Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Coleman, David Evans (1873-1954) Autobio

(Great uncle of the contributor, Richard N. Heywood)
Family History[1]
by
David Evans Coleman[2]


Father:  Prime Thornton Coleman, born in England, Sept. 22, 1832.  Came to the United States when about thirteen years of age.

Mother:  Emma B. (Evans) Coleman, born in Ill. Jan. 12, 1840.

Both went through the mobbings and drivings incident to the early rise of the church.  History does not begin to record the sufferings, privations and poverty through which they and their associates passed.  Both came to Utah with the companies which crossed the plains.

The Evans and Coleman families settled in Lehi[3], Utah in about 1852 or 53 (See history of Lehi) where they and their children lived for years.  In 1856 my mother and father were married, after which event they were called as missionary settlers to the Santa Clara on the Muddy in Southern Utah.

That mission spelled hardship and deprivation; social, spiritual and educational isolation which seemed to forecast plainly—to mark out and blaze—as it were, the life path of this nucleus of the family. 

They left Lehi taking with them all of their worldly goods, which consisted of a span of Spanish ponies, neither of which weighed over eight hundred pounds.  A light wagon, the bed of which was six inches deep back of the seat.  The front end was built up some higher and a board laid across for a seat.  The hauling capacity of the impoverished vehicle would have been not over one thousand pounds.  The horses were too small to pull even what the wagon would carry, and the roads were extremely bad.  Steep hills, rocks and barren stretches of sand.  No bows or cover on the wagon.

Their house-hold goods and accessories consisted of the following:  A limited amount of bedding (not more than four quilts), a sack of homemade flour, some beef or mutton tallow for shortening and a very few other real necessities, a Dutch oven , tin can for a coffee pot, some tin dishes, knives and forks and some pewter spoons.  Also a small pig and a few pounds of coarse salt, and an always necessary can of axel grease. 

Father Evans[4] (bless his liberal soul and it was real liberality on his part) gave them a good well- seasoned rawhide.  Of course they didn’t forget that raw-hide either, for it would come in mighty handy for making moccasins, repairing the harness and making hobbles for the horses, chair bottoms, etc..  All they had in that wagon could be bought now for ten dollars.

They also took with them the blessings of their respective parents[5] and the best wishes of their many friends; an asset that one appreciates but hasn’t much cash value among strangers, or in an unsettled country. 

Of course it was a honey-moon trip.  But a ride of several days on the board seat of a lumber wagon, sleeping at night on a couple of home-made quilts spread out on the ground with about the same amount of bedding for coving, kind of takes the joy out of any kind of an outing.  No; they hardly had any change of clothing. 

Having arrived at their destination the real battle of life began.  The climate was hot, the soil unproductive and extremely difficult to till.  The Indians, while friendly, were given to coveting their neighbor’s possessions which made it all the more difficult to keep anything that one wasn’t using all the time.

That particular tribe of Indians was rather below the average in industry, subsisting on insects, roots, and jack rabbits, and about all that seemed to be possessed of systematic thrift in their vicinity were  what we now term as “cooties” and an inborn desire to make as little physical exertion as possible.  Therefore they eked out a very miserable and mean existence.  Their liberality in occasionally distributing (perhaps unwittingly) their always plentiful supply of “cooties” (gray backs or lice) among their recently arrive pale-face neighbors seemed to be about their only way of showing a real live appreciation of civilization, and also added to the already almost intolerable burdens of the whites.

I know from experience what it means to an entire family to suddenly realize that that they are all infested with the loathsome vermin and perhaps not enough clothes in the house for a change while the “wash is out.”  It has been my experience to witness the tears of loving mothers and to listen to the imprecations of good and honest men when such a dilemma has overtaken the family.

These were only a few of the difficulties they met and overcame.  They had to build houses.  They were usually of logs, dirt roof and dirt floor.  One window across which a piece of cloth was stretched—if the occupant of the house was fortunate enough to have an extra piece—otherwise a wooden shutter was used; a fireplace and a very small amount of homemade furniture such as stools, benches and bedstead.  Any “boughten”[6] articles were scarce indeed and were considered luxuries.

One time our mother traded a pair of beautifully beaded moccasins to a neighbor for one dozen spoons.  At another time she traded something or other for five spools of sure enough factory thread.  She was the envy of the community.  One dozen spoons polished and shining neatly arranged on the ledge (or shelf made out of a piece of split timber, flat on top, rounding on the bottom and fasted to the wall with wooden pins and all bordered with scalloped paper) and five spools of “boughten” thread stacked in a pyramid shape on the shelf right where they would catch the eye of the visiting house-wife, always called forth exclamations of surprise.  And as not such display of luxurious extravagance had ever been seen in the Santa Clara[7] she was considered very thrifty and fortunate.


