MONTANA REMINISCENCES. 



J. A. DUFFY. 



In the summer of 1894 I was invited by- 

 Mr. Robert Swaim, the well known land- 

 scape painter, of Helena, to accompany him 

 on a sketching and hunting trip into the 

 hills in the Northern part of Deer Lodge 

 county. We left Helena earlv in August 

 and went to Avon, thence North into 

 Washington gulch, intending to stay there 

 about a month and then cross the hills into 

 Jefferson and McLellan gulches. 



Washington gulch is famous in the early 

 history of Montana, because, with Alder 

 and Last Chance, its name conjures up to 

 the mind of the Westerner visions of un- 

 told wealth ; but few traces of its former 

 glory are left. Great banks of tailings and 

 deep excavations tell of industry and sacks 

 of gold dust ; but these banks, together 

 with the old deserted towns, are all that 

 connect the gulch with the past. 



The town stands as it did in the early 

 6o's except that there are no inhabitants. 

 The dance hall is still there but there are 

 no dancers. Yet the American flag, which, 

 perhaps, was hoisted during the Civil War, 

 has never been furled.. Its tattered folds 

 still cling to the flag staff, but its colors 

 are no longer visible. When the surround- 

 ing cabins shall have given way to the ele- 

 ments the town of Washington will have 

 passed into history. 



We went up the gulch about 2 miles 

 and pitched our tent on the banks of a 

 picturesque little stream. One evening I 

 told Mr. Swaim that instead of accompany- 

 ing him on his sketching trip I would go 

 out prospecting. The following day, armed 

 with a gold pan, a pick and a shovel I set 

 out toward Jefferson gulch, about 2 miles 

 from the camp. There I dug a hole 

 about 10 feet deep and reached bed rock. 

 The colors were not numerous, but I was 

 well compensated for my labor because to 

 the result of that day's work I owe my life. 

 A band of cattle which roamed over the 

 valley had become so wild that the sight 

 of a man in the distance would frighten 

 them into running. I saw them on many 

 occasions and every time they fled promis- 

 cuously. On that particular evening they 

 lay behind a knoll along which I must 

 pass on my way home. In the absence of 

 city entertainment might I not have some 

 amusement, even if it were of the school- 

 boy order? I would steal around on the 

 other side of the knoll and beat the pan, 

 like an Indian, The cattle, of course, 

 would shake the plain in their efforts to 

 get away.- Theory and practice sometimes 

 telescope each other and in this case the 



collision was unusually severe. Every head 

 in the band jumped up and snorted. Then 

 they started, but I was the magnet toward 

 which they were drawn. I confess I was 

 rather &fraid and, taken as I was by sur- 

 prise, I stood there as speechless as a 

 Montana Senator. I looked around for 

 some object to which I might flee. The 

 bare broad valley of Nevada creek lay be- 

 fore me. 



Even the trees on the blue grey foot 

 hills looked more dim and distant than 

 usual. In a moment I was reminded of 

 the prospect hole and toward that I fled, 

 with a band of infuriated cattle behind me. 

 Even a<: a bank cashier skedaddles to Can- 

 ada so did I flee from my pursuers. To 

 say I reached the bottom of the hole on 

 schedule time would be equivalent to say- 

 ing I was gored to death. In the matter of 

 pace making I established a precedent. 

 Having disappeared so suddenly the cattle 

 seemed to forget where they were at and 

 but for a little occasional bellowing, as if 

 in play, I heard no more of them. When 

 they had wandered into a ravine which led 

 to the foothills I ventured to the camp in 

 safety. 



The next few weeks were uneventful ; 

 given chiefly to sketching and shooting 

 coyotes, which are active in that part of 

 the State. These animals are a nuisance 

 to camp life. There is nothing they will 

 not eat, from case eggs up to an axe 

 handle. I have never heard of one's gnaw- 

 ing the inscription off a tombstone, but to 

 a coyote nothing is so sacred it is not 

 palatable. They are, though so familiar, 

 a wary target to shoot at. 



One night I sat up later than usual and 

 as it was warm I took up a position out- 

 side the tent. When my companion retired 

 he put out the light of the candle so every- 

 thing was in darkness. It was a beautiful 

 night. The light of the full moon was 

 beginning to break through a depression 

 in the hills at the head of the gulch, throw- 

 ing a golden flood over everything. The 

 stately pines whispered back soft words of 

 greeting and the little brook seemed to 

 chatter more pleasantly. While thus in a 

 sentimental mood listening to the mysteri- 

 ous noises of nature, I was suddenly 

 startled by the howl of a sweet voiced 

 coyote. I waited for another, in order to 

 locate my game and was agreeably sur- 

 prised to find him sitting on a pile of castel- 

 lated rocks, sharply silhouetted against the 

 moon. Whistler would have called it an 

 arrangement in black and gold, but to me 



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