mckinleymontana.com

by Mary Scriver

At first the horseback Indian thought that the patch of yellow on the prairie was just flowers, but it wasn’t quite the right season for that size and color of flowers, so he went a little closer in order to investigate — though not close enough for the patch to be dangerous. It was some kind of garment. Sprawled. No sign of a person. Had it been discarded? Was it a trap?

He got off the horse and let it graze while he hunkered on his heels and scanned the situation. No signs of a person — footprints, other objects. He wished for a long stick to prod it. Maybe there was something underneath. There had been a rain shower earlier in the day and little puddles sat on the material, not soaking in as would happen with normal garments. If it were valuable and someone had merely lost it, that person would return and they probably would not be Indian.

Yellow was a valuable color. Only important lodges were painted yellow because the color came from a fungus that was hard to find. Therefore, this garment must have significance.

He took his horse to the top of a nearby ridge and sat watching for the rest of the day, but no one came. When it was nearly dark, he went carefully back. The yellow garment had not moved. He grabbed the cuff of one sleeve and jerked. Nothing leapt out. Nothing was underneath except a dry patch of grass. His horse snorted and pulled back, then leaned forward to smell. It seemed sceptical, but unafraid.

He counted coup on the garment, yelping. Then grabbed it and jumped on his horse, which panicked from all the flapping around and took off for camp at a run. By the time they got to the circle of lodges, the horse had settled and was content to graze with the others. By now the Indian was also more confident and rolled the garment up as though it were any robe. Except that it rustled and crinkled and had a strange crisp texture and smell.

His wife was very curious about the garment but he forbade her to touch it. They had been hoping for a baby — they had not been married long — and he was afraid that the garment would somehow affect her fertility. He asked her to make a rawhide case, cylindrical, to keep this mysterious thing in and she did a good job. Then he painted a design on it and kept it hanging at his place, across the fire from the door.

One day when he had been hunting, he returned to find that his wife was in the lodge and had put on the yellow garment. At first he was very angry, since she should have more respect for his belongings, and he went to her, grabbed her by the neck and intended to choke or shake her — but then the feel of her slender neck, the pulse in it, her delicate ears and sliding hair, all moved him so that his fingers slipped up to cup her skull and his thumbs rested more gently on her jawbone.

Then he realized that she was not wearing anything under the garment and that she had been singing a song: “Oh, pollen-colored garment, make me bear fruit.” Responding, he made love to her that afternoon while she rustled and crinkled in the yellow stuff. Now and then after that, they would take out the garment and she would wear it while they made love. When the baby was born, in the fall when the aspen were the same color as the coat, she cut a strip off the hem of the garment and sewed it onto the baby’s carrier.

Now the garment seemed to be a part of their marriage, a key to fertility. Others heard about it and asked to borrow it. At first they were reluctant, but finally they had pity and agreed to let others make love wearing it. Nearly always, it worked. The wife, who now had several children and had made space in the lodge for second and third wives who did most of the work, beaded the garment with red stripes and attached small round pocket mirrors to the front.

One day she realized that one pocket had something deep in it and pulled out an envelope with a letter inside it. Neither her husband nor anyone else could read a letter or had even handled one, though they knew what it was. They felt that it was part of the power of the coat and put it back in the pocket. The wife sewed it shut and attached duck feathers to it. Ordinarily, water animals were not used to decorate, because they are too powerful, but this material seemed to bead up water in the same way that ducks did, so there was a harmony, a relationship of function. Over the years the coat became quite splendid with embellishments.

When the oldest son of the couple was about eighteen, he was badly wounded in a rash attack on enemies. Though he was brought home, his life was in serious danger. His parents pledged that if he recovered, they would offer the yellow garment to the Sun at the annual ceremonies. Both came to pass and, with the healed son watching, the coat was attached to the big main forked trunk at the Sun Lodge, so that everyone saw it up there, bright yellow and winking with light from the little mirrors. It was not tightly wrapped and the strange waterproof material waved in the wind. Everyone agreed that it was a highly significant and efficacious sacrifice. When they went on their way at the end of the ceremony, they looked back over their shoulders to get one last glimpse.

