“To the best of my knowledge and information, received from parents and other relatives:

“About the year 1790 Edwin Smiley, a young lad, ran away from the North of Ireland and came to America. In some way he acquired some education. I understand that he had a barely perceptible Irish brogue. About 1800 he married Katura Watson, a Scotch lassie, and took up a homestead in Virginia. My grandmother Smiley was born about 1778— a vigorous, strong character— and lived to be ninety years old. To them were born twelve children. Sarah Watson, my mother, was born 1819 and died 1881. She was married in 1853 to J.J. Keaton, and one child was born to them— me, Elizabeth Frances, Sept. 1, 1857. I was married to Edwin Price Woods, Sept. 17, 1872 on Greyson Creek, Meagher County, Montana.

“It was about 1842 when Father emigrated from Virginia to Missouri and stopped at St. Joe, then little more than a landing for boats; he assisted in building the first brick house built in St. Joe, and built many other houses there. In 1855 he secured a home in Kansas five miles across the river from St. Joe. In 1865 we moved from Virginia City, (Montana) to a remote part of the country on Missouri River Valley.

“We passed through Last Chance, now Helena, then the new booming mining camp. Many of our friends and acquaintances had gone there from Virginia City, as richer mines were reported discovered there. From Last Chance we followed a dim trail to Missouri Valley. As we reached the low pass near Beaver Creek, the panorama spread out before us was beautiful, an open plain of some 20 miles dotted here and there with bands of antelope.

“Midway was Antelope Springs, a green oasis. Beyond was the Missouri River, a silver thread winding its way through the Valley with cottonwood trees here and there along its course, while in the distance snow-capped Baldy reared its head. It was fine to look at, but oh, so lonely, not a sight of human habitation for the 40 miles, and not a human being to be seen.

“The indifferent trail on which we started was soon lost and we jolted over the prairie in the direction of the place Father had selected— a V-shaped place bounded on one side by the river and on another by the impassable foothills.

“Father built a log cabin, with dirt roof and floor. Lumber or any building materials could not be obtained nearer than Helena.

“Radersburg was a mining camp with a little store and, of course, saloons, half a dozen miner’s shacks scattered along the gulch, some fifteen miles from our place on Crow Creek that emptied into the Missouri River.

“That winter we lived in the most primitive way. We molded candles, and made soap from the fat of deer and antelope. Lye for soap making was secured from cottonwood ashes put in a hopper, water poured on, and the drippings made a good strong lye.

“Mother cooked on the fireplace, but we had milk and butter, plenty of fresh meat, and my pullet, that Mrs. Oliver had given me, laid an egg every day. Mother made the best biscuits baked in a Dutch oven, and with baked potatoes we lived fairly well.

“A long full skirt of Mother’s white dress, ripped up, was tacked overhead to keep dirt from falling in our food, but did not keep out the dirty water when it rained.

“Father tanned deer and antelope hides and Mother, being an expert needlewoman, made gloves, at first with sinews. She got her first buckskin needle from an Indian. Mother had a brother connected with a dry goods store in New York, from whom she could get some small supplies, only there was the difficulty of sending money. Gold dust sent in a letter was not practical and there was no post office nearer than Helena that year. It was rarely we had a chance to send a letter or get one, and it seemed to take months to get an answer.

“Father also trapped and tanned beaver hides, of which Mother made the gauntlets, lining them with parts of a silk dress. Her paisley shawl was torn up to make mufflers for us.

“Mother’s beautiful hands had never done rough work before the war. Now they were cracked and bleeding from the hard alkali water and home-made soap. It was a far cry from a sunny Virginia home to this lonely cabin in the then uncivilized mountain country.

“We had not been in Missouri Valley long when Smith and Hattie joined us; their very young baby, Martha Katherine, was only three or four weeks old. It was October, I think.
Another cabin was erected near, and later the space between was closed.

“To Father this lonely place was a haven of rest, away from the hate, the turmoil and the desolation left by the war— here he could say what he pleased.

“But it was not so with my timid mother. To her nothing could compensate for the lack of companionship and for the advantages of civilization. When depressed and homesick for the old home and friends, she found consolation in singing, and one of her favorites was ‘How Firm a Foundation.’ In later years I was to understand why.

