“Well, are you going or not? Say yes or no.”
“No!”
At the utterance of this reply, Helm buried his bowie-knife in the breast of the unfortunate man, who, without a struggle, fell dead at his feet. Mounting his horse immediately, Helm rode away. The brother of the victim and a few resolute friends followed in pursuit. They tracked him through several neighborhoods and captured him by surprise at an Indian reservation, and returned him to Monroe County for trial. He was convicted of murder; but his conduct was such while in confinement as to raise serious doubts of his sanity. After his conviction, under the advice of physicians he was consigned to the lunatic asylum, his conduct meantime being that of a quiet, inoffensive lunatic. His keeper, finding him harmless, indulged him so far as to accompany him on daily walks into the country surrounding the institution. On one occasion, on some urgent pretence, Helm asked permission to enter a willow copse, which was readily granted. Afterwards the desire to enter this copse whenever he approached it seemed to take the form of mania. Suspecting no ulterior design, his keeper indulged him. One day, meeting a friend near the spot, the keeper, during Helm’s absence, engaged in conversation. Time passed unnoticed at first, but as the stay of Helm was prolonged, the keeper, fearing some accident had befallen him, made a rapid search through the thicket. But the bird had flown. His stratagem was successful. He was never afterward seen in Missouri, but upon his escape he fled immediately to California. Several persons were killed by him while there, in personal rencontre. At length he committed actual premeditated murder, but escaped arrest by flight. In the Spring of 1858 he arrived at Dalles, Oregon. Fearful of a requisition for his return to California, Helm, in company with Dr. Wm. H. Groves, Elijah Burton, Wm. Fletcher, John Martin, —— Field, and —— McGranigan, attempted a journey on horseback to Camp Floyd, Utah, sixty miles southwest of Salt Lake City, by way of Fort Hall. A ride of several days brought them to the Grand Ronde River. During that time they had become sufficiently acquainted with each other to banish all those feelings of distrust natural among strangers in a new country. Helm, who to his criminal qualities added the usual concomitant of being a loud-mouthed braggart, while narrating his exploits said in a boastful tone to McGranigan:
“Many’s the poor devil I’ve killed, at one time or another,—and the time has been that I’ve been obliged to feed on some of ’em.”
“Yes,” replied McGranigan, casting a sinister glance at Groves, “and we’ll have more of that feasting yet.”
The cold sincerity with which these words were uttered struck a chill to the heart of Groves, which experienced no relief when a few moments afterwards Helm proposed a plan for organizing a band of Snake Indians, and returning with them on a predatory excursion against the Walla Wallas.
“The Walla Wallas,” said he, “own about four thousand horses. With such a band of Snakes as we can easily organize for the enterprise, we can run off two thousand of the best of those animals, and after dividing with the Indians, take ours to Salt Lake and dispose of them to advantage.”
Groves, who had heard enough to satisfy him that a longer stay with this company would be accompanied by risks for which he had neither inclination nor fitness, mounted his horse at a late hour that night, and spurred back to the Dalles as rapidly as possible. On his arrival he sent intelligence to the chief of the Walla Wallas of Helm’s contemplated foray, warning them to keep a careful watch upon their horses. His plans being frustrated, Helm remained in the vicinity till Autumn, when, in company with his five companions, he continued his journey to Camp Floyd. Five hundred miles of this route lay through a wilderness of mountains, unmarked by a trail and filled with hostile Indians. It was late in October when the party left Grand Ronde River. The mountains were covered with snow. Cold weather had set in for a season whose only changes for the next six months would be a steady increase of severities. The thermometer, seldom above, often marked a temperature thirty or forty degrees below zero in the mountains. The passes were snowed up to the depths of twenty and thirty feet. Wild game, however abundant in Summer, had retreated to the forests and fastnesses for food and shelter. Snow-storms and sharp winds were blinding and incessant. Deep ravines, lofty mountains, beetling crags, and dismal cañons, alternated with impenetrable pine forests, inaccessible lava beds, and impassable torrents, encumbered every inch of the way. Death on the scaffold or escape through this terrible labyrinth gave the alternative small advantage of the penalty. Small as it was, Helm and his companions took the risk and plunged into the mountain wilderness. He alone escaped.
In the absence of other narratives of this remarkable adventure, I record his own, as detailed to John W. Powell in April of the following year. Mr. Powell says:
“N. P. Langford,