside all of the things that make her happy and secure like
toys and special dresses but covered wagons did not provide much space for
personal belongings. She said that she asked her Mother if she could just take
one favorite thing, her white silk gown. With all of the necessary staples of life
her white silk gown was carefully packed away in the bottom of a wooden crate
where it would be safe. Deadwood would be about 1300 or 1400 miles, they would
leave in the spring, follow trails, hope to not be robbed, cross Indian country, and
cross rivers on ferries. With luck they would arrive before winter. Her father
was very anxious to reach Deadwood to begin a new life; he could barely stand not
being there already. He was a very impatient man. When finally they reached the
Black Hills area they approached Deadwood from the North along approximately
the same route that highway 85 now follows, it follows a long grade up from
Spearfish and then descends two or three miles into Deadwood. In those days
there were no electric lights and there was no pavement. Whenever night came
one simply had to spend the night wherever darkness found him. When they
reached the top of that grade that was where darkness found them. There was no
moon and it was impossible to see the trail. There were cliffs and many other good
reasons not to try to go on in the dark. But they could see Deadwood, there were
some lights and they could even hear music. It was just possible to see enough to
go on foot but it was not safe for the team and wagon. Mrs. Askew's father could
not contain himself, having to wait all night to proceed was more than he could
bear. The miner made a request of his nine-year-old daughter, would she please
put on her white silk gown and make her way along the road - and see if the team
could see the light from the gown, and follow her into Deadwood. It worked! The
team was able to follow the girl in the white silk gown and the family arrived in the
booming little city by midnight!
THE POET AND THE POSSE
by John C. Stevenson
"Aw gee Mom, didn't anything crazy ever happen to you when you were a
teenager?" That was my question in response to some issue that my Mother had
been trying to instruct me about - lecturing. The issue is long forgotten but
Mother's response is well remembered. We were each other's captives traveling
somewhere for an hour or two in one of those Buicks that had three portholes in
each front fender. I think we were in Iowa and the year was very likely 1950. My
Mother was a proper lady who never did anything funny or crazy and I was a
teenager who never did anything that was not funny or crazy unless it was stupid.
There was a long and thoughtful pause and finally the admission:
"Yes."
We lived in Missouri but my Mother had grown up in Pierre, South Dakota where
her Father had served on the State Supreme Court for many years. Up until the
time when my Grandparents died we had made many summer trips to Pierre and I
knew from first hand experience that no place on earth could be duller (or hotter
in the summertime) than Pierre, South Dakota. Of course Mom had lived there for
years and she had known almost everybody in town. My grandfather had been born
on the frontier in Minnesota and had been in the first class graduated by the
University of Minnesota School of Law. He became the one of the first qualified
and honest attorneys in the Wild West gold-rush town of Deadwood. He enjoyed
hunting and fishing throughout most of a long and healthy life but I remembered
my Grandfather as a frail and nearly humorless old man. I was filled with doubt,
nothing crazy could ever happen in or around Pierre.
"Do you know who Hugh Glass was?" she asked.
"No, who was he?
"He was one of the ‘Mountain Men'" she replied, "a fur trapper. The ‘Mountain
Men' were among the very first persons of European descent into much of the
Wild West back when it was occupied by the Sioux and other tribes."
"Uh-huh."
"Do you know who John G. Neihardt is?"
"No."
"Mr. Neihardt is a very old man who lives in Nebraska, he is a poet. He writes long
narrative epic poetry that has a basis in history. He wrote a long work called The
Song of Hugh Glass - Did you know that your Grandfather was also a member of
and very interested in the State Historical Society?"
"Where does all of this get crazy?" I asked.
"Well," Mother began, one summer while I was a teenager in Pierre, Doan
Robinson, the curator, or manager, of the state historical society and he was out
of town traveling on personal business. So when this letter came for the
Historical Society it was forwarded to Pop, your Grandfather. The letter was
from the editor of the Omaha, Nebraska World Herald. The letter offered
something very interesting but not exciting. The letter was about John G.
Neihardt, the Poet Laureate of Nebraska who had just published The Song of
Hugh Glass. The editor considered The Song of Hugh Glass a major artistic and
literary milestone completed right there in Nebraska! The only problem for
Nebraska was that most of the story line of The Song of Hugh Glass occurred in
the areas of present-day Wyoming, Montana and the Dakotas. The work is a long
historical narrative in verse form, it runs over one hundred pages in print.
It documents the adventures Hugh Glass, who, in 1823 had a great misfortune.