Years later a Metis guide was accompanying a cowboy who was looking for a place to establish his own small ranch. Build a house, find a wife, start a family. That’s what life was about. “Look down there,” said the Metis, as they topped a ridge. “You see that framework, that round circle of poles with rafters tied to the center?”

“What is it?” asked the cowboy, who had grown up in New England and came to the prairie partly in search of his lost father, who had gone West and never returned.

“Sun lodge. It would have been covered with leafy branches to make shade for ceremonies. Very holy.”

“Let’s go down there and look.”

The Metis didn’t much want to — he was superstitious — but he went along, a little behind the cowboy whom he considered reckless. The cowboy was waiting for him alongside the center pole. Up in the top was something yellow.

“Look! It’s a slicker, an old yellow slicker, with a lot of stuff attached to it.”

“Better leave it alone. It’s an offering. Bad luck to disturb it.”

“Aw, I ain’t afraid.” He stood on his saddle, which made him tall enough to drag the slicker down. Then he had to jump for the ground because his horse was afraid of it. “Look at this thing! Amazing! Pretty tattered, too.”

He spread it out on the grass, properly, with the shoulders at the top, sleeves out to the sides. “Kinda short. Been cut off at the bottom. Maybe so as to be better for riding.” He saw that one pocket was torn, showing a corner of paper. The material was so rotten with age and weather that he could easily tear the slit open and take out an envelope.

The Metis noticed the cowboy’s face go white and his hands begin to shake. Looking around for lightning or a predator bird and seeing none, he asked, “What’s the matter.”

“My father’s name is on this letter. I think the handwriting might be my grandmother’s.” Slowly, he wiped the envelope on his shirt front, though it didn’t need wiping. Carefully he reached inside the old yellow envelope and drew out a sheet of folded paper.

“What does it say?”

“Dear son, I hope by now you have received your father’s old fisherman slicker. He won’t need it anymore since he is sick in bed and will never rise. We’ll bury him next to your wife. Sure do wish you were nearby so you could be with him just one more time. But we must all seek our destiny. Please write. We’ve heard nothing from you but will send this with a man who says he’s going to the same territory. Be careful of Indians.”

The cowboy stood holding the paper to his chest. All these years it had been kept dry in the slicker pocket, but now the paper was spotted with tears as its holder sobbed.

The Metis tactfully rode off a little ways and got off to let his horse graze and to let his friend have space for his grief.

by Lance Foster

Dog Gulch Standard,  June 5, 1873

Edward Grenois Found Murdered

Dog Gulch - The halfbreed Edward Grenois, age 28, was found murdered this morning, lying behind the Pearl Handle Saloon, shot three times, once in the back and twice in the head. Harvey Schissler is currently the primary suspect. His whereabouts are currently unknown, though it is said his trail leads north. Evidence is being carefully gathered, given the respected position of his father, Jacob Schissler, proprieter of the Mahcomet Trading Post.

Well-liked among most of the Gulch’s citizens, Grenois had claimed to be a grandson of Pierre-August Grenois. He quickly became a well-known figure in the area,  and always dressed dapper in his frock coat and marten hat. He arrived in Dog Gulch last year, during the 1869 rush, and made a placer claim on the Gulch near the site of old Apekuni House, which had been founded by his grandfather. Edward Grenois worked the claim for a time, and got some color, but soon came to prefer the amusements of the dance halls and the company of ladies.  Grenois also was said to be spending much time in the local land office.

Earlier this year, Grenois was seen by several people arguing in the street with his close friend Harvey Schissler, the son of Jacob Schissler, with whom he often visited the places of entertainment in Dog Gulch. But they made up soon after, often retiring to the Schissler home after a night on the town.  Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Schissler had taken Grenois into their home during an illness, during which time he became part of the Schissler family and was treated as a brother to Harvey.  They were boon companions in all occasions. Everyone noted how Mrs. Schissler doted on the young men, and Mr. Schissler often talked about employing Grenois at the family business, the Mahcomet Trading Post. Who could have foreseen such a turn of events.

