A FRONTIER FUNERAL 



Howard Eaton. 



In November 1880, I started from my 

 camp on the Little Missouri river 

 for Glendive, intending to cross the 

 Yellowstone there, and have a buffalo 

 hunt, with some skin hunters who were 

 camped north of the river. 



I took only my rifle and depended on 

 them for bed and grub. After riding 

 along the Andrews Creek valley for ten 

 miles a severe blizzard came on and 

 from there to Sentinel Butte, ten miles 

 farther west, I had pretty rocky travel- 

 ing. It was about 2 p. m. when I reached 

 " Canvastown," the usual name for the 

 collection of tents and various shelters 

 that always graced (or disgraced) the end 

 of the track. 



The Northern Pacific Railroad had 

 reached this point before the ground 

 froze, had now suspended work for the 

 winter and was putting all the supplies 

 there which would be needed for the 

 spring work. 



The town was a medley of saloons, 

 tin horn gamblers, toughs and sports of 

 all kinds. The only frame house in the 

 city was of the portable kind and had 

 moved with the construction forces from 

 M and an west — on the installment plan. 

 This house was owned and run by an 

 ex-priest, who had been too rapid for 

 the church. His sign was plain to be- 

 hold. " Rev. C. A. Murphy, best wines, 

 liquors and cigars." Murphy isn't the 

 real name, but as the man is still alive 

 and mighty healthy, it. goes. 



I put my horse in the tent stable, 

 sampled Murphy's bug juice (in which 

 he joined, just to show that he bore 

 me no ill will) and then struck the 

 dinner room for a square. It was long 

 past meal time, but the cook, Fred, had 

 rustled grub all along the line and knew 

 me of old ; so I soon filled up. It was 

 fifteen miles across the divide, to the 

 next camp, where a company of infantry 

 was stationed, guarding the line. At 3 

 p. m. the blizzard howled as vigorously 

 as ever, so I weakened on facing it and 

 decided to stay all night. 



I went into the barroom, got a warm 

 place by the stove and watched a big 

 poker game which was in full blast. It 

 was running lively, when Fred came in 

 from the kitchen and walked up to the 

 bar. Not a word was spoken. The 

 barkeep set up whiskey. Fred filled his 

 glass even full and put it where he 

 thought it would do him the most good. 



After the irrigation he came over and 

 sat by me. I had heard about the choice 

 collection of snakes, bugs, etc., that he 

 kept on hand and noticed that when- 

 ever a door slammed behind him or any 

 sudden noise was heard, he would almost 

 jump out of his skin. 



After chinning a while I asked him 

 how he was making it. "Oh, pretty 

 fair. I get a drink an hour and what I 

 can rustle for doing the cooking." 



I took the hint, gave him a coin and 

 he threw another drink after the two 

 dozen taken in the last twenty-four 

 hours. His hand was so shakey that he 

 spilled part of the poison and one of the 

 bums told me that he had not recovered 

 from a hard dose of snakes which he had 

 had the day before. 



Murphy and the tin horns were hav- 

 ing a hot game and had a big jackpot on 

 the board. All hands were watching the 

 play, when I felt some one jostle me. I 

 turned and found Fred had fallen over 

 against me. He was swaying back and 

 forth, his eyes staring, and all at once 

 he pitched head first on the floor. When 

 the owner of the jacker had been dis- 

 covered Fred hadn't moved. I picked 

 up his hand and it dropped like lead. 

 I said, " Here, Murphy, Fred's dead." 



Murphy said, " The he is," and 



came around the table to see for him- 

 self. 



Fred was dead enough to bury, so 

 Murphy and one of the gamblers went 

 over to the store car, got two long empty 

 shoe boxes, knocked an end out of each, 

 sprung one box, squeezed the other, 

 telescoped them and soon had a way-up 

 coffin. 



