Range War on the Mountain
Copyright Andrea Heyser 2009
Though I have never met a cow boy who was not a perfect gentleman, they seemed at times to have a dark and ugly side concerning grass. There was no crime a cowman would not commit to get more grazing for his cows.
The Paiutes used to have a public meadow near Tip's place. It was about a thousand feet on each side, was fenced and had grass that was thick and lush. Folks on the mountain could bring their horses or cows to live during the summer, the deer and wild life in the meadow were plentiful.
Nick, a cowman, wanted his cattle to graze in this little meadow when his cows were moved off his pasture so the grass could go to seed. Nick's meadow was French Meadow which was about eight miles long, had a river in it and it cost only one hundred dollars a year for the lease.
Nick complained that the gate to the public meadow was kept closed and his cows could not get in. The gate was kept closed so that the horses and milk cows would not leave, get lost in the forest and die when winter came.
The county ruled that the gate and fencing were to be removed.
Now Frank King had a horse in the meadow he used to plow his garden and Tip had a milk cow there. The cow wandered off and Frank's horse Pasco joined two wild horses, a mare and her colt, a little pinto stallion.
The wild horses taught Pasco to jump the cattle guard to Nick's meadow and the three of them would eat Nick's grass and drink form his river. Nick and his cowboys warned Frank to keep his horse out of his meadow and of course they quarreled a number of times.
Once when Frank was driving his old pickup down the county road he met a cowboy on horse back. They both stopped and had a few words. The cowboy tried to open the truck door to pull Frank out of his truck when Frank picked up his sawed off shot gun, pointed it at the cowboy and said, "Did you calculate on this?" Every one on the mountain knew that Frank always carried a sawed off shot gun on the front seat of his truck but the cowboys kept pretty much to themselves and so did not know.
A few weeks later Pasco, the mare and little stallion were found dead, shot. A month later Joanne and my mother found two dead bulls, cost thirty thousand each, dead at the onion patch. They had been shot in the eye so that after the buzzards took out the eyes you could not tell how they died.
The little meadow is now dead and no animals live there. The grass was eaten down to the dirt too many times by a cowboy who ran too many cattle for the mountain to support.
Years before this happened several cowmen got together to get rid of the wild life that eats seed which grows into grass. They rented an airplane, loaded it up with poison grain, flew all over the mountain and spread their deadly grain. The pigeons all disappeared, the quail survived and the grouse disappeared.
When I was just a little kid I used to sit on a rock looking over the meadow and once I heard the tom tom sound of a grouse in the distance. I didn't know then that it was a grouse, but I found out laterand after that I never heard one again.
I don't eat beef anymore, it is too expensive, in my opinion it's time has past for a kinder and more gentle time.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Friday, January 2, 2009
Gunfight at the Onion Patch
Gun Fight at the Onion Patch
Copyright Andrea Heyser 2009
I have told this story only a few times and it seemed to me that no one really believes it. So if you do not believe it, then it is simple poetic justice.
When I was about nineteen and was up at the cabin we had a number of guests as usual. It seemed like we always had company as on the mountain: that was the only thing to do. People were laughing as I walked into the room and I asked why. Mother said that they were talking about old Jim Butler and his crazy stories.
Jim Butler was a quaint old man who lived up on a hill with no road to it. If one wanted to see him it was a long walk up a trail below the Onion Patch. But most people did not wish to see him. When he developed his gold mine he needed a donkey to pull his ore cart, but the trail was so steep he had to actually carry the donkey on his back up parts of the trail. At least that is what people said. They also said that he did not cut fire wood, that he simply put a branch on a rock and then placed one end of it in his wood stove and just shoved it in a little futher when needed.
Also people said he was half blind and he drank a lot.
Jim Butler of late had been complaining that the indians were stealing from him and had taken his anvil. Mother said he just lost it. Besides there was only one indian on the mountain and that was Louie. Louie was very poor and he only had a 22 rifle which was held together by bailing wire. I later saw that rifle in Jerrie's hands, I don't know how he got it and he threatened me with it, but that is another story.