It is a tragedy indeed when such a fine family is involved in such a situation as this. The people of Dog Gulch hope for a speedy resolution so that the family may find peace such as possible in these tragic circumstances.

by Mary Scriver

(Dedicated to Josephine, who loved cats, and who told me part of this story herself– she was the sheriff’s daughter.
Also dedicated to Richard Wheeler and his cat, “Doc.”)

The old sheriff sat in his office looking grumpy.  His old gray striped cat, Doc Holliday, lay in a box behind the stove, probably close to death, which is why the sheriff was grumpy.  His deputy had offered to take the cat out on the prairie and shoot it, put it out of its misery, and was unable to understand why the sheriff flew into a rage.  The young man had only been trying to help.  If it hurt so much, best to end it quick.  Anyway, it was only a cat.

The kid didn’t know that the cat was given to the sheriff as a kitten by Angeline.  No one in this little town even know Angeline.  She was from the life before this one and that’s probably about all he should let himself remember about it.  The motherly woman who served him his hash at the boarding house knew about Doc being sick — he’d asked for advice about nursing the cat.  She’d said (looking around to make sure no one was listening) that it probably wouldn’t hurt to put a little whiskey of a good quality in Duke’s milk.  He didn’t tell her that he’d been doing that for years.

“You better get another cat as soon as you can,” she suggested.  “Otherwise, that old office will be overrun with mice.”  Her look said to him,  “Get a new cat… and maybe later you’d like a woman, eh?”  He wouldn’t, but he didn’t tell her that either.

So now, having sent that stupid deputy off on some errand, he sat in his office and considered putting some milk in his whiskey, just to keep Doc company.

The door banged open and hung there swinging, but at first he couldn’t focus on who came through.  Then he realized it was a little girl.  Only the top of her face and a mop of curls showed above his desk.  “Are you the sheriff?”  the girl asked.

“Yup.”

“A strange man is wrestling with my mom in the bedroom and neither one of them has any clothes on.  I’d get my dad but except he’s in the saloon and they won’t let me in there.”  Her voice piped like a little bird.

He realized who she was, who the lovers were, and most of all, who the killer would be if dad left the saloon earlier than usual.  He knew which house the “happy family” lived in.  He reached for his gun, thought better of it, and reached for his hat.  “You stay here, girlie,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because you see that cat in the box?  Well, he’s dying and I don’t want to leave him alone.”

“Is he your friend?”

“Sometimes my only friend.”

“Okay.  I’ll stay.”  She went over to squat curiously beside the cat, looking with open eyes, unafraid of death.  She’d seen it before.

When the old sheriff got to the little board house, he didn’t bother to knock.  He strode into the house, dragged the woman out of bed and wrapped a sheet around her.  Then he threw her over his shoulder and toted her out to the front room, which was both sitting room and kitchen, where he shifted her so she lay over his knees.  “Roy,” he roared at the man scrambling around in the bedroom,  “Get the hell out of this house, out of this town, out of this county, and if the day don’t end too soon, get clear on out of this territory.  Or I swear I’ll do something terrible to you!”   Roy went out the door, panicked but not too scared to check the street before he bolted out and down the street, part of his clothing on and part of it in his hands.

“Sheriff, you let me up!” squawled the little girl’s mother.

“Your little tiny daughter has more sense than you do!  You ought to be horsewhipped, but this will have to do instead.”  He pulled the sheet off her round bottom and rendered it plumb rosy with his big hard hand.  Then she really DID make some sounds, quite aside from the regular smacking of calluses hitting tender flesh.

“Stop!  Stop!”  Now she was dissolving in tears.  “I won’t ever do it again.”

“Do what?” demanded a big swaying shape in the doorway.

“Well, there’s the man of the house,” remarked the rather winded and slightly aroused sheriff, setting the woman of the house on her feet.  “I’ve had a complaint about you folks not bein’ a proper family.  You booze too much and she flirts too much, and it’s contributing to the moral rot of this town.  Therefore, I promised that I’d put you both on probation for six months.  If you don’t shape up, I’ll throw you outta town.”