Just where our parents moved next is not clear, but they finally came to Pinto[8]  (Note:  This Blog has an entry for Pinto, Washington, Utah.)  where they did considerable improving, also farming, stock-raising and dairying.  While living here they Navajo Indians came over from across the Colorado River and drove off considerable loose stock that were out on the range.  Father lost some mares and colts, a good mule, and a good gelding.  These stock were valued at $1700.  He also built a very comfortable house, a good barn and made other permanent improvements.  The barn, build in 1868 is still standing in 1921 and looks good for another half century.

Then came on a drought and the cattle loss began to tell on the herds that men had so painstakingly built up, and it looked like everybody was sure to go out of the live-stock business.

Father became acquainted with a man by the name of Spanish George (his other name I do not remember).  They bought horses on commission from a Spaniard in California by the name of Oyo.  Their ranch was out near Pioche[9], a then thriving mining camp in Nevada.  The ranch was in Springvalley.  They trailed these horses through from California, over into Utah and traded them for cattle which they drove back into Nevada.  Horses at that time were cheap in California, and scarce and high in Utah, so they made good money.

I was born in Springvalley on a ranch Feb. 13, 1874.  When about four years old we moved over into Utah and settled on a ranch at Upper Kanab[10]

Our part of the family were the only ones who left the early settlements in Utah and were always pioneers in the real sense.  The others of the Evanses and Colemans and their children remained where they first settled after coming across the plains.  Some of the children did in the late 90’s go up into Southern Canada, but that part of the country was pretty well settled then.  So we have always been separated from them, and hardly know any of them.

Leaving Upper Kanab, Kane County, Utah in Nov. 1880, the family, in company with Joseph Neal Heywood—a brother-in-law—and William Reid—a young man that was hired to help—we started for Arizona.

The year previous, Heywood, Maxwell and others had come out to Arizona bringing some horses and cattle and locating at Bush Valley, later known as Alpine, Arizona[11], Apache County, about four miles from the New Mexico line. 

The Indians were under Victorio[12], a very notorious Indian, stole almost every one of the horses.  At that time horses of that class were worthy two hundred fifty dollars per head, so that was a financial set-back, from which some of the early settlers never recovered.

During the summer prior to our leaving Utah, horses were broken, wagons repaired, clothes were made, provisions, bedding leather, seed etc. were secured, and all necessary preparations were made for the long overland trip into the unsettled and uninviting great South West.

The outfit consisted of one wagon and trail – two wagons coupled together – pulled by six horses.  My father drove this outfit.  One heavy wagon to which four rollicking wire half broken horses were attached and superintended by Wm. Reid who was very inexperienced in handling “four-in-hand” and had a habit of getting very excited and rd in the face when steering his chargers through bed places, sometimes dropping one line, or letting the wheel horse step over the lead “stretcher” invariably getting stalled on bad hills and to relieve the monotony sometimes fell off the wagon entirely.

My mother and I together with numerous household good occupied the trail wagon.  It was quite comfortable.  The bows were set out from the sides of the wagon bed proper; a heavy carpet was stretched over them and tacked down, then a wagon cover was stretched over the carpet making a water and wind proof room.  A small wood burning stove and a large lantern, looking glass, comb, towels, wash basin, etc., completed the inside makeup.

I don’t see where our mother found room for so many really necessary – to us luxury articles; but she was an artist in the wagon loading line, and despite the vehement protests of “Pa” punctuated with many gestures and much light profanity as “the deuce” and ”the devil”, she could always squeeze herself into a little smaller “very comfortable” space and put in just one more article, consoling everybody with, “Oh, well, if we don’t need it ourselves, perhaps we may see some poor person who does”, which always brought forth the oft used exclamation from “Pa”, “the deuce, that woman will have her way.”

Mrs. Elizabeth Coleman[13], my father’s second wife, and four children, occupied and drove the next wagon to which were hitched two very steady and trusty old stand-bys (Mike and Jim) who didn’t get excited nor “stall” and wo dragged the heavily laden wagon along at a very leisurely gait and patiently endured the many changes of drives during the day.  These two horses had made the tripe the year before, and had tired of the new country which they were every day required to travel, escaped from the outfit and returned to the scenes of their colt hood.  They came in handy to us and were later returned to their rightful owners who were then living in Arizona.