While his companion was away hunting Hugh was mauled by a grizzly bear at the
forks of the Grand River, near the place where a town named Lemmon (spelled with
two m's) now stands. When Hugh's companion found him, Hugh appeared to be
dead so he was left for dead. His companion helped himself to Hugh's rifle
and skinning knife. Overcome by grief, his companion and best friend lacked the
courage to bury him. In fact, Hugh was not dead, not quite. Deserted in the wild
country Hugh Glass recovered slowly and painfully; knowledge of survival skills on
the lonely prairie served Hugh well, and he survives. A great portion of the poem is
about this torturous painful recovery and (with broken legs) about a long crawling
journey before his limbs had healed well enough for him to walk. He was seeking
revenge on the friend who left him for dead and left him weaponless. After about
two years of pain and primitive travel over the area roughly bounded by presentday Omaha, and Yellowstone Park, Hugh finally finds his friend who by this time
has been left blind by Hugh's rifle when the rifle had blown-up in the companion's
face; a vicarious and poetic revenge indeed. In the very end, after Hugh finally
finds his old friend now blind in both eyes, Hugh forgives. It is a colorful story of
friendship, tragedy, misdeed, pain, recovery, survival, revenge sought, and finally
forgiveness.
"So the Omaha editor decided that a monument should be erected at the forks of
the Grand River in what now is South Dakota. It never occurred to the editor that
any kind of advanced notice should be afforded the people of Lemmon; in fact,
from the timing of his letter to the Historical Society, any kind of notification
May have been an afterthought.
"The main message of the letter was that three days hence Mr. Neihardt, the
author and poet, and the editor of the Omaha World Herald would arrive in Pierre,
and that if the historical society cared to send someone along on this monument
building junket, they were invited. Your Grandfather and I decided to tag along.
"On the appointed day a model-T Ford with Nebraska plates arrived in Pierre and
its occupants were made welcome guests in our house. On the Morning of the next
day two model-Ts set out for Lemmon. The lead car had tied to its side’s fresh
lumber forms for the monument. This vehicle also contained hundreds of pounds
of cement and gravel for mixing concrete, the concrete for the monument. They
also had along a bronze plaque inscribed with a brief message about Hugh Glass,
some copies of the recently published poem in book form, and a Holy Bible. The
plan was to entomb a copy of The Song of Hugh Glass and the Bible within the
monument.
"So, off we went, Mr. Neihardt, the editor, the wooden forms, the cement, the
books, and the Bible in the lead car. We followed far behind because the prairie
roads were very dusty in those days and traffic was light. The model T with Pop
and me followed about two miles behind. We were two plumes of dust crossing the
vast sea of grass. After all day and 250 miles and after lodging had been arranged
at a local hotel, but before going to supper, the Omaha editor went to the local
newspaper to introduce himself to the local publisher - who had left work early
leaving his place of business locked. Monument building is important and
newsworthy business and must be undertaken early in the morning before the sun
grows too hot so the Omaha editor penned a note:
"Meet us at the forks of the Grand at 6 in the morning and I'll give you the news
story of the summer."
"There under he signed his name clearly enough to read, expecting the local
newsman to know who he was, and left.
"At six in the morning it was full daylight and our party of poets, editors, justices,
and I arrived at the forks of the Grand wondering if the local publisher would
meet us there. Well, the local publisher was they’re, furiously angry, and in the
company of an armed and mounted posse led by a Perkins County Sheriff's deputy.
The county seat was many miles away and this deputy was still in his teens, goodlooking, smart, polite teen-age boy was all the law there was.
"The Posse got right to work and lined-up the intellectuals from the south by
their model-Ts with hands up; just like in the cowboy movies of today. What, they
wanted to know was, did these strangers plan for the local publisher, and how did
all of that concrete, wooden forms, and gravel figure into the publisher's short
term future? Mr. Neihardt attempted to explain, "I'm a poet" he began but a
grizzled posse member returned, "this is cattle country, we got no time for poets
here, you ain't no poet". Now the editor from Omaha tried his hand with, "I'm the
managing editor of the Omaha World Herald." "You're a monkey's uncle!" shouted
another. Words were flying and nothing made any sense at all. It was revealed
that the local publisher's shop had been vandalized several times in the recent
past over some editorial opinions that he had printed about a local issue of heated
controversy. These tie wearing strangers from who knows where looked like they
were there to dispatch this local publisher and somehow sink his final remains in
the waters of the Grand River by means of the concrete, gravel, and wooden
forms.
"I was terrified, so far only myself, Pop, and the deputy had not spoken a word.
Addressing Pop the deputy, far more politely than his posse, asked, "Who might
you is sir?”
"Well, today I'm representing the state historical society ... but I also serve on
your state supreme court." This brought on hoots of total disbelief, laughter, and
sneers. Still with hands up-stretched the poet entered a question: "Have any of
you ever heard of Hugh Glass?" "NO" everybody shouted and then one voice spoke
out "I think so".
"Do you know who he was?" queried Mr. Neihardt. "Hmm, some kind of trapper
came through here about a hundred years ago, even before the Indians came!”
Everybody laughed. The deputy stepped forward and held up the note that had
been placed in a crack in the door of the local newspaper office the afternoon
before, and asked, "Who wrote this?" "I did!" replied the editor, "don't you know
who I am, I'm the editor of the Omaha World Herald, and you should know my
name!"