“You can’t do that,” wavered the man, dubiously.

“Try me,” said the old sheriff as he got up and stalked out.

When he got to his office, the cat was dead and the little girl was rocking it in her arms, sitting with her back against the old board wall and singing a lullaby.  He was grateful the cat didn’t die alone and that it had soft sweet arms around it at the time.  More than many men had had when the door opened to the other side.

“He’s gone but it’s all right,” said the child and carefully put the limp fur into the old man’s worn arms.  “Did you make them stop wrestling?”

“Don’t think they’ll do that for a while.  If it starts up again, come back and tell me.”

“Okay,” she said, no questions asked, and went on her way.

The old sheriff had a little more whiskey, no milk, before he took the cat out of town to a quiet burial place.

At the end of six months, on an exceptionally bright day, he made it his business to drop by the little house of the girl whose mama he’d spanked.  He’d heard that the papa had finally gotten a job and seemed to be keeping it — so far.  When he walked up to the house, the little mother was sweeping off her porch steps.   She was pregnant and seemed happy about it.  Smiling at him, she called through the screen door,  “Angie, your friend is here.”

“What’s that little girl’s name?” demanded the sheriff, shaken.

“Angie.  You like it?”  She put her arm up to shade her face so she could see him a little more clearly since his voice sounded a bit strange.

“Is it short for anything?”

“Naw, just Angie.  I read it in a story.”

Angie came out on the porch, glowing with happiness to see him.  “Come on in,” she said.  “You’ve gotta see!”  She wrapped her hand around his hard, gnarled old trigger finger and towed him into the house.

“Over here,” she directed and as his eyes gradually adjusted to the indoor shadows, he saw a box of kittens with their mother.  Angie lifted out one — gray striped, white bib and socks — and held it up to him. He didn’t take it. He figured he didn’t want more cats. She put it, mewing, on his chest — which was actually belly — and it took a grip on his shirt with its tiny claws. He couldn’t help cupping his hand over it to keep it from falling. Feeling the warmth, it stopped mewing and purred.

“It’s too small for you to take home yet,” directed Angie, but I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.” She never asked about whether HE was ready.

But when she brought to the kitten to his office, he had prepared both a bed and a cat box.

Our humble city now has a photo group on flickr, and it’s open to all. If you’ve been out in the McKinley area and have some images you’d like to share, we’d love to see them!

by Sam DeBree

Editor’s note: this song was sent to us by Sam DeBree with the following story.

In 2002, I was involved in the production of the film “Northfork” outside of McKinley, and during a long weekend I decided to go home to Butte. Early in the morning after a night shoot I jumped into my not-so-trusty car, The Blue Cloud, and headed south. The car broke down just outside of town. After a short walk to Dino’s where I enjoyed a wonderful breakfast, I sat outside Merv’s Garage to wait for them to open and wrote this song. Thought you might enjoy it.

I’m starting to rebuild the mckinleymontana.com site. Watch for updates!

by Allan Tooley

Here’s an interesting article about the early dinosaur digs north of McKinley. Click on the thumbnail to see it full-size.

by Allan Tooley

She knew the end was near, but she wasn’t sure just how it would come.

Earlier that day she’d seen movement out among the denuded trees at the bottom of the low ridge on which the village rested, and it seemed likely that the blue devils were back, preparing to unleash another assault. She was certain she and her compatriots couldn’t hold off another attack; they were all mothers and few in number –their mates having gone off the day before in search of food– and to compound the disaster, they simply weren’t well enough to defend their children.

That was because of the sickness. They all had it. She was too weak and too worried for her own children to move about and check on the others, but it appeared that some of the mothers had already succumbed to the coughing, bloody nasal discharge and a wheezing that came at the end. At this rate, the sickness could very well finish off the village before the blue devils mounted their assault. This would make things so convenient for them that she half-wondered whether they had somehow sent the sickness up the ridge in advance of their attack. It made some sense; she’d spied a troop of them some distance away two days before, and that very afternoon one of the other mothers had fallen ill. The sickness chose its next victims rapidly, as if it moved on the wind.

