On May 26, 1864, Lincoln establish the Montana Territory, carved from the Idaho Territory he had preciously chopped from the Dakota Territory, in order to establish a territorial court, and restore order. The capital moved from Lewiston, to Bannack, and then a year later, to Virginia City, with Martha Jane Canary.
‘In 1865 we emigrated from our homes in Missouri by the overland
route to Virginia City, Montana, taking five months to make the
journey. While on the way, the greater portion of my time was spent in
hunting along with the men and hunters of the party; in fact, I was at
all times with the men when there was excitement and adventures to
be had. By the time we reached Virginia City, I was considered a
remarkable good shot and a fearless rider for a girl of my age. I
remember many occurrences on the journey from Missouri to
Montana. Many times in crossing the mountains, the conditions of the
Trail were so bad that we frequently had to lower the wagons over
ledges by hand with ropes, for they were so rough and rugged that
horses were of no use. We also had many exciting times fording
streams, for many of the streams in our way were noted for
quicksands and boggy places, where, unless we were very careful, we
would have lost horses and all. Then we had many dangers to
encounter in the way of streams swelling on account of heavy rains.
On occasions of that kind, the men would usually select the best
places to cross the streams; myself, on more than one occasion, have
mounted my pony and swam across the stream several times merely
to amuse myself, and have had many narrow escapes from having
both myself and pony washed away to certain death, but, as the
pioneers of those days had plenty of courage, we overcame all
obstacles and reached Virginia City in safety. Mother died at Black
Foot, Montana, 1866, where we buried her.’
Calamity Jane's mother had died of 'washtub pneumonia.' By the time she buried her, the placer gold had been all but extracted, and the miners were moving towards Helena, and Garnet. By the 1870s Montana was experiencing a sort of Pax Vigilanticus, due to its reputation for summary execution and the migration of most of the criminally undesirable. The Montana Vigilantes became an admired group in Montana history. Their secret motto, 3-7-77, is still on the badges, patches, and car door insignias of the Montana Highway Patrol.
By the time that Robyn and I tread the boardwalks of Virginia City, it was a different kind of highway robbery. The cowboys emerging from the Star Bakery were morbidly obese waddlers, holding out their dominant hands, in supplication to the signal, missing on the open plains. Swayback horses, hitched up for the ‘pony rides,’ beside the parked SUVs, were secret casualties. No more buffalo would pass before the blown out windows of the rusted Pullman cars. They, and the wagon days of the Wells Fargo stagecoaches, had become the empty shell casings of a more authentic era. The Fairweather Inn had a vacancy. Metal tills inside the general stores, with their scrolled embossing, rang up silence. Red, white and blue stars and bars drooped from their banners.
The bare-breasted paintings that hung over the bottles, inside the bars, suffocated beside the Cowgirls are Forever signs and moose heads. Sun-bleached skulls and antlers hung nailed to square wooden facades, and a lone white tipi stood against the thyme and sage, and the big blue sky above the ashen ridge. I asked the trolley car driver if there was a place for a picnic. He grinned through his sunglasses.
“Best picnic spot in the world.” He pointed. “Down by the crick.”
Robyn and I drove up past the Brewery, with the wagon and Old Glory outside, and turned down into a gulch. There were big old trees for shade, a babbling stream for coolness, and soft grass and rocks and birdsong for contemplation. And there was one picnic table, which I claimed with our French picnic basket. Robyn had made steak sandwiches from the Silver Mill leftover steak, crosscut sawn from the sinew of the Philipsburg night before.
In 1907, a former vigilante showed the residents where George Lane was buried. The exhumed remains included a petrified clubfoot. It was initially kept in the courthouse, but later moved to the Thompson Hickman Museum in Virginia City, becoming one of the Museum’s most important exhibits.
We left Virginia City with a homemade ice cream, like the one that Sheriff Plummer would have had. The colder it gets, the harder it is to swaller.
No comments:
Post a Comment