Anyway I was bored and told every one I was going to visit Jim. Paul another young man of about seventeen years old asked if he could go with me. People gave us directions that started from Tip's new place just below the Onion Patch and up an indistinct trail.
I always carried a rifle, a 22 semi-automatic and gave Paul a single shot 22 over and under with maybe one or two bullets so he would not feel emasculated. You know how young men are.
After we had gone about four miles and standing on a rise talking about which way to go, a bullet hit the tree beside my face and splatted bark into my skin which bled profusely. Paul being a city boy did not know what to do. I shouted into the forest that the shooting should stop as we were on the trail and also uttered some sort of insult that anyone would be so stupid as to shoot down a canyon. At that bullets came flying into the tree and at our feet. Little puffs of dirt would fly up with each bullet.
At that point it was clear that some one was trying to kill us and a fine shot he was. Paul was a little upset, but did not say a word. He was just a little pale. I screamed "drop and shoot, shoot for your life". We both fired in the direction of the gun fire, but quickly ran out of bullets so we snaked our way down the trail and ran for our lives. We both did that quite well.
When we were safe I began to worry as mother always said if you shoot that gun you had better have a body to show and have a damned good explanation" So I planned a great lie, I just told her that I had fallen into a bush. I was bloody and filthy, there was even dirt in my underwear, but mama believed it.
I never heard Paul say another word, I think he was a bit traumatized by the whole thing and I doubt that anyone ever believed his story if he told it.
Ten years later, by then I had my own car, I arrived up at the cabin and even from the parking lot could hear wild laughter coming from within. I said hello to everyone and asked why they were laughing. Mother said they were laughing about old Jim butler and his wild stories about his fight with the indians. The poor man had died years ago and not one person believed him when he told the of the frightening fight with the indians.
They were wrong about his being half blind, the man had eyes of an eagle and was a crack shot. I told them so.
.
Copyright Andrea Heyser 2009
I have told this story only a few times and it seemed to me that no one really believes it. So if you do not believe it, then it is simple poetic justice.
When I was about nineteen and was up at the cabin we had a number of guests as usual. It seemed like we always had company as on the mountain: that was the only thing to do. People were laughing as I walked into the room and I asked why. Mother said that they were talking about old Jim Butler and his crazy stories.
Jim Butler was a quaint old man who lived up on a hill with no road to it. If one wanted to see him it was a long walk up a trail below the Onion Patch. But most people did not wish to see him. When he developed his gold mine he needed a donkey to pull his ore cart, but the trail was so steep he had to actually carry the donkey on his back up parts of the trail. At least that is what people said. They also said that he did not cut fire wood, that he simply put a branch on a rock and then placed one end of it in his wood stove and just shoved it in a little futher when needed.
Also people said he was half blind and he drank a lot.
Jim Butler of late had been complaining that the indians were stealing from him and had taken his anvil. Mother said he just lost it. Besides there was only one indian on the mountain and that was Louie. Louie was very poor and he only had a 22 rifle which was held together by bailing wire. I later saw that rifle in Jerrie's hands, I don't know how he got it and he threatened me with it, but that is another story.
Anyway I was bored and told every one I was going to visit Jim. Paul another young man of about seventeen years old asked if he could go with me. People gave us directions that started from Tip's new place just below the Onion Patch and up an indistinct trail.
I always carried a rifle, a 22 semi-automatic and gave Paul a single shot 22 over and under with maybe one or two bullets so he would not feel emasculated. You know how young men are.
After we had gone about four miles and standing on a rise talking about which way to go, a bullet hit the tree beside my face and splatted bark into my skin which bled profusely. Paul being a city boy did not know what to do. I shouted into the forest that the shooting should stop as we were on the trail and also uttered some sort of insult that anyone would be so stupid as to shoot down a canyon. At that bullets came flying into the tree and at our feet. Little puffs of dirt would fly up with each bullet.