Mrs. Sarah Francelle Coleman Heywood and two children drove one wagon to which was hitched a very fiery, high strung span of sorrel[14] mares, Kit and Fan, afterwards said to be one of the finest teams in Apache County.  Mr. Heywood, Prime and Willard looked after the loose stock and were the general roustabouts.  These horses were descendants of the Spanish stock trailed through from California.  If you have never handled Spanish horses (the old Spanish stock) you have sure missed some real thrills.

The company consisted of fourteen persons, five wagons, fourteen stock animals, some saddle animals, loose horses, cows, calves, one dog and a little Spanish mule which has a very strong inclination to do unexpected things at the most unexpected times, that seemed to add neither to the comfort or success of the expedition; such as running off with the nosebag at feeding time, or extricating himself from the harness right at the time when R. Reid, who drove him sometimes, was just about to get his outfit out of a bad place.  That mule worked on lead.  He could get out of that harness every time.

With this outfit we started for Arizona.  The trip was most trying in many respects, because of the cold weather, the scarcity of feed, fuel and water at times.  Snow covered the Buckskin Mountains[15].  Cattle became sore footed, horses were thin in flesh; some were alkalized and gave out.  The route was marked by the dried carcasses of horses and cattle that had perished the year before and which indicated the hardships that others pioneers were called upon to pass through.

At night, in camp, brass kettles and tubs of snow were melted for water for the work horses and for our own use.  This was while crossing the Buckskin Mountains.  When camp was made at night the snow was cleared away and first made which helped to dry the ground; provision boxes and cooking utensils were brought out and the evening meal prepared.  It was no easy task for the women folks to help do the cooking, look after and fee a bunch of small children with the thermometer hovering around the zero mark.  It was almost impossible to keep the food warm for as soon as it was dished from the hot Dutch over into a tin plate it cooled.  Often we children ate our supper and were so cold we could hardly keep out of the fire, and yet we were much better provided with everything than were others who came into Arizona.

Breakfast was usually eaten by firelight, horses grained and harnessed, wagons loaded and everything ready for a start not later than sunrise.

Sometimes a workhorse would give out late in the afternoon.  Then when camp was made for the evening another horse would after have eaten his grain, and after a hard day’s lug in the sand and up steep hills, be taken back perhaps three or four miles to help pull into camp the belated wagon.  Food and water often had to be hauled to the already heavy loads and used very sparingly.

I have seen the work horses lug through heavy roads for half a day, get their grain and a one two gallon bucket and be hobbled out on the dry grass for the night, sometimes with no water till noon the next day, at best not more than another bucket full in the morning.

Before reaching the ferry the axle of the wagon Willie Reid drove, was broken which caused a delay for a couple of days.
The Colorado River was crossed at Lee’s Ferry[16].  Teams, wagons, and stock were ferried across on one small open ferry boat propelled by man power.  Sometimes a cow would look back at the slowly receding bank on the Utah side, hear the lowing of her companions (for only a few could be loaded at each trip) step over the edge of the boat, disappear for a moment in the depths of the river, suddenly appearing again some 20 feet from the boat headed back for the shore.  Consternation would reign on that rocking craft for a couple of minutes lest the whole bunch take a sudden notion thy wanted a return ticket.  Three trips put a wagon over.

                   

That transporting of a family’s “all” across the Colorado when one mistake or one “miscue” would put that family homeless on an inhospitable shore, with absolutely no immediate means of communication with civilization, was in itself no mean or insignificant undertaking.  Many is the time when all the worldly possession of the pioneer and all that life hold dear are at stake.  Neither tongue nor pen can describe the emotions that swell the breast of the pioneer when he is passing through such scenes.

After the river was crossed, then came that most arduous task of traveling over what was known as “Lee’s Back Bone.”[17]  The road was almost impassable.  Teams had to be doubled up and one wagon taken over a certain part of the road and camped, then the teams taken back and another wagon brought up and so on till all the wagons were collected at a certain point.  The same process repeated again with more or less excitement, exasperation and discouragement, until camp was made for the night.  Then the teams, tired, thin, discouraged and bruised, but ever faithful, had to be driven back the entire distance to water, and return to be fed and a scanty ration of grain and be tied up for the night

                                   
                                
                                                             “Wagon Ruts at Lee’s Backbone”
                                                                        photo by Gary Ladd.[18]

without a morsel of anything else to eat.  The occupants of the first wagon to reach the top, while waiting for the wagons, gathered brush for the morning fire.  Some of the horses tied to the wagons during the night, ate the brush.  The reason for tying the horses – too rough to hobble out, and the danger of some of them falling over the bluff and into the river.