“Of an evening we always sang, no music or words, except those in Mother’s hymn book, and the print was fine, but it did not matter, we knew the words by heart. Sometimes the Bible was read aloud, or we might play checkers, and for a bedtime lunch, potatoes would be raked out of the ashes where they had been roasting and Mother would bring in a pitcher of buttermilk.

“If by any chance we got hold of a paper or book it was read and re-read until worn out, or possibly passed on to some one else.

“Father and Charlie had cut, with a scythe, and put up enough hay for our stock, but there was none to spare. The winter was hard and stray work cattle, drifting with the storm, could go no farther than our place, and we were compelled to watch them starve and freeze in our dooryard. It grieved me terribly and how I hated the coyotes and magpies sitting for them to die.

“Thus passed the long, hard winter of 1865 and 1866. The days grew longer, the honk of wild geese proclaimed the coming of spring and as the snow melted little rivulets of water ran down the hillsides and gullies where the rock ferns grew; the violets bloomed, the larks sang early and late, and all things, animate and inanimate, took on new life.

“In the spring of 1866, Smith and Hattie moved to some mines in New York Gulch, 40 miles down the river and several miles back in the mountains. When the mosquitoes got bad, Mother and 1 went down and spent a few weeks with Smith and Hattie, where the mosquitoes were not so troublesome, and Father and Charlie went to Utah for flour.

“It was decided that Mother and I would go back to Missouri where the Kempers were and we went from New York Gulch to Helena on the stage coach and I was beautifully seasick. There we stayed with Major Hutchinson’s family, who had come there from Virginia City, and who were again in the hotel business.

“While we were in Helena, Mrs. Hutchinson presented her husband with twins. She was his second wife. Alice and Fannie, who had married W.Y. Pemberton, were by his first wife. Mrs. Hutchinson died soon after and the married daughter was compelled to take care of the babies.

“We expected to take the stage to Fort Benton going from there to St. Joe on the steamboat, but there was delay, the boat didn’t come up as expected and we finally gave it up, as the water was too low for the boat to make the trip, so Charlie came for us and we went back to the cabin on Missouri Valley. There the grass was high, the foxtail waving was very beautiful but perfectly worthless for feed for stock. We had to drive out the bats that had taken possession of our cabin.

“But it seemed more lonely than before. We had left the cat and chickens with Smith and Hattie in New York Gulch. These pets had been a great deal of company to me and I missed them sorely. Our few head of stock were turned out to wander where they would, and the stillness was oppressive, so as the days passed the vastness of the solitude became terrifying. Not a sound through the heat of the day, even the crickets were silent, and the rasping whirr of the wings of a startled grasshopper was frightening. Not a sight of anything moving. Father and Charlie were away cutting hay. I was glad when evening came, even the croak of the frogs was welcome and other things of the swamp awoke; the weird call of the pelican, the terrified quack of a duck as a muskrat pulled it under the water, the whirr of wings of a flock of ducks settling on the slough for the night so close to us, with the occasional hoot of an owl.

“No one had passed that way since we came back, and October nights were getting cold.

“One day I saw two horsemen approaching. As they neared I saw that one was a woman with a bundle in her arms. We all came out to see and then I screamed, ‘It’s Hattie!’ I was overjoyed, and then I noticed something seemed to be wrong. Father had his own ideas about married women riding around with other men, and his grim face betokened no welcome. His first words were, ‘Harriet, where is John?’ And then the man said, ‘Father, don’t you know me?’ It was Steward and that was the only time I ever saw tears in my father’s eyes. Steward had bull whacked his way out from St. Joe to Helena, had then gone to New York Gulch, where they had procured horses and rode the 40 miles, a two day journey, carrying a year old baby. Each had a roll of blankets on the saddle and lunches in saddle bags. There being no habitation they had camped at night in a tumble-down deserted cabin.

“It never was so lonesome after that. Steward and Hattie went back to New York Gulch but left baby Mattie with us for a while, then some of us took her home and Steward came back; the latter part of the winter of 1867 he was working in the mines at Radersburg.

“By that time there was a post office and school in a log cabin in Radersburg and Steward thought I should start to school and board where he did; Charlie would take me up Monday morning and lead my horse back home and come for me on Friday.