At that point it was clear that some one was trying to kill us and a fine shot he was. Paul was a little upset, but did not say a word. He was just a little pale. I screamed "drop and shoot, shoot for your life". We both fired in the direction of the gun fire, but quickly ran out of bullets so we snaked our way down the trail and ran for our lives. We both did that quite well.
When we were safe I began to worry as mother always said if you shoot that gun you had better have a body to show and have a damned good explanation" So I planned a great lie, I just told her that I had fallen into a bush. I was bloody and filthy, there was even dirt in my underwear, but mama believed it.
I never heard Paul say another word, I think he was a bit traumatized by the whole thing and I doubt that anyone ever believed his story if he told it.
Ten years later, by then I had my own car, I arrived up at the cabin and even from the parking lot could hear wild laughter coming from within. I said hello to everyone and asked why they were laughing. Mother said they were laughing about old Jim butler and his wild stories about his fight with the indians. The poor man had died years ago and not one person believed him when he told the of the frightening fight with the indians.
They were wrong about his being half blind, the man had eyes of an eagle and was a crack shot. I told them so.
.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
More About Walker Basin
More About Walker Basis
©Joanne H. Harris, 2008
The first memories I have of horses are when we lived in Walker Basin. We lived on a piece of land that was part of Nick Williams' ranch. It was just a log cabin in a meadow. The only other creature in that section was Bubbles, Nick’s Hereford bull.
Nick’s place had a corral, and I remember a corral full of horses. I remember walking into the corral and all of the horses rushed to the far side except for one, a horse named Shine that my mother rode when she helped Nick and his daughter, Nita, move cattle.
The next memory I have is about the same horse, Shine. Mama was peeling apples and she gave me some apple cores or apple skins to give to Shine. Unfortunately, she didn’t give me any lessons on how to feed a horse, so of course I presented the peels with my fingers bent. The poor thing proceeded to grab my fingers and bite me, but not on purpose. He really didn’t do me any harm, but I shrieked and mother came out and gave me a tardy lesson on how to feed horses. Even this didn’t make me shy of horses.
Our cabin had no running water or indoor plumbing. What was that stuff called electricity? I don’t think the main ranch had electricity. I don’t remember any thing about the inside of the cabin except mom making a down blanket for me out of a down blanket she'd had as a child. That blanket was around for at least 30 years.
Mom has told me that Nick was supposed to provide us with milk, which didn’t happen. Mom had had some experience with guns and had a 22. She could hunt and shoot rabbits. Fritz and I were fond in later years of saying we ate rabbit for breakfast, rabbit for lunch, and rabbit for supper. We also picked wild unions like the Indians did. Daddy came up now and then and brought staples like beans and flour.
Mom used to complain that Nick mixed his sourdough in the flour sack. This included eggs. When he was finished he left a little in the sack for the next starter. Mom said it got pretty strong. Nick didn't throw away coffee grounds daily, but just added more for several days.
The outside of the cabin is what I remember. There was a stream close by with willows to play in. In the spring there were wild violets that I picked by the huge hands full. In the winter Fritz rolled up snow balls and made a fort that lasted long after the snow was gone. One day Daddy shot an owl and stuffed it. Mom complained it looked like an hawk.
We stayed at the ranch in Walker Basin for almost a year. Who knows what was going on with my parents, I do not.
Strangely, I don’t have memories for the next two years. I have pictures of me and my sibling at various houses on Paiute mountain and I know the stories that go with them. For the next couple of years we lived at the Bowman mine, the ranger station, Tommy Thomas’ cabin near Frank and Jenny King's place. Nick Williams had summer range on Paiute at a place called French Meadow. So mom moved with all of us kids, five in all (Audrey, Fritz, cousins Beverly and Dana, and myself) up to the ranger station, which was empty at the time and on French Meadow.
Mom had a couple of goats to provide milk for us kids. The goats ran wherever they wanted to and one time Nick come over to complain that they had “eaten the ass out of one of his saddles”.
