in 1879 my folks came across the plains from fort pierre to the black hills and the first town we came to, of any size, was scooptown and from there to deadwood was mostly mountains and several toll gates. it cost a dollar to go through those places—that meant the people that kept those gates kept the road repaired so it would be passable—but those roads were sure tough. i remember when we drove our team up the street of deadwood the mud was about two feet deep and we could hardly get through, as deadwood was one street about a mile long in a deep canyon. it was laid out in three sections: first elizabeth town, chinatown and then deadwood proper. we camped in elizabeth town for several weeks—lived in a tent.

it was a great sight at that time around the old gem theatre, which was a big dance hall and gambling house. there was no law prohibiting minors from going into those places and i sure got an eyeful! the first unusual sight i remember was seeing a woman with a black and swollen eye. and in most of those dives there were women dealing faro bank and poker—and i was fascinated with the names they went by. there was big gussie, who was bed rock tom’s common-law wife. she was considered a very capable gambler and would take and pay all bets as cool and calm as a bank teller—and just as accurate.

i used to admire those old characters. there was colorado johnny, tom allen, deaf jimmie and several others ... i have forgotten their names. those men were all faro dealers—and wore long whiskers ... and the barbers sure got well paid to keep those whiskers in perfect style—and the fine clothes and jewelry they wore must have cost a small fortune.

as i remember there was 28 legitimate faro banks in town about that time, besides several questionable ones. those games had a limit in the amount you could bet on the turn of a card, which was usually $12.50 and $25.00, but one or two houses had $125.00 and $250.00 limit—that means you can only bet the low limit where there is only one card left in the deck to act. you can bet it to win or lose. most everybody played faro them days—but i believe the chinaman was the greatest gambler of them all. about 11 o’clock at night was their favorite time to start out to gamble. they would put on their best clothes—which was the very finest of goods them days—white socks, silk top shoes, and they would leave chinatown for the white man’s game. i have seen 25 of them, dressed this way, one behind the other heading for the faro game—and they sounded like a bunch of geese honking to each other in their talk. they liked to all get around one gambling table and if one of them seemed to be lucky, the rest of them would follow him with their bets. in fact, it seemed to be a kind of a system they had—and often they would win several thousand dollars in a night.

while we were living in deadwood, there was an old man kept a little grocery store close to where we were camped, and an old irish woman kept a boarding house nearby. it was hard to get white sugar most of the time, and the people had to use brown sugar, which came in barrels, and when the weather was damp and rainy that sugar seemed to draw moisture and got quite heavy. and each time the old lady got sugar she accused the old man of putting water in it to make it weigh more. one morning he saw her coming. he got a bucket of water and was standing by the barrel when she walked in. she ran up to him and stuck her first in his face and said, “i caught you at last—i always knew you were watering that sugar!” she didn’t make much fuss about it afterwards. she seemed pleased to know she had caught him and that her suspicions had proved to be right.

after a few months in deadwood my folks moved to the little town of galena, where colonel davey owned the sitting bull mine, and my folks started a store and boarding house and i went to school for a short time. there was two irishmen run a store there by the name of mcquillian and finnegan. they also had a cow ranch about 75 miles east of galena. finnegan run the ranch, mcquillian run the store. finnegan used to come to galena sometimes on horseback. his saddle, chaps and outfit was something wonderful to me—and his stories of the range made me feel i wanted to be a cowboy. i asked him for a job and he laughed at me, told me i was too young. also my folks wanted me to go to school.

but the spirit of the wild country had got in my blood and one day i run away from school and started for the finnegan ranch, caught a ride when i could and walked part of the way, but finally got there, and told finnegan i was going to stay. so he gave me a job close herding some cows for breeding purposes. the first thing he learned me was to read his brand which was “f m.” there was thousands of brands on the range those days, and i was supposed to keep all other brands of cattle out of his bunch.

the old man had several cowboys working for him, but he was chief cook, bottle washer and boss. he used to tell me he was the best cowboy of them all. but the fact of the matter was he couldn’t do much of anything in the way of a cowboy, and the men used to make fun of him behind his back. but i learned pretty quick that he liked to be swelled about what he could do and i sure poured it to him, and he liked me fine. he used to tell me what a fine cook he was—his cooking was rotten and consisted of bacon and beans and sourdough bread. i remember he had an old knotty pine log in front of the cabin, and i don’t think he ever started to cook a meal that he didn’t grab the axe and hit that old knotty pine log a few licks. he never got any wood off of it, but would try it every time, then throw the axe away, and hunt up some chips, or anything else he could find to start a fire. when he made bread, he had flour from his eyebrows to his toes.