No fire was made that night.  A night was never born that could have conveyed on the moaning wind a spirit that spelled in a more significant manner, “desolation.”  The moaning wind, the howling coyotes, the horses tugging at their halters and pawing the ground, the swishing and flapping of wagon covers and tarps and the lowing of the cattle all contributed to the already seemingly almost unsurmountable barrier that ever faces the pioneer.

Mrs. Heywood says, “After breakfast the next morning, and the teams hitched up to descend Lee’s Backbone, the road was so narrow and winding, and ribbon like river below, I hugged so close to the hill side that the hubs of the wheels scraped the sand and rock.  I tried to keep my eyes on the hill but an occasional glance below made me feel that the wagon might go rolling over and over down to the rive with me and my two boys[19].  I stopped the team and waited until Mr. Heywood came up and changed.  I then mounted the horse and drove the cattle and he drove the team.”

Another half day of nerve racking experiences and the traversing of Lee’s Back Bone was to us but a memory as have been many other very unpleasant events that have stood out in prominent contrast to the few very profitably pleasurable times of the passing years.

Miles and miles were slowly reeled off till we reached the Little Colorado[20] [21], up which turbulent,

                                         

The Little Colorado's bright blue color is the result of bleaching of bottom sediments by the river's heavy mineral load. Photograph by Shannon Kelly.

muddy, treacherous, indescribable imitation of “sparkling waters” that were ever allowed to wend its serpentine length across the fair bosom of Mother Earth.  We wended our way in sand, across clay flats and through stretches of grease-wood and cedar, ever ascending until we reached the snow-covered valley of the White Mountains.  The Little Colorado is sometimes almost dry, at other times a roaring torrent, whose waters do not readily settle.  The traveler often has to put the paddle, that he stirs his sour dough with, into a pail of water to settle it.  The waters of this stream carry considerable alkali after they leave the mountains which makes them hard and brackish.  As one nears the White Mountains, the streams become clear, and an abundance of fish is to be found.

At the Little Colorado there were clear pools of water by the water’s edge which was so full of alkali, the horses drinking it made several sick.  The water looked so pretty and clear.  Mrs. Heywood says, “My hair hadn’t been washed since I left Kanab; with lye soap in the warm water, I washed my hair.  It came out like tallow candles.” 

We passed through Holbrook[22]  (A sign on a Holbrook restaurant kept by a very hospitable Spaniard read, “Come eat.  Gotta the Money, Pay.  No Gotta the Pay – Eat anyhow.), sixty miles to Concho, thirty miles from there to Springerville[23], fifteen miles to Nutrioso[24], ten miles to Alpine[25].  A picturesque country to be sure, with sparkling springs and steams, and deep dark forests that extended back and up to the tops of the towering mountains.  An abundance of grass that invited the stockman, game for the hunter, timber for the artisan, and land for the agriculturist, and isolation for him who perchance may have escaped the stern hand of justice in his native state.  In fact this location lacked but two essentials—climate and market.  So far as the industrial, commercial and educational world were concerned, it could not have been more isolated.  Nothing but the hardiest vegetables and grains could be produced.  The nearest railroad terminated at Albuquerque on the Rio Grande River in New Mexico over two hundred miles distant.  It was impracticable to make more than one trip a year to the railroad because of the distance and the probability of being attacked by Indians, or robbed by Mexicans of which there was a considerable sprinkling throughout all the South West.  The Mexican population was not generally a very stable element and drifted about at pleasure, perhaps cultivating a small patch of corn and chile.  Politically in the ascendancy they were arrogant and unprincipled and excepting a few, were usually not a class of people who would build up a new country.  A few of them had cattle, sheep or horses, but they were of inferior quality and were not given much attention.

A few log houses with dirt floors dotted the valley which was to be our future home.  These houses were all wood and dirt, no nails or metal of any kind being used in their construction.  The doors were made of clap-boards—boards hewn out by hand—and fastened together with wooden pins.  They were hung on wooden hinges and fastened with wooden latches the string of which extended through a hole in the door and hung outside.  The windows were square holes cut in the most convenient places and were covered with a piece of factory (muslin) if one were so fortunate as to possess such an article.  The dirt roof was airtight if it didn’t rain, otherwise it usually leaked, which caused the house-wives considerable inconvenience as they had to pile everything up in the dry spots.  After a dirt roof had weathered several wet years its supports became rotted and it “falls in” when least expected.  If the family on such occasions was wrapped in profound and peaceful slumber, the rude and sudden awakening caused considerable excitement.  The family immediately commenced to “dig out” emerging in all kinds of evening attire.  If the family was outside on such an occasion they immediately commenced to “dig in.”