The wind. That was the third danger the village faced. It had grown cold so quickly, colder than she could remember. In years past, they’d had warning enough of the changing weather to travel to more temperate regions. But this time it was as though the seasons switched violently from one day to the next. The dark clouds spread quickly from the sunrise side to the sunset side, and the temperatures dropped at an alarming rate. The first wind that blew through the village was a strong gust that lasted a short while, following the spread of the clouds. But later, a much colder, sustained breeze came upon them from the sunset side, and brought with it a frightening companion: a fine, powdery substance that fell from the air, blown about on the breeze, and blanketing everything in sight. The flakes even seemed to absorb the sound, covering the ridge with an eerie silence that compounded her fear. She knew the worsening weather would bring their doom, if the blue devils and the sickness didn’t first.

And so she sat, quietly, watching over the children she couldn’t feed, waiting for the end to come. Her thoughts occasionally turned to those who had left the village to forage for food. Had they fallen already to one of the three dangers? Was that why they had failed to return? She wasn’t sure it mattered anymore. She would take responsibility for her children for as long as she could, and that was all she could do.

She saw movement again, down at the bottom of the low ridge. Yes, there it was. She couldn’t quite make out what it was in the artificial twilight created by the storm, but she didn’t really need to know anything other than that something was coming toward the village. In these times, that was enough to get her to rise to the defense.

But she couldn’t rise. She was too weak. With frustration bordering on panic, she realized that she would be unable to put herself between the attackers and her children. Earlier, she had positioned herself in such a way as to protect her children from the wind, and she knew they were more comfortable because of it, but now she needed to be on the other side, and that seemed impossible. Would they snatch her children as she watched helplessly? Would they kill her first and spare her the sight? Or could she muster the needed strength at the last moment and drive them away? She decided to wait, to concentrate on unleashing a final burst of strength and not to waste it now.

It wouldn’t be a long wait. She could hear the movement now, even if she couldn’t quite see anything. At least one attacker, although she couldn’t imagine any of the blue devils coming alone. That wasn’t their way. They preferred to sneak close, surround a village if they could, then make a coordinated assault in numbers, raising a havoc that enabled them to cause the most damage. She imagined that would be her last sight, the chaos of an attack, the weakened villagers trying their best to ward off their too-strong foes.

But she appeared to be wrong this time. There was no sneaking. She heard the approaching footsteps relatively clearly, muffled though they were by the breeze and the flakes. And soon she saw the blue devil, walking up the ridge in full view, as if he had nothing to fear. Of course he didn’t! He knew they were weak! The blue devils had unleashed the sickness for this occasion!

A moment’s observation proved her wrong again. The blue devil was walking with an uncertain gait, as though he lacked the strength to charge forward. In the failing light she could see his bloodied nose, and she could hear the telltale wheezing. He was a stronger foe than she, but only just. He could still move, but barely. He appeared to be alone, for though she could hear the weak cries of other mothers who could see him, there was no evidence of any attack coming from the surrounding area.

And yet, he pressed on. He gathered the strength to walk toward her exposed children, his arms reaching weakly toward them, his goal in sight. He took one more step, began to bend down to gather up his prey, and then froze. As if there were simply no strength left in his body, he sank to his knees, and then fell prostrate less than two steps from her children. His wheezing increased in rate and ferocity, and soon became a desperate series of gasps as the sickness prevailed. He gave one last, great effort to rise, then a prolonged exhale. The wheezing stopped. His eyes were still open, locked on hers, but they saw nothing.

She would have sighed with relief if she could, but the wheezing came upon her and she knew the end was near. With a sadness she looked upon her children, knowing what was to come but powerless to stop it. She knew she’d done all she could, that she did it still. They were still protected from the cold wind. She could do that much for them, even after her death.

She was still there, protecting her children from storms and predators, when they found her sixty-five million years later. And they named her maiasaura, the Good Mother Lizard.

by Gary Gollehon

[Editor's note: this is a transcription of a reminiscence recorded in the mid-70s by Martha Albers. Martha passed away in 1977, and the tapes fell into the possession of one of her renters, who eventually gave them to the Greenway County Historical Society.]