in 1879 the country was sure wild. deer, antelope, buffalo and bear were very plentiful; very few white people, but lots of indians and some of them were still on the warpath in them days; also quite a sprinkling of road agents. i remember one old road agent named laughing sam. he was very polite in his holdups. he held up a freighter one time and all he had that sam wanted was chewing tobacco. the freighter begged sam to not take all his tobacco, as he could not get any more until he got to sidney, nebraska, which was about 200 miles, but sam said he was sorry on account of the law he could not go to sidney, so took all of the tobacco.

in those days everything was freighted from fort pierre, south dakota, and sidney, nebraska, to the black hills by ox teams and mule teams. i have seen 27 ten-yoke teams of oxen all in one outfit. at the head of this caravan rode the wagon boss. he was quite a dandy in those days—fancy saddle, boots and pearl handle six-shooter. it was a great sight to see an outfit like that moving across the country; with those men shouting at their teams, whips popping and wagons rattling. it sounded like a young army in action.

the town of deadwood was the terminal of all freight and stage outfits, and as there was very little law and order those days, it was sure a wild town. there was another town about 20 miles before you got to deadwood. it was called scooptown those days, but afterwards was changed to the more dignified name of sturgis, which it still has today. i have seen that town at night full of bull whackers, mule skinners, cowboys and soldiers, and the dance halls going full blast—when i think back at it today, it seems like a dream.

i knew an old-time bull whacker. he went by the name of baltimore bill. he got into a gun fight one night in one of those dance halls. he got three fingers shot off, but killed the other fellow. he was arrested for murder and laid in jail for about a year pending his trial. he was finally acquitted on the grounds of self-defense. i worked with bill afterwards and was well acquainted with him. he said he had a very narrow escape from hanging. he said when the “prosecutin’” attorney got through making his plea to the jury, he felt he (bill) was the lowest human alive and deserved hanging, “but, oh boy, when my attorney got through with my defense, i was a damn good man!”

fort meade was located three miles from scooptown and was occupied by colored soldiers, and a very noted nigger ran a dance hall and gambling house in scooptown.

one night some of those negro soldiers were drinking in this house and got into a row with the proprietor, whose name was abe hill, and he hit one of them on the head with a bottle. a few nights after this, these soldiers stole some guns and ammunition out of the fort and came in to shoot abe hill’s place up. there were about twenty of them, and they raided that old dance hall and in fact nearly all the town. there was a cowboy in abe’s place that night. his name was bob bell and he didn’t know what all the noise was about. he stepped from the gambling part into the dance hall, thinking it was a little celebration and was shot four or five times. poor bob never knew what hit him.

i was in town that night, and when the shooting began i ran back off the main street, but bullets seemed to be hitting all around me. the first thing i came to that looked like protection was a wagon with a mule tied to it. i ducked under the wagon—but between the bullets hitting the wagon and that old mule bucking on the end of the halter, i put in a quarter of an hour very uncomfortable. but the mule and myself escaped unhurt.

part of that regiment of negro soldiers were afterwards transferred to wyoming to stop a war that broke out between the stock men and cattle rustlers, and they pulled off another job about like they did in scooptown.

there was a little town established at the end of the burlington railroad on powder river. it was named sugs. the town consisted mostly of saloons and the sporting element. those negro soldiers got into some difficulty with some of the citizens of the town and decided to have revenge. they were camped a little ways outside of sugs in tents. so one night they stole some ammunition and guns like they had done before at scooptown, and started in to town to shoot it up.

it was quite a dark night and the only lights the town had was coal oil lamps. the town had about 500 population and one street. those soldiers lined up at the end of the street and started shooting at every building, tent, or any form they saw, and everybody that could run for cover—in half finished cellars, out houses or any hole they could get into.

there was an old man there—(he was a jew)—who had started a little hardware store, and had a few dish pans hung on the wall of his tent store, and about the first bullet that hit anything of consequence was those dish pans. they were hung one on top of another, and the bullet went through all of them. and while everyone was running for cover the jew saw his pans wrecked. he stopped right there and said, “oh my god, look at what they have done to my hardware.”

now there was two cattle rustlers came to town that night, making their get-away, headed north, and had put their horses away, and got a room in the only hotel in town, which was at the opposite end from where the soldiers entered. those men had gone to bed and when they heard the shooting they thought it was a posse after them, and as they didn’t have time to get to their horses, they decided to put up a fight. they both had winchesters. they put all their bullets in their hats, came out of the hotel, and laid down in the middle of the street, and when they saw this body of soldiers moving their way shooting everywhere, they opened fire on them. i believe they killed three of those negro soldiers and wounded several more. it became so hot for the soldiers they broke and run. meantime the officer at the post had heard of the trouble, ordered out his whole force, and came riding into town and demanded law and order. it was quite a while before the officer could be made to understand his own men had caused all the excitement, as he did not know they had stolen away.