There was plenty of game in the country but ammunition was scarce, and no one ventured very far from home on account of the Indians.  Men had to melt and “cast” their own bullets and be always on the alert and ready to defend themselves and families against attack from either man or beast.  Never a moment when a man felt secure.

Provisions were scarce.  Our principle dessert was boiled wheat with a little cream and sugar.  We ground corn on a Danish Malt Mill made of rock by James Mortensen.  When we wanted to have something extra for the coming diner, we ran the meal through the mill twice.  Molasses was a luxury.

I remember one man who had a large family who were about as poverty stricken as any of us and were living mostly on corn bread, pork and sometimes some game meat.  This man bought a five gallon keg of molasses which he doled out to the children in very meager quantities; when it was gone he would buy no more.  Said they ate enough bread without buying molasses to go on it.  For about seven months all we had in the bread line was the corn and wheat we could grind.

Our cattle and horses commenced to increase but many died from one disease or another.  Some were stolen and panthers, bear and wolves made regular clean-ups on colts and calves.  Frost killed the grain and incessant rains rotted the vegetables.  So at the end of one year we only hoped for better times the next.  Mr. Heywood brought on a burro from Williams Valley sixty miles distant, some seed potatoes which we planted.  They grew, promised a good crop; when about ready to grapple (sic), the rains came and they rotted in the ground.

A few settlements scattered for three hundred miles along the Little Colorado, and Alpine, a small settlement on the head of the Frisco, was the only civilization in eastern Arizona.  One would go east or west two hundred miles before reaching an Anglo-Saxon settlement. 

Victorio was an Apache chief and when he “broke out” on the war path we all “broke in” to the fort and awaited developments.

The Apache reservation lay just to the west of us.  The main trails led out to the east.  One of these crossed the north end of the White Mountains and led out by Springerville and on the east to the Rio Grande and thence into Texas.  The other led out across Black River, Stray Horse, Blue and Frisco at Alma, Silver City and then across the Rio Grande into Texas.

Small bands of Indians broke off from the main bands and systematically pillaged the country between the two main trails.  Old timers have told me that these bands usually came together again in Texas; then they turned south, raided the northern states of Mexico, thence back through Arizona and into the White Mountains.  So you see, they made a complete circuit.  Also the Apaches and Comanches in the early days used to work together. 

One time a small band of Indians attacked a Mexican village just east of Luna valley which is ten miles east of Alpine, killing every man, woman and child, except two—a man and little girl, perhaps five years old.  It was ten miles over to the Baca Plaza, now called Reserve, another Mexican settlement.  The man and girl, whom the Indians had not seen because they were out after the horses, went to the town and gave the alarm.  Immediately everything was put in readiness.  The Indians had always surprised this town and expected to do so again.  When they arrived and made the attack they were met with such an accurate and steady fire that a number of horses were seen to run off riderless.  The Indians retreated in disorder.  This is the time they took our horses.

The Indians, after leaving the Baca Plaza, committed many depredations as they went through the country.

Pa, Ma, Prime, Wm Reid and myself, I was about seven years old, moved over into New Mexico, sixty miles from Alpine, about 120 miles the way we had to go, where we lived for more than a year.  During that time the Indians broke out several times, and everybody moved into a fort at Pleasanton on the Frisco River.  When the Indians would break off from the reservation they would sometimes be gone for two or three days before it was known to the U.S. officials at the Fort Apache post.  Then a runner on horseback was sent ninety miles to Holbrook; then a telegram was sent to Silver City, New Mexico, and a runner sent out to notify the ranchers of the outbreak.  We lived 62 miles from Silver City so the Indians would sometimes be right in the immediate vicinity before anyone was aware of their presence.  Anyway we survived several “Indian Scares,” and when one has a sure enough “scare,” especially children they don’t soon recover from it.  We children talked of Indians, read of Indian atrocities, dreamed of Indians, and lived in daily mortal terror of Indians.  I was naturally timid and it seemed to me that I would never out-grow the “scare.”
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We moved back to Alpine.  That was an out of the way place, subject to early frosts, late frosts and frosts between times.  At that time I don’t know as we could have settled in any better place, and in fact am glad we did settle there.