The year was 1910 and near the town of McKinley, but just a bit east out where there were more prairies than mountains, a couple, Martha and Henry, were married in Waukegan, Illinois. Henry was found to have active tuberculosis and was told by the doctors that he would not live out a year in Illinois, due to the damp climate. At the time Martha’s sister and husband were going to Montana to homestead and suggested we go with them, as the climate was high and dry, something benefical to Henry’s health condition. Henry and Martha decided to go with them, but did not have any money, Martha’s brother-in-law and another man hired a boxcar on the freight train to haul their goods to Montana and Henry “stowed away” in a place in the manger of the horse stall! At night he would get out and walk around so he wouldn’t get so crippled up. It took about three weeks to make it to Montana, where he filed on a Homestead to his liking, that was just a bit east of McKinley.

Martha and her sister stayed in Illinois and worked to get fare to come out to Montana. The first week in July they had made enough money and got their tickets and after about a week of traveling, reached a town 30 miles to the southeast of McKinley. Martha’s brother-in-law met her and her sister with a high spring buggy. He put my trunk in the back and he and his wife, my sister, sat in the buggy seat and Martha sat on the trunk. Martha had prettied herself with a nice low-necked dress, but didn’t have a hat to wear or an umbrella, but had to ride on the trunk all the way to the Homestead, just a bit east of McKinley. About half way out, they stopped at a watering hole, to water and feed the horses and to feed themselves and rest the horses. By that time Martha was so sunburned, tired and disgusted, as the land seemed so barren, compared to Waukegan! At about 9 p.m. Martha’s brother-in-law hollered “Whoa!, we’re home.” All she could see was two little tents and a pile of dirt. Henry came running out of one of the tents and carried Martha into the tent, where she slept good for the rest of the night. When she awoke the next morning, looking around she couldn’t see a single living soul as she thought she could see for a good ten miles in all directions. As she yearned for Waukegan, she noticed that Henry’s health was better in such a short time, so in order to make the best of things, she put on a pair of his jeans and worked with him picking rock.

Henry worked everywhere, herding sheep, digging cisterns and basements and doing anything to earn money for them to live. It was a hard life, as they didn’t have any money and no way of getting any. They had brought a 100 pound sack of corn meal and a 100 pound sack of navy beans with them. Rabbits that Henry shot or killed with a rock (Henry was real good at throwing a rock) were their main source of meat and they ate rabbit! Rabbit stew, baked rabbit, fried rabbit; any way rabbit was edible, they would eat it. At Thanksgiving, Henry and Martha didn’t have anything to eat and they couldn’t think of eating any more rabbit, corn bread or beans, so they decided to get an antelope. Martha and her sister and their husbands hitched up the team and the men got their guns and got into the back of the spring buggy and the women drove. Dropping the men off behind a knoll, the women circled ahead of the antelope and herded them towards the men, when they heard three shots ring out and going back to the men, found that they had three antelope; killed out of season, but they were hungry! Taking the antelope home, they dressed them out. The men got a big square box and dug a hole and put the box and ice from the Teton River in the hole and the couples had meat for the whole winter. For Thanksgiving they had antelope, beans and cornbread.

Winter was fast approaching and Martha and Henry knew that they would not survive the cold winds in the tents. so Henry and his brother-in-law dug into a big knoll and made a hole about 15 feet long and wide enough for two bedrooms and a place where they cooked and ate. The sides were dirt and so was the floor. They put a roof over it and had two small windows. That winter they stayed warm, but when it snowed they were covered and had to dig their way out! They could hear animals running over the roof and one night Martha says she was sure that a couple of coyotes had a fight on their roof!