“When Father went back after the wagons in the spring of 1865, after having been snowed in and lost the cattle, he bought a few more head in Utah, enough to get the wagons and some freight to Virginia City. These he still had and in the early spring of 1867 he disposed of them and got young cows.

“In the meantime the mines in New York Gulch played out and the inhabitants moved over the mountain to Cave Gulch, which seemed more promising. The only road leading to Cave Gulch was down a very steep mountain side one half mile. It was barely possible for a team to pull a wagon up or down when roads were good. In winter only sleds were used, and the downward journey was made by attaching guy ropes to the sleds, wrapping the ropes around trees that grew on either side of the road and letting the sled down gradually. On the occasion of our friends, the Goodsons, moving from New York Gulch, all their belongings were piled on the sled and it was started down as usual, when one rope broke, then the other slipped, and the sled bounded gaily on its way like a runaway horse. Mrs. Goodson looked on and laughed herself sick. She said it was the funniest sight she ever saw, as the sled would strike a tree, something would be thrown on: the sled would bound across the road, strike another tree, and off would go a featherbed; the next time it would be a tub of dishes, and so on until everything was scattered in the snow for the half mile up and down the mountain.

“In the winter of 1867 and 1868 Father employed a teacher for Charlie and me— a Mr. George F. Cowan, who had been a Northern officer in the Civil War, a thorough gentleman, evidently accustomed to wealth and culture, but he accustomed himself to our simple way of living so completely, was so unassuming and kindly that he won the lasting friendship of us all. He ordered books beyond our years but he was a good teacher and we learned rapidly.

“By this time there was a one-room frame courthouse built in Radersburg, the county seat. The courthouse was used for dances and church services. Rev. Sattler had settled on Crow Creek and from the milk of the cows he had driven on his journey west, his wife made butter to sell.

“Mother and I sometimes rode the 15 miles to attend church services, sometimes Father or Charlie would take us in the wagon. Once when Father was driving, the wagon jolted in a hole and threw him out dragging the lines with him and the horses started to run. I climbed out on the tongue of the wagon and got hold of one line and with that guided the horses around in a wide circle until they were tired and then drove back to where Father was. He said he was alright, only a shoulder bruised, but he was delirious that night.

“The courthouse was also used for Masonic gatherings. Steward soon joined the organization and used to take me to the dances there and also to parties at the Macomber House, a stage station at the crossing of Crow Creek, two miles below Radersburg. Although I had invitations to parties, Father never allowed me to go with anyone but Steward or Charlie, and wouldn’t have allowed it then, if he could have helped it, but had to submit to whatever Steward said. I was rapidly conscious of being unsophisticated and improperly dressed, but still I had a pretty good time.

“In the meantime Father had erected a more comfortable log house.

“That winter—1868 or 1869— we had a teacher by the name of Warren Woolcot, a very homesick young man.

“The next teacher was a man by the name of Ingram. Steward soon fired him, and my cousin, William Kemper, was the teacher following.

“In 1869 Laura and Hattie Keaton came to live with us, daughters of Uncle Alderson Keaton, who had separated from his wife, the court giving him the children. The two boys, Willie and Charlie, he kept with him. Laura was nine years old and Hattie was five. Though younger than I, they had come from near Bozeman and were more worldly-wise than I.

“I was in the habit of rowing the skiff (we had a light one) across the river whenever Mother and I wanted to cross. I did not like to, but we had no other way; the men were too busy to go and spend the day with us, so on one occasion, I think it was in the spring of 1870, Steward did not want to go when he saw how high the water was, and it was rising rapidly, but we started and as the current was carrying us downstream. I made a desperate effort to turn the skiff upstream, the sudden turn threw the oar out of the oarlock. I lost my balance and fell back on the seat. Mother screamed and reached for the oar that floated beyond our reach, and nearly upset our frail craft. I immediately righted myself and secured another oar that was in the skiff, and went on. But the short time that was lost while the current carried us down caused me to have to land way below our usual landing place and I had difficulty towing the boat up through the willows and mud, but we had no trouble on our return that evening.

