Vigilante Days and Ways / The pioneers of the Rockies; the makers and making of Montana and Idaho

by Nathaniel Pitt Langford

The stage coach is one among the most vivid memories of the boy of half a century ago. The very mention of it recalls the huge oval vehicle with its great boot behind, fronted by a lofty driver’s seat,—swaying, tossing, rocking, lumbering and creaking as it dashes along, impelled by four swift-footed horses, through mud and mire, over hill and dale, in the daily discharge of its appointed office. Anon the rapid toot of the horn, closing with a long refrain, which reverberates from every hillside, winding a different note to the varied motions of the coach, and a rattle of the wheels announces the arrival, and every urchin in the village is on the alert to see its passage to the hotel, and from the hotel to the post-office. It was the daily event in the memory of childhood, which no time can obliterate. As years wore on and improvements came, and one by one the old-time inventions gave place to others, the coach began gradually to disappear from the haunts of busy life, and the swift-winged rail-car to usurp its customary duties. Seemingly it shrunk away as if frightened at the improvements multiplying around it, and sought a freer life in the vast solitudes of the Great West. There it had full range without a rival for thousands of miles for a third of a century, and conveyed the van of that grand army of pioneers across the continent, who sought and found home and wealth and opened up a new and richer world than any ever before discovered on the golden shores of the great Pacific.

The system of overland travel, which afforded a comparatively rapid transit for passengers and mails between the oceans, made the stage coach an object of peculiar interest to the civilized communities of both continents. It was the bearer of the earliest news from the gold fields, the most assured means of communication between those families and friends whom the lust for fortune had separated, and the most available conveyance to the land of gold. The novelty of a trip across the plains, over the mountains, and through the cañons, its exposures to Indian attack and massacre, its thrilling escapades and adventures, can only be known to him who has accomplished it.

Before the construction of the Union Pacific Railway, mails and passengers were transported from the States to Montana by Holliday’s Overland Stage Line, running from Atchison, Kansas, by way of Denver and Salt Lake City, and connecting at the latter place with a stage line owned by other proprietors, running to Virginia City and Helena, a total distance of nineteen hundred miles. The route, for nearly its entire distance, lay through a country occupied by various Indian tribes, several of which were permanently hostile, and the others ready to become so as occasion offered, to satisfy their greed for plunder or robbery. The only habitations of whites, except at the places mentioned and two or three smaller settlements, were the log cabins of the stock-tenders. The regular time for a journey from Atchison to Helena was twenty-two days. Once started, the only stoppages were at the changing stations twelve to fifteen miles apart,—the eating stations being separated by a distance of forty or fifty miles.

In the Fall of 1864, I made this journey in company with Samuel T. Hauser,—the time occupied being thirty-one days and nights of continuous travel. Our journey was prolonged by delays occasioned by the incursions of the hostile Sioux, who had killed several stock-tenders at different stations, burned the buildings, and stolen the horses. From their frequent attacks upon the coaches from ambush, it was necessary for us to be on the constant lookout, with arms prepared to resist them at any moment. This cautiousness was intensified by the evidence of their murderous purpose we met with in our progress. On the second day after leaving Atchison, the eastern bound coach met us with one wounded passenger, the next day with one dead, and the next with another wounded. The reports of passengers eastward bound were also very discouraging. Yet this risk of life did not lessen travel. The coaches were generally full.

As a curious fact in stage-coach statistics, I may be pardoned for stating that in fourteen years, while National Bank Examiner for all the Territories and the Pacific States, and four years, while Collector of Internal Revenue, my staging to and fro over the continent exceeded seventy-four thousand miles. I learned in that experience that the most comfortable as well as most eligible place for travelling was the outside seat beside the driver; and as it was seldom in demand by others for travel by night, I usually had no difficulty in securing it. For one whose stage travel is pretty constant, no dress is more suitable than the one usually worn by express messengers, which consists of warm overalls and fur coat for ordinary winter weather, and a rubber suit for protection against storms. The only objection to them, and that sometimes and in some portions of the country a serious one, is the liability of the wearer to be mistaken for a guard. The road agent considers the guard with treasure in his keeping as legitimate prey, and shoots him without the least compunction if he evinces any determined resistance. It was my good fortune for several years to travel unmolested over routes which but the day before or after were the scenes of both murder and robbery.

The ill-starred cañon of the Port-Neuf River, memorable in all its early and recent history, for murder, robbery, and disaster, is about forty miles distant from Fort Hall, Idaho. It was named after an unfortunate Canadian trapper, murdered there by the Indians, and ever since that event a curse seems to have rested upon it. Captain Bonneville established his camp there for the Winter of 1833–34, and during his absence with a few men, those who remained, reduced by cold and hunger, were obliged to leave for a more promising location. He found them on his return in the Spring, encamped on the Blackfoot, a tributary of Snake River, not very far above Port-Neuf Cañon. Not only had they been pinched by famine, but they had fallen in with several Blackfoot bands, and considered themselves fortunate in being able to retreat from the dangerous neighborhood without sustaining any loss.