He, being a cattleman, would put his cows wherever he could get grass. Since the ranger station in French Meadow was vacant, he ran some cows in the “ranger meadow.” All of the gates were poor man’s gates. These go by many names but they are all barbed wire with a poll that one slips into a wire loop at the bottom and slips a wire loop over the top, I use the term slip loosely because they are very difficult to close, some times impossible. Sometimes a gate on the Ranger meadow got poorly closed or left open. Nick came over one time and told mother if she didn’t keep the gates closed he would wire them shut. She said that that was fine with her because then she would cut one where she wanted it.
Mom still helped out with the cattle from time to time. She had sort of a love/hate relationship with Nick and some of his family, but they never killed each other.
©Joanne H. Harris, 2008
The first memories I have of horses are when we lived in Walker Basin. We lived on a piece of land that was part of Nick Williams' ranch. It was just a log cabin in a meadow. The only other creature in that section was Bubbles, Nick’s Hereford bull.
Nick’s place had a corral, and I remember a corral full of horses. I remember walking into the corral and all of the horses rushed to the far side except for one, a horse named Shine that my mother rode when she helped Nick and his daughter, Nita, move cattle.
The next memory I have is about the same horse, Shine. Mama was peeling apples and she gave me some apple cores or apple skins to give to Shine. Unfortunately, she didn’t give me any lessons on how to feed a horse, so of course I presented the peels with my fingers bent. The poor thing proceeded to grab my fingers and bite me, but not on purpose. He really didn’t do me any harm, but I shrieked and mother came out and gave me a tardy lesson on how to feed horses. Even this didn’t make me shy of horses.
Our cabin had no running water or indoor plumbing. What was that stuff called electricity? I don’t think the main ranch had electricity. I don’t remember any thing about the inside of the cabin except mom making a down blanket for me out of a down blanket she'd had as a child. That blanket was around for at least 30 years.
Mom has told me that Nick was supposed to provide us with milk, which didn’t happen. Mom had had some experience with guns and had a 22. She could hunt and shoot rabbits. Fritz and I were fond in later years of saying we ate rabbit for breakfast, rabbit for lunch, and rabbit for supper. We also picked wild unions like the Indians did. Daddy came up now and then and brought staples like beans and flour.
Mom used to complain that Nick mixed his sourdough in the flour sack. This included eggs. When he was finished he left a little in the sack for the next starter. Mom said it got pretty strong. Nick didn't throw away coffee grounds daily, but just added more for several days.
The outside of the cabin is what I remember. There was a stream close by with willows to play in. In the spring there were wild violets that I picked by the huge hands full. In the winter Fritz rolled up snow balls and made a fort that lasted long after the snow was gone. One day Daddy shot an owl and stuffed it. Mom complained it looked like an hawk.
We stayed at the ranch in Walker Basin for almost a year. Who knows what was going on with my parents, I do not.
Strangely, I don’t have memories for the next two years. I have pictures of me and my sibling at various houses on Paiute mountain and I know the stories that go with them. For the next couple of years we lived at the Bowman mine, the ranger station, Tommy Thomas’ cabin near Frank and Jenny King's place. Nick Williams had summer range on Paiute at a place called French Meadow. So mom moved with all of us kids, five in all (Audrey, Fritz, cousins Beverly and Dana, and myself) up to the ranger station, which was empty at the time and on French Meadow.
Mom had a couple of goats to provide milk for us kids. The goats ran wherever they wanted to and one time Nick come over to complain that they had “eaten the ass out of one of his saddles”.
He, being a cattleman, would put his cows wherever he could get grass. Since the ranger station in French Meadow was vacant, he ran some cows in the “ranger meadow.” All of the gates were poor man’s gates. These go by many names but they are all barbed wire with a poll that one slips into a wire loop at the bottom and slips a wire loop over the top, I use the term slip loosely because they are very difficult to close, some times impossible. Sometimes a gate on the Ranger meadow got poorly closed or left open. Nick came over one time and told mother if she didn’t keep the gates closed he would wire them shut. She said that that was fine with her because then she would cut one where she wanted it.
Mom still helped out with the cattle from time to time. She had sort of a love/hate relationship with Nick and some of his family, but they never killed each other.
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