“It was in the year 1868 or 1869 that a new baby came to the Smith home, a darling little girl and with the sweetest disposition I think I ever saw.

“She was not the first baby born in the Valley, two other families had children, but they were English, and their attitude implied they were sufficient unto themselves and could endure being left alone. Their hired man said the only evidence of a new baby was the unmistakable wail of an infant, the mother never failed to preside at the breakfast as usual.

“The third family had moved away. The upper part of the Valley, - - - - Flat [Cousin Jack Flats?], was being settled up by bachelors, and as Smith was hospitable and Hattie was a good cook, these men had been in the habit of dropping in, too. This baby was a curiosity and all must come to see it, thus she soon had her fingers around their heartstrings. During her short life, seven years, no other child was so universally beloved.

“The Valley was now being settled up quite rapidly; there was a post office at Centerville, five or six miles down the river from us, but on the other side of the river, also a store and saloon. Except for a trapper’s cabin and a bachelor with stock, there were no settlers on our side of the river, nearer than Crow Creek.

“In 1870 we were delighted that my uncle and aunt Kemper with three of their children came out and settled on Greyson Creek, quite near Smith and Hattie.

“It was evident that a school was needed and in 1871 a school house was built on Deep Creek, being finished at Christmas time, when a social and supper was given and everyone was there.

“In going out Mother slipped on the ice and hurt her hip. She was taken to Mrs. Nofus’, the nearest house where she stayed a week, then was taken home suffering great pain. She was in bed for two months, it was found, too late, that her hip had been dislocated and could not be replaced. After that she walked with a crutch or cane for the rest of her life.”

“By this time there was quite a settlement on Deep Creek and it was a gay winter, parties somewhere every week, but I had no part in it. I stayed at home and took care of Mother the best I knew how.

“In the fall before, 1871, I had become engaged to E.P. Woods, but during Mother’s illness, nearly three months, he never came to see me, or wrote, but was very attentive to another girl, so I heard.

“Lulu Martin and Doc. Bembrick were married that spring (1872) and Lulu asked Alex Proffit to bring me up to spend the day with her, and I promised to go. On the Saturday before E.P. Woods told Charlie he was coming home with him. Charlie told him he could if he wanted to, but that I had an engagement for that Sunday. However, he came anyway, very shame-faced. I was coolly polite and when Alex came for me I asked E.P. to excuse me as I had a prior date, so rode off and left him. When I got home that evening, Steward said, ‘Lizzie, do you think that was the way to treat a man?’ I said, ‘I thought so,’ and said Hattie, ‘It was exactly right.’ It stopped E.P.’s philandering, but unfortunately gave Alex the wrong impression.

“When Father learned that I was to be married in September, 1872 he sold the stock ranch and some of the stock and bought a farm on Greyson Creek, between Smith’s place and Kemper’s. While Father was fixing up a place to live, Mother and I stayed at Uncle and Aunt Kemper’s and it was there I was married on Sept. 17th, 1872 to E.P. Woods, a farmer of Deep Creek district.

“After we were married we went to live with my husband’s relatives. I did try, very hard, to adjust myself to their ways of thinking and doing, but I could not, and gradually the conviction was forced upon me that their ways were not my ways, their ideals not my ideals, and I could not conform without doing violence to the best that was in me. I was too young and ignorant to be able to express myself, or take any stand, but I thought to myself, I’ll go your way for a while, my man, and then you will come with me.

“I found I had taken the place of the Chinese cook, minus the salary, and I received about the same consideration. Here I found it hard to cook with only bacon and vegetables, whereas I had been used to meat, butter, milk and eggs. My sourdough bread was poor, and I’d never cooked or eaten potatoes without butter or cream. But the six men ate what I cooked without comment, all though that winter. It was a most unhappy winter for me, but it passed as winters have a way of doing and as spring came the men scattered, only Mr. Woods and his brother Bill and one bored man remained to put in the crop.