"Well I don't know your name! You are all here to murder me;" retorted the local
publisher, "besides, even if you are who you say you are, we don't get the Omaha
paper here, we get the Minneapolis Paper, never heard of you!" Pop went next,
speaking to the deputy:
"I have a suggestion: first you should search our vehicles for weapons and when
you happen upon a box containing several books entitled ‘The Song of Hugh Glass'
would you please bring one of them to the local publisher?" The ensuing search
revealed no weapons and when the book was delivered to the publisher as
requested, Pop continued, "Okay, now who is the author of the book?"
"John G. Neihardt" replied the publisher. "Well now" said Pop, "Isn't that who
that gentleman says he is?"
"Hmm, Well?"
"Well, I suggest that you open the book to any page and read aloud a few lines,
and then pause to see if Mr. Neihardt knows what comes next."
"Very well" said the local publisher.
Now when the days of travel numbered four
And nearer drew the barrens with their need,
On Glass, the hunter, fell the task to feed.......
Read the publisher.
Those four score hungers when the game should fail.
For no young eye could trace so dim a trail,
Or line the rifle sights with speed so true,
Continued the poet, "try another page."
Straight away;
Beneath the flare of dawn, the Ree land lay,
And through it ran the short trail to the goal.
Read the Publisher
Thereon a grim turnpikeman waited toll:
But twas so doomed that southering geese should flee
Nine times ere yet the vengeance of the Ree
Should it make their foe the haunter of a tale?
Rejoined the poet.
Stunned, the publisher read from another page:
The red sun pausing on the dusty rem,
Induced a panic aspect of his plight:
The herd would pass and vanish in the night
And be another dream to cling and flout,
Now scanning all the summit round about,
With no pause the poet continued:
Amid the ruble of the ancient drift
He saw a bowlder. ‘Twas too big to lift,
Yet he might roll it. Painfully and slow
He worked it to the edge, and then let it go
And breathlessly expectant watched it fall,
It hurtled down the leaning yellow wall,
And bounding from a brushy ledge's brow,
It barely grazed the buttocks of a cow
And made a moment's eddy where it struck.
In peevish wrath Hugh cursed his evil luck,
"Well?" inquired one of the assembled posse.
"Well, Hell," went on another, "To find out what happens next you gotta buy the
book!"
"The laughter that followed somehow united the posse and our party into a group
of awkward new friends, with not much in common.
"The two groups merged into one and set about to erect the forms, mix, then
pour, the concrete. Before noon the monument was complete - with its books and a
document signed by all present enclosed.
"As the helpful posse began to drift off to their usual chores the young deputy
asked me if he could show me around Lemmon that evening. What can a girl say to
a boy with two loaded revolvers? ‘But of course.'
"When the polite deputy came calling for at the hotel he was still wearing his star
and two revolvers! I asserted myself by refusing to go out with an armed man.
So, after philosophical discussion about when is a man a lawman and when is a man
an escort, the sidearms had to go but the star could stay. We spent the early
summer evening exploring the streets of Lemmon in a model T Ford. By this time
everyone in town had heard of the morning's standoff at the forks of the Grand
and the young swain was showing me off. I met everyone in town. By about 10:PM
he returned me to Pop's hotel room and the date was over. The next day the two
plumes of dust returned to Pierre."
"There, now, kiddo, was that crazy enough?"
"Is the monument still there?" I asked.
"Well, if it is it would now be under the waters of Shadehill Reservoir.
"What about that guy, did you ever see him again?
"No!"
The foregoing story was told to me by my mother (Catherine Polley Stevenson) in
about 1950.
John C. Stevenson
2001
This was scanned from a crumbling old clipping from, most likely, a Deadwood
Pioneer Times published in November of 1899, Scanned in April 2004. JCS
Polly-McConnell Wedding
Married – at 4 o'clock Wednesday afternoon at the residence of Mr. and Mrs. J.
M. Brelsford, on Lincoln Avenue, Lenore Vance McConnell and Samuel C. Polley, the
Rev. Barron officiating.
The announcement will come as a surprise to all but the most intimate friends of
Mr. and Mrs. Polley. The wedding was a very quiet one no cards being issued, and
no guests in attendance but Mr. and Mrs. R Koenigsberger, in whose family Mrs.
McConnell is visiting, and Mr. and Mrs. W. G. Rice. The marriage ceremony,
performed by Rev. Barron, was the simple but beautiful service in use in the
Congregational church. After the ceremony the wedding party was served with an
elaborate dinner. The bride was dressed in white satin trimmed with lace and pearl
trimming, and the groom wore conventional black, Mr. and Mrs. Polley left on the
Elkhorn for Hot Springs, where they will spend several days, and on return will be
at home to their friends at 378 Williams street. The bride is the daughter of Rev.
Alex. McConnell formerly pastor of the Congregational church here, has lived in
Deadwood for the past eight years and has been a favorite with all whom she came
in contact. Possessed of an unusually pleasant disposition and strong character.
She has made many friends who will be glad to know that she is to make her home
in this city. The groom is the junior member of the law firm of Rice & Polley, and
has been practicing law in the Black Hills for twelve years. He has been prominent
in politics, also, and is a young man of ability and promise.
The Pioneer-Times joins with the many friends of Mr. and Mrs. Polley in extending
congratulations, and in wishing them happiness and prosperity.