Henry and his brother-in-law went out to find work and they got a job picking potatoes. Martha and her sister remained on the homestead, alone. They were down to nothing and had not gotten the mail at McKinley for at least two weeks, so they decided to walk to the Store and get what food they could afford and get the mail. They left for town early in the morning and took along a sack to carry home the small amount of groceries they could afford. Lyda, the store owner, made us a great dinner and told us we should start for home, as the sun goes down fast, once it starts going down. There were no roads or fences or no lights to follow. They walked and walked and knew they were far enough, but couldn’t find their home in the ground. Martha’s sister told Martha to stay put and she would go one direction as far as she could hear Martha’s voice, then come back and go in the opposite direction. Starting in one direction, caused the coyotes to start howling. Finally they found their home and made it safely to it as darkness fell.

Martha, Henry and her sister and brother-in-law decided to leave and go to Canada to work in the harvest fields. They felt they needed a “grubstake” and if they had $30 the Canadian government would let them across the line. As they left their homestead and somewhere on the way into McKinley, Henry lost his wallet and their money. They stayed in McKinley for the night in the barn and they slept in the manger with the horses. In the morning, they returned home; no “grubstake” for the winter, nothing but cornmeal and navy beans!

Martha had become pregnant and they decided they had to do something. They bought a little homestead shack and moved it out to their homestead. It wasn’t finished, just 2X4’s with tarpaper and slanted like a cow barn roof. They dug a basement an ptu it on a foundation of dirt. The following July our baby was born and Martha was so sick and burning up with fever. The next morning the doctor from McKinley came by and after a terrible siege of sickness, Martha made a miraculous recovery. The doctors told Henry and Martha that Martha should have no more children after being so sick, as it would mean certain death for Martha. 15 months later, when Martha found out she was four months pregnant and soon there was a son born to Martha and Henry. Those were the most frightening months for Martha and Henry; wondering if the doctor would be right with his diagnosis! The childbirth went well, but that was the end of bearing children for Martha. She decided to have no more children, as she was afraid that the doctor could be correct with his assumption that childbearing was a great risk to Martha!

As time passed, Henry and Martha had neighbors settle the land near us. These neighbors brought them ice cream, as they had milk cows and they also gave Martha a hen and some eggs to set. Martha raised 13 little chicks. One night their dog killed all but 5! The neighbors were good to look after Martha and Henry and their family, when they resided just a little east of McKinley.

The flu epidemic came along and Martha and Henry and the kids were all so sick. Martha walked to a neighbors and sent him for the Dr. who lived in McKinley. The Doctor came and told Martha and Henry that they should get someone to help them, but they didn’t know of anyone. A neighbor to the east of them stopped by one day. Seeing they were all sick, he went to McKinley and got some groceries and came back and made some soup for them and then went on home and sent his wife over to care for us during the day and he would come at night to care for us.

Martha and Henry eventually got better and decided they would have to return to Waukegan, so they could get jobs to repay all their bills. Martha and Henry had no food left and resorted to killing two pet pigeons from which they made soup! Henry went into McKinley to try to sell their horses, but no one had any money, so he just turned the seven head of horses loose. They took their pig to town and sold it and left their cat and dog and returned to Waukegan, where they lived with Martha’s sister, saving their money and paying off their bills that they owed in McKinley.

Martha and Henry returned to the Homestead at McKinley, trying to make a go of it, but ended up returning to Waukegan. They managed to pay off the homestead and kept it for the rest of their lives, renting it out and often they made the trek out from Waukegan to McKinley to visit the homestead that held so many memories for them and their family.

by Allan Tooley

This is an interesting little historical mystery. It’s the first known artistic representation of Macohmet Bluff in present-day McKinley. The notation references a Mr. Berger and the date 1830. In 1830 or 1831, a seasoned trapper by the name of Jacob Berger was dispatched by the American Fur Company to attempt to open trade relations with the Blackfeet. He set out from Fort Union with three companions, and returned some time later with a trade delegation from the Blackfeet nation. Negotiations ensued and a trading post was set up at the mouth of the Marias River. Berger reported that it had taken him some time to find any Blackfeet camps, so this sketch could have been made by one of his men during that time, but it hadn’t previously been thought that his expedition penetrated that far into Blackfeet lands.

Here’s the sketch. Click on it to see a larger version.