Ever since the stage road from Salt Lake City to Montana was laid out through this cañon, it has been the favorite haunt of stage robbers and highwaymen. Nature seems to have endowed it with extraordinary facilities for encouraging and protecting this dangerous class of the community. Both sides of the river wash the base of basaltic walls, which, by the combined action of fire, water, and wind, have been eroded into numerous columns, resembling in formation those of Staffa, and forming coverts and gateways alike favorable to the commission of robbery or murder, and the escape of the criminals. Indeed, it has been with many a commonly received opinion, that these gateways of rock gave the name to the cañon, the word Port-Neuf in compound form signifying “ninth gate.” Notwithstanding its terrible history, the drive through it upon a summer day is very delightful. In the most romantic portion of it, marked by an immense pile of crumbled basalt and favored by an almost impenetrable thicket of willows, is the scene of one of the most horrible tragedies that ever occurred in the murderous history of this robbers’ den.

Robbery and murder in the early history of the gold-seekers in Montana and Idaho were carried on upon strictly business principles. No attack upon a coach or a returning emigrant train was made without almost certain knowledge of the booty to be obtained. Some of the band of robbers were at the different mining localities, on the lookout for victims; and between them and the attacking party a system of telegraphy existed by which was communicated all possible information concerning every departure of the coach with a treasure-box, or passengers with gold dust.

In the Summer of 1865, Messrs. Parker and McCausland, who represented the interests of two successful merchants of Virginia City, and Messrs. Mers and Dinan, merchants of Nevada City, left Montana for St. Joseph, Missouri, with about sixty thousand dollars in gold dust in their possession. For a week or more before leaving, as was the custom in those days, they had sought by various devices to mislead any local operatives of the robber gang who might be watching them, as to the exact time of their departure, so that when they took leave of Virginia City they were very confident they had stolen a march upon them, and would pass the ordeal of a coach ride to Salt Lake City in safety. Port-Neuf Cañon was regarded as the dangerous spot. Once through that, they were comparatively safe. Their treasure, safely packed in buckskin bags, was in part concealed upon their persons, and the remainder locked up in a carpet-sack, carefully stowed away under the back seat which they occupied. Before their arrival at Snake River bridge, two more passengers, Brown and Carpenter, were added to the number. Leaving there in high spirits, they proceeded at a brisk pace down the road, entering the cañon at an early hour in the afternoon. It was a pleasant sunshiny day. Happy in the belief that before its close they would leave the dreaded place behind them, and that no attack would be made in daylight, the members of the company were engaged in one of those rambling discursive conversations which belong exclusively to this mode of travel. Each man, however, as if instigated by the evil spirit of the locality, had, before arriving at the cañon, examined his weapons of defence and placed them in a convenient position for use in case of necessity. Mile after mile was passed, and more than half the distance through the cañon had been travelled, when a voice issuing from a clump of bushes by the roadside sternly commanded the driver to halt, and at the same moment the muzzles of nine or ten guns were presented at the passengers, who were ordered to throw up their hands. “Robbers! Fire on them!” exclaimed Parker, who had taken a seat on the outside of the coach for the purpose of watching,—and suiting the action to the word, he cocked and raised his gun and attempted to fire, but fell forward riddled with buckshot. At the same time other shots killed McCausland, Mers, and Dinan, and seriously wounded Carpenter, who escaped by feigning death, as one of the robbers was about to shoot him again. Brown escaped by plunging into the surrounding thicket of bushes. Charley Parks, the express messenger, received a serious wound which necessitated the amputation of the leg at the thigh. The murderers then completed their work by rifling the bodies of their victims, and seizing whatever treasure they could find upon and within the coach, and then made their escape through the basaltic gateways to the fastnesses of the mountains. The driver, with his ghastly freight of dead and wounded, returned to the station. Large rewards were offered by the stage company for the arrest of the desperadoes who had committed this frightful butchery, and for the recovery of the stolen treasure. Many members of the Vigilante organization of Montana started in pursuit, but all attempts to trace the murderers were for some time abortive.

Frank Williams, the driver of the coach, soon after left the employ of the stage company, and was for some time a hanger-on of the saloons of Salt Lake City. The lavish use he made of money while there, excited the suspicion of those who were in pursuit of the robbers, and when he left the city, they followed him and watched him closely, until satisfied that he was using money in larger amounts than he could have obtained honestly. At Godfrey’s Station, between Denver and Julesburg, they arrested him. Conscience-smitten, he fell upon his knees at the feet of his accusers, and made a full confession, implicating eleven confederates, whose names and places of abode he revealed. He admitted that he had driven the coach into the ambush for the purpose of aiding the robbery, in the avails of which he was a participant. It probably never occurred to him that the murder of the passengers was possible; and from the moment of its occurrence he had not known a moment’s peace of mind or freedom from fear of arrest. He was hanged near Denver immediately after his arrest and confession. The information he gave enabled his captors to eventually secure the persons of several others engaged in the robbery, who were summarily executed,—but the larger portion of the robbers are still at large.