There has never been but a few families live in Alpine at any one time, but it boast of the largest cemetery of any town of it size west of the Rio Grande.  Also it has never had a jail, a saloon, pool hall or picture show; neither has it ever had occasion to require the services of an attorney.  In about 1886 the people of Alpine made two startling discoveries.  One was: that a man would never get rich in Alpine; second:  fishing bait was plentiful almost anywhere in the valley. 

After weathering all kinds of reverses, financially and otherwise, we moved to Springerville and purchased a farm, and lived for several years.  Horses were paid mostly for this farm. 

The drought became so acute that we could not raise enough grain to get our seed back.  Farmers had to go to the railroad to buy supplies and seed grain for another year.  The children of our family were now old enough, part of them, to commence to do for themselves and each began to acquire for themselves.  As for myself I never had any inclination to “leave home” as most, in fact all, of the other boys did.  Although I worked a good deal for myself, and at times acquired some property, it was always at the disposal of our father and mother, and I have always been thankful that I remained with them till they received the final summons.

I have little else to say for myself, and were it not that we have each been asked to contribute to the history of our family (Evans), I would say nothing:  But I suppose everyone will have much to say or write as regards to his or he life.  To begin with, my educational opportunities were few and a long way between.  I do recall that my average winter schooling for several years was about six weeks per winter.  I never did attend a graded public school.  Two winters at Springerville school was “kept” in an old Mexican adobe building.  About seventy children, Mexicans and Whites were crowded into that small poorly ventilated unsanitary building.  We fought, shirked and cheated.  We didn’t play “hooky” because there was no place to go, it was too cold.  The teachers had graduated from the old school of “spare the rod and spoil the boy” so I think there was never a day that there were less than three children whipped and usually six or more.  The principal always used an ordinary buggy whip or else a rattan[26] riding whip.  The severity of the whipping depended, not on the offence particularly, but on the humor, and physical ability of the teacher and the durability of the whip.  I think that “spare the rod and spoil the boy” was about the only passage of scriptures they ever read, at least the only one they put into daily practice.

I usually got into school Jan 1st, sooner or later, sometimes a start a few days before Christmas so as to have a good (?) ready on.  But as soon as the sun began to creep back toward the north, a few other restless spirits, as well as myself, always found “lots of work that had to be done” so we shook off the shackles of educational environment and hied us away to farm or range, so our education came t be as was becoming of the sons of Jacob who told Pharaoh:  “Our trade had always been about cattle.”

When I recall those several parts of years spent in the schools of Springerville, and call to mind the boys and girls who with myself attended school, I think of not one of all of us who ever amounted to anything educationally.  Some, I say some, not all, blossomed into prominence and even notoriety as cow thieves and train robbers, gamblers and libertines.  Could there be any other result when at least always one of the teachers was known to us as absolutely to have no moral standard?  And we, both boys and girls, remarked about the loose moral condition that was always ushered into that school. 

Farming didn’t appeal to us boys.  We wished something more exciting and that offered a more certain cash return.  There were the mines at Clifton[27] and Mogollon[28], which, when operated, gave considerable employment, but few of the boys took readily to mining, and most of those few who did were not considered as just what they ought to be morally.

The cattle business appealed to us because of the excitement, and to a great extent the environment we were thrown into.  A bad lot of men, some of them, but hard workers and took life as it came, and once in a while it ceased very suddenly to “come”, and the existence of many a one of them was suddenly and violently terminated.  The country along the Arizona New Mexico line was, because of its isolation a splendid place for outlaws, and a considerable of the cowboys were on the “dodge.”

Climate conditions throughout Arizona and New Mexico were such that cattle were not fed in the winter time as they were in some other cattle-raising states, and consequently it required “range branding” all winter.  Often steers were not gathered till in November and the first part of December which usually took thirty days to gather them and then drive to the nearest shipping point—150 or 200 miles.

That took several days, and the herd had to be held out at night, which was not at all pleasant as each guard was usually three hours.  Three hours jogging a night horse around a herd of one thousand steers on a November or December night even if they lay quietly on the bed ground isn’t conducive to warmth and comfort.  Usually the second guard fell to me, or at least it seemed that way—or from eleven P. M. till two A. M.  On a very clear frosty night one would certainly feel the cold.  No, we wore no overshoes nor otherwise protected our feet other than just the regular cowboy boot.  We usually wore an overcoat that had survived many winters and seemed to belong to no one in particular and was handed from one guard to the next.  In an outfit of 10 or 12 men there would be no more than half a dozen such overcoats.  In a big outfit three men were on guard at a time, and if the cattle were quiet and plenty of wood handy, a fire could be kept going and we could take turns warming; but a warm lasted pretty quick and seemed to intensify the cold, but it really was necessary to warm by the fire some times