“As my time grew near, Father spoke to Mr. Woods and suggested he get a midwife that we had known in Virginia City, said Charlie would go after her, which he did. It was high water time and the river was dangerous. This Mrs. Yates lived near Bozeman and there was no road on the Deep Creek side of the river further up than Pounts Flat, and no way of crossing except with a skiff. So Charlie, getting a team and wagon of the man who owned our old place, went up the river from there, expecting to cross the river back to get to Bozeman, somewhere near where Three Forks now stands and where the three rivers, Jefferson, Madison and Gallatin converge to form the Missouri. But bridges across the smaller streams were washed out or approaches dangerous and he had to go higher up, finally found crossings and reached Bozeman, got Mrs. Yates and came back to the old ranch where he had to take the skiff to get back to Deep Creek side.

“Charlie said to Mrs. Yates, ‘You better say your prayers, for that flood is dangerous.’ She replied, ‘If I am born to be drown, I’ll never be hung, go ahead.’ They reached our side of the river safely. It had taken Charlie nearly a week to make the trip.

“There was a good crop— mostly wheat, that was ready to cut when a queer cloud obscured the sun, then millions and millions of grasshoppers dropped down, and in an hour the field of grain was reddish brown, every stalk bent and covered with grasshoppers; by morning only the bare stalks were left.

“On one trip Nofus and Bill Green had finished a day’s work, had shot a grouse and Bill was down by the creek dressing it while Nofus, higher up on the bank, was building a fire to get supper. The banks on either side were steep, a log had fallen across the little stream and Bill was underneath the log. Nofus, looking down, saw a mountain lion ready to spring on the man below. Nofus jerked up his gun and shot at the beast and for a moment Bill thought the shot was intended for him, then he saw the lion disappearing up the mountainside.

“They worked on the house during the winter and by spring 1876 we moved into a quite respectable log house (as houses went those days). There were two large log rooms with partitions in each one, practically four rooms. It was built on a slight elevation that was covered with prickly pears, and my immediate job was to dig them out. It was years before I got rid of them and the little feet and hands of my children were often tortured with the wicked thorns.

“We had no well and brought our water from a ditch some distance away, and in summer it got so warm I felt I should die if I could not get a drink of cold water. Neighbor Thorp had a good well and I would take a bucket and my babies, carrying Newt and leading Victor, and go there for water. I would leave the babies with Mrs. Thorp, carry my bucket of water home and hurry back for the babies.

“The grasshoppers the summer before had laid their eggs and I think it was the latter part of May that they young hoppers began to hatch, soon the earth was alive with the tiny insects, all moving in the same direction— west.

“It was on the 28th or 29th of December that Newt seemed so much better I thought I might leave him long enough to do some washing. I was half through when a wave of deathly sickness came over me and I had to lie down. By next morning I was so sick I was hardly conscious. Then Victor was taken sick, so terribly sick and so sudden. I told Mr. Woods to try to get someone, to go to my home and get Charlie to go for a doctor. Radersburg was some sixteen miles away and across the river. Charlie started as soon as he got the word, crossing on the ice, but the fifteen miles across the flat with no broken trail, snow badly drifted and in a blizzard, was hard going and he could not travel fast; when he did get to Radersburg he learned that Dr. Barkley had that morning gone to Helena. Charlie telegraphed him to come back to our house.

“Dr. Barkley got to our house at night December 31st; he spent the night with us and did what he could but it was too late and at dawn New Year’s Day, 1877, Victor passed away, and I too sick to raise my head or do anything for him. It seems it would have been such a comfort if I could have taken care of Victor, but to have him snatched out of my arms so suddenly seemed more than I could bear.

“Sick and heart-sick for the little arms around my neck, my little boy who had been my constant delight for three and one half years was gone, never again would the world be the same to me.

“Dr. Barkley had the habit, when he had a very sick patient, of singing and the only thing he could sing was one bar of When You and I Were Young. Maggie and I never hear that song it does not recall that night.

“Hattie, herself sick, had come down when she heard we were sick. She was taken worse, was taken home and was sick for a long time. It was scarlet fever we had in the most virulent form.

“In a few days her children were taken sick and Dr. Barkley went there and stayed, taking care of Eva, for he loved that little girl as everyone did. He did all he could to save her, but after ten days she too, passed away. The next little one to go was little Arthur Provence who had been the joy and care of Aunt Lucy Kemper, after her daughter Virginia died.

