As we alighted from the coach, our attention was directed by loud hilarious singing to a company of twenty or more men approaching the station, bearing in their midst a long pine box. I perceived at once that it was a funeral orgie over the burial of some wretch who had paid the penalty of a summary death for a life of crime. A person standing near me replied to my inquiry as to the cause. He said that about two years previous to this time, a stranger came one morning to the station and asked for breakfast. He was hungry and moneyless. Mr. Trotter gave him a breakfast and he left; but something about his actions and appearance aroused Trotter’s suspicions, and, concealed by the sage brush, he tracked him for some distance across the plain, and came up with him as he was in the act of mounting a horse which Trotter recognized as the property of a friend in Boise. Believing that the horse had been stolen, Trotter arrested the man, who gave his name as William Dowdle, sent him to Boise, where he was tried for the theft, convicted, and sentenced to two years’ imprisonment in the Idaho Penitentiary. Dowdle avowed that if he lived to be free, he would kill Trotter. At the close of his term he obtained employment as cook for a freighter named Johnson, and slowly wended his way to Rock Creek, where his employer and party camped for a day to replenish their stock of provisions.
The next morning, armed with a revolver, Dowdle went to the station to execute his threat, and was greatly chagrined to learn that Trotter was confined to his bed with typhoid fever. He sought to alleviate his disappointment in liquor, which maddened him to that degree that he threatened the lives of several persons, and, seating himself beside the road, fired indiscriminately at all who passed him. One shot hit a Mr. Spencer, a blacksmith, who was passing quietly along, inflicting what was supposed to be a mortal wound. Attracted by the reports of the pistol, young Wohlgamuth, a relative of Trotter who had charge of the store, hurried to the doorway, when a bullet from Dowdle’s pistol penetrated the door-casing, just grazing his head. He immediately grasped his revolver from a shelf hard by, and shot Dowdle through the heart. The villain fell prostrate in the road, exclaiming, “Such is life, boys, in the days of forty-nine,” and died instantly. The entire settlement manifested their approval of Wohlgamuth’s timely shot by a season of general rejoicing, and a coroner’s jury exonerated him from all blame.
The funeral followed speedily. A rude coffin of pine, with four handles of cords knotted into the sides, was the single preparation. In this the body, incased in Johnson’s overcoat, was laid, fully exposed, the cover of the box being laid aside until the conclusion of the ceremonies. Four strong men grasped the handles, and lifting the coffin, the procession formed about equally in front and rear of them, and the march commenced. Frequent potations had exhilarated the entire company to such a degree that no attempt was made to preserve regularity of motion or direction. The line of march was between a ridge on the south and one on the north side of the station, about a mile apart. No clergyman was present to conduct the exercises, and no layman was in condition to offer a prayer or read the scriptures. The exigency could only be supplied by vocal music; and in the absence of hymn books it was thought to be exceedingly proper and befitting the occasion for all to join in an old California refrain entitled, “The Days of Forty-Nine.” Indeed, the last words of Dowdle seemed to convey a request for it. The song was a doggerel composed in the early Pacific mining days in commemoration of “Lame Jesse,” a kindred spirit to Dowdle. The mourners on this occasion substituted for the name of “Lame Jesse,” that of “Dowdle Bill.” This musical service was progressing as our coach drove up to the station. The song consisted of a score or more of verses of which I can recall the following only:
“Old Dowdle Bill was a hard old case;
He never would repent.
He never was known to miss a meal,—
He never paid a cent.
“Old Dowdle Bill, like all the rest,
He did to Death resign;
And in his bloom went up the flume,