To have a man pull one’s tarp back from over one’s head and say, “Second guard,” every night for eight or ten real bitter cold nights while on the trail and one has been hearing the same summons pretty regular for the past 30 night, and have to roll out of a warm bed, dress, go out and untie and mount a shivering horse, sure does put a real chill into a hand that it takes about all the next summer to get out.  Cattle drifted pretty badly on our ranges, and it was a very common occurrence for outside men whose ranges were 60 miles away to be working with an outfit.  When any big outfit like the ­­­[brand symbols are hand-written) started to work, other outfits always sent men to look out for their interests, so there were about as many outside men working with an outfit as “home” men.  Outfits always worked shorthanded, and while we usually had plenty of horses and changed at least once a day and generally rode a good night horse, we could get ten or twelve horses ridden to a whisper by the time the spring work was over.  Then if a man were working for a big outfit his horses were taken to the “horse camp” and he was handed another mount and went right on working again either with the “home” wagon or else sent to another outfit.  No laying off from the time the first work started in the spring till “snow fly” in the fall.  Then “range brand” all winter on two or three grain fed horses.  Of course we camped out all winter.  (Cattle always drifted from the mountains to lower country in winter.)  We fed no hay, the horses doing very well on grain and grass.

It seemed as if a roundup would never end, especially in the spring and summer before the rains commenced, for everything was dry and there was plenty of dust and hot days and we sure had to work.

These were the days when cattle were numbered by thousands.  Our outfit had in it about twenty men (a small outfit for then) and then we were short-handed, and it seemed to me we would never get through with that round-up.  Two round-ups a day, one in the morning and one after noon.  Changed horses at noon.  Always ate breakfast before daylight and supper after dark; also caught our night horses after dark, and stood guard almost every night—usually three hours.  The last ten days it was the first half the night for half the men, and the last half for the remainder, which left about four hours seep out of the twenty-four.  If the herd pulled off a genuine stampede, then all hands had to get out on the double quick.  Night horses were always saddled and either tied up to a near-by tree or else picketed out with a long rope.  A man always laid his bridle under the head of his bed so it was handy.  And the way a bunch of cowboys could roll out of bed pull on trousers and boots (just dismiss from your mind the story that a cowboy always sleeps with his boots and trousers on) and grab their bridles and get to their horses, was certainly a feat that will never be recorded in the movies.  Anyway during that ten days th men got so they talked as though their tongues were thick.  They could scarcely articulate.  Sometimes amusing incident would happen.  The chuck wagon capsizes, perhaps from careless driving.  Hardly a day went by that somebody didn’t get bucked off his horse, get a fall from his horse stepping in a dog hole, or rope something and get a horse jerked down.  We usually were given an average horses to the man.  It took a good deal of excitement to even up on the alkali water and dust, sleepless night, early breakfasts and late suppers.

One year I worked for Sherlock and Becker.  They drove steers to both Texas and Colorado.  Myself and eight other hands including the cook and horse strangler, drove twelve hundred and forty-five (1245) from Springerville, Arizona to Panhandle City[29], Texas.  We left Springerville in July and delivered the steers in the stockyard at Panhandle City, Oct. 26th, just a little over three months on the trail. 

Sherlock then turned his outfit over to me and we made the trip back to Arizona in just twenty five days.  Layed over on the Rio Grande several days.  Twenty days to the Rio Grande, five days to Springerville.  That was in about 1895.  I was the only one that started with the outfit, and stayed with it till we got back.  All the others either quit or were discharged, new men taking their places.  When we crossed the Rio Grande River, three men were discharged, and three new ones were picked up; so by the time we got to our destination, myself and Mr. Tate were the only old hands on the job.  Mr. Tate quit and went out in east Texas to visit his people.

We had acquired a new cook, and he and he was certainly a good one, but when he got drunk was a bad acting man, and he never missed an occasion to take in a “jag.”  The first night out (as we started for home) from Panhandle City we camped near a small town.  After supper the cook remembered that he had forgotten to get a few necessary articles, and immediately went to town, and came back some time during the night and had to be put to bed.  Next morning we loaded up the wagon and was ready to start when the cook rose to a point of order and called for a stay of proceedings till he could collect his scattered thoughts and a couple bottles of tanglefoot.  We had a slight argument sprinkled with a good deal of profanity, and I threw his be off the wagon, picked up the lines and drove off leaving him sitting out on a bleak prairie just as the sun was coming up out of a hole in the ground (for it always came up that way out on the Texas plains.)