“We had a friend, a Mrs. Hoover much older than I, but married about the same time, who had a little boy six months older than Newt. She and Mr. Hoover decided they must come to see Hattie and me; they left their little boy at home, bringing us some delicacies. Hattie said, ‘If I only had a loaf of your good bread,’ and Mrs. Hoover, ‘You shall have.’ They then went home, washed and changed clothes before going in the house, but found their little boy ill; he lived but a few days.

“Scarlet fever was sweeping through the country like wildfire, many little ones were taken. Johnson’s on Duck Creek lost all three of theirs; Beaches on Prickly Pear lost all eight of theirs in one week, and the father went crazy. Mrs. Beach was a sister of our pastor’s wife, Mrs. Craven.

“Many homes were made desolate and the age-old cry of Rachel Weeping for Her Children and Would not be Comforted, for They Were Not was heard through the land.

“With me, scarlet fever was followed by complications and it was March before I was able to sit up and care for little Newt, who had miraculously, with unskilled care and improper food lived through that terrible sickness. However, it left him with a permanent ear trouble. I do not doubt he had a mastoid abscess, poor baby, how he suffered. He was my one comfort, the one thing I must live for.

“Over sixty years have passed since then, yet the grey dawn of a cold winter morning always takes me back in memory to those sleepless nights and days devoid of ease, grieving my heart out for the little one that was gone, and thinking how cold he was in that bleak snow-covered hillside.

“Mr. Woods was grieved over the death of our little boy, for he was fond of the children and sorry for me in my long illness.

“My mother was with me sometimes but she was not able to do much, and it worried me to see her try, so Mr. Woods took care of baby Newt and me, and did the best he could. It was not easy for him, and we did not have skilled professional care but we lived through it. My recovery was retarded by lack of suitable food. We had flour, bacon, had raised a few late potatoes and rutabagas— all top vegetables had been eaten by grasshoppers. We had no chickens or eggs. Our cow gave only enough milk for the baby Newt and we had no money and no credit, and our friends and relatives were no better off than we.

“Mr. Woods’ stepmother in Helena sent me some pickles, sweet and sour, and nothing in my life ever tasted as good; Mother sent me butter when she had it, and so the winter wore away.

“It was in March that I was able to sit up and must soon be taking care of myself and baby, for it was time for the men to be putting in crops. Surely the grasshoppers would not come this year and it would be possible for us to raise a crop.

“I dragged myself around that spring and summer. I was almost barefoot and had five dollars Father had given me. So, when Jake Titman stopped in one day to know if there was anything he could do for us as he was on his way to Helena, I asked him to get me some shoes; when I offered him the money he said, ‘Wait until I get them.’ Then when he brought them, a nice soft pair of calfskin shoes that fit, he positively refused to take any pay.

“Titman was one of the Poverty Flat ranchers. Jeff Sharp, another bachelor from the flat had come to see us when we were so sick and had split some wood.

“Butte was developing into quite a mining camp and I think it was the spring of 1877 that my cousin, Sim (??) Kemper, tired of feeding grasshoppers went to Butte to see what he could do; later he had his parents and brother William go there, too.

“Up to this time their depredations consisted mainly of stealing horses, killing beef, begging and stealing anything loose, but now they were mad.

“Immense herds of cattle were being run on the Musselshell, Judith Basin and Milk Rivers, crowding out the game, which was wantonly slaughtered. Indians, knowing nothing of civilized warfare did the only thing they knew, which was to kill men here and there, or a family in some out-of-the-way place. I think everyone realized the Indians were not being treated right, but nothing was done about it.

“Telegraph lines were on main highways only, following stage lines. Crossroads were few and poor, often trails that had been made by Indians.

“In out-of-the-way places news traveled very slowly. There were rumors that the Nez Perce were on the warpath and Chief Joseph was going through the country with his band. It was said some settlers had been killed and some had been taken prisoners. Sometimes these stories were exaggerated, quite often not believed, but we know that Indians were killing men here and there in the cattle country, so it was decided to employ scouts to go out on the passes and keep a sharp lookout. I believe there were four employed. Fowler, Bill Harvey, Bill and Riely Deadman were to be posted in Deep Creek Pass, also Sixteen Mile Creek.

“There was a rumor of a fight somewhere in the Big Hole country, some said it was a massacre of white settlers, some doubted there was anything to it, but many of us were fearful.

“Then came authentic news, that the Cowan party, touring Yellowstone Park, had been attacked, several killed, Mrs. Cowan and her sister, Ida Carpenter, and brother Frank, taken prisoners. They talked it over at Bill Smith’s Saloon, at Barker’s store and the Post Office in old Centerville— who would go up the Valley and tell Mr. Carpenter? Then someone said, ‘There’s only one man in this Valley that’s got the nerve to go and tell those old people that their children were prisoners of Indians; Bill Hollingsworth go up and get Steward Keaton!’, which was done.

“Steward said afterwards that, ‘It was one of the hardest things to do.’ The old people saw them coming, and went down the lane to meet them; they were ‘lonely with the children away and were so glad to see company,’ but it was a job that had to be done. Steward spent the night with them and helped and comforted them as the best he could.

“It was several days later news came that these three had been turned loose, with one pony and a little bread. One Indian, White Bird, told them which was to go. This Indian had raised his gun to shoot Frank, the latter thinking fast, felt it probable these Indians were Catholics, so made the sign of the cross. The Indian lowered his rifle, told Frank he would be spared, and his sisters also— after Frank begged for them.

“After three days Frank and his sisters reached the settlement near Bozeman exhausted, they were cared for two weeks before they were able to go home.

“Mrs. Cowan, who had seen her husband shot and fall from his horse, ran to him but had been jerked away by an Indian, while another Indian placed a pistol to Cowan’s forehead and fired, as he lay on the ground. No one could doubt he was killed, but to make sure, the Indians threw rocks at him as he lay unconscious. Yet the feeling came over Mrs. Cowan one day that her husband was alive, and in a few days she learned he had been picked up by General Howard’s scouts (who were following along after the Indians) alive but badly wounded. He was taken to Bozeman, and husband and wife were reunited after their terrible experience. Mr. Cowan eventually recovered after many months of suffering. The wound in his thigh was worst, those at the hip and abdomen not so bad, while the ball fired at his forehead flattened against the skull and ran around under the skin, lodging under the skin at the back of his head.

“Dietrich and Kenok were killed. Steward, Weikert and Olham were wounded but recovered.

“It should be said to the everlasting credit of the Nez Perce, that these ladies were treated with perfect respect.

“To get back to my story: and it was thought best to have the families gather close together, so for several nights all were close around the Deep Creek Schoolhouse; women and children sleeping inside. Nothing happened so everyone went home.

“Suddenly one of the scouts rode furiously though the Valley, giving warning that a band of Indians was camped in Deep Creek Pass; two Indians had shot at him and chased him several miles. All the families now collected near old Centerville, and all men who had guns went out to meet the Indians.

“Just then a company of soldiers, 14, under Lieutenant Nelson, arrived from Helena and were directed which way to overtake the settlers, which they did, and the lieutenant said he would be glad to cooperate with Captain Keaton, as Steward was by common consent placed in command of the settlers.

“The party, lead by Fowler, reached the Pass and decided to wait for daylight to make an attack, rushing down the mountain to the encampment, when from one of the tents a white man stepped, calling out, ‘Don’t shoot boys, for God’s sake!’

“It was Doc. Bembrick, who with a crew of cowboys, were returning from the Musselshell, where he had been rounding up cattle and branding calves. They had been harassed and shot at, had horses stolen by Indians, had to have a guard out every night, and when they caught up with these friendly Flatheads they thought, ‘Here’s where we’ll have a good night’s rest’, only to be frightened half to death at dawn.

“We had no further trouble about Indians in Missouri Valley that summer, but were uneasy, and whenever the men folks went to look after the stock they were armed.

“The grasshoppers came again in the summer but not in such numbers, and some grain was harvested and sold. A few debts were paid, a few groceries bought. I had raised a few chickens that some Mrs. Keene on Duck Creek had given me in the spring.

“Up to that time we had no firearms of any kind in the house, but that fall Mr. Woods bought a Winchester rifle from Fowler; it was an 1872 model and Fowler wanted a later model.
 

 “On Dec. 22, 1877, my third son. Arthur was born...”