For about a month before we turned the cattle over, we had had no easy time; it sleeted, rained and frosted, we had only our summer clothes—no overcoat, no tents, and had to stand guard every night.  Also we had to burn “buffalo chips” as there was not a sprig of brush or timber of any kind grew on the plains.  We would travel for days and never see a stick of wood.  If a man didn’t have a picket pin with which to stake his night horse, he dug a small trench or hole in the ground, put a couple of feet of his picket rope in the hole and tamped dirt around it.  No horse could pull a rope out of a trench.  The cook always kept a supply of broken-up goods boxes on hand for kindlings (sic).  At night a lantern was lighted and hanged on the side of the wagon so the night herder would not get lost.  One perhaps would think that anyone would have no trouble in finding their way to a wagon that was not over two hundred yards distant from the herd.  But on the plains there was absolutely no landmark to go by.  On a dark and rainy night one had as well look up in the sky, and since only one man was on guard at a time, (the herd was well enough trail broke so one man could hold them at night if they didn’t “run” to leave the herd to hunt the wagon, would be the height of folly, since he would likely get lost from both.  When one had ridden round the herd several times on a very dark night, he would have no idea which side of the herd the wagon was on.  Any other place I have ever been there was always some land mark to go by—but the great plains were different, there is nothing to locate one’s self by.  Therefore the necessity of a lantern.

As I said, we had no easy time the last thirty days.  The incessant cold rains and sleet made the cattle restless, and stampedes were frequent.  Could relate a number of instances where we got some real thrills.  There is nothing pleasant in being suddenly wakened out of a sound slumber and have to leave a warm dry bed and take a wild gallop out into the rain for from fifteen to thirty minutes.  I remember one night we were all on till twelve o’clock.  One night the cattle stampeded right during an unusually hard rain (it had been raining for two days and nights almost steady) and almost ran over the wagon.  Twelve hundred head of frisky steers nearly all of which were six or seven year olds, cause considerable of excitement which ever way they go, but when they head straight for camp and a person hasn’t time to get to his horse and there isn’t a tree short of the next state it had a tendency to make one nervous.  Then I recall those cold mornings when the herd must go off the bed ground at day break, and all for $35.00 per month.  Ant to add to our troubles some of the best horses got badly locoed.  One doesn’t know what a locoed horse may do.  He is absolutely unreliable as a general thing.  One minute he may forget he is being ridden, and the next minute wake up and as the boys used to put it “buck the devil off the cross.”  Anyway, I acquired a locoed one for a night horse.  He never bucked, but he was always seeing “boogers” and snakes, and when I approached him at night he seemed to think I was a ghost.  He was easy gaited, sure footed, and always managed to get to the right place at the right time, so we got along nicely. 

But to the return trip.  It was not an easy journey.  The weather was cold, feed and water in parts of the country was scarce, and horses were poor, (As nearly as I remember we had about forty saddle horses.  Mr. Sherlock had let some go when he sold the herd) and our clothes weren’t heavy.  We stopped one evening at Pinos Wells,[30] a ranch between the Pecos and Rio Grande rivers, in  fact, the only habitation we passed except one little Mexican village.  Our horses had had no water since the evening before, and it was ten miles to the next watering place. We asked the man at the store if we might water our horses at the well, the only water there.  He said, “No,” that we could fill our barrel, a 20 gallon one, but no more.  I drove the wagon jup to the well, so the barrel was on the opposite side of the wagon from the store, and told one of the men to go into the store and buy something.  “Have the man show you everything he had in there.  Try on some boots or—any trade with him till you see the wagon start, and then buy a fifteen cent handkerchief or anything and come on.”  We had no cover on the wagon, had taken it fof when weather was god, so the store men could see a man standing on the tope of the wagon pouring water into the barrel.  In the meantime meself (sic) and another man were watering all the horses out of buckets.  I think it took about an hour to fill that barrel.  The hand that went into the store said he tried on about all the wearing apparel there was there, and since there but one man on the place he couldn’t leave the store, but every few minutes he would start out, but our hand would see something else he wanted and the store keeper would come back.  We had to water the horses.  On the round trip I remember seeing three white women, and they certainly looked god to me.

Since that time have had many ups and downs and have mange to enjoy life as much as possible.  Could relate, if I had the language many interesting experience, during the time when outlawry was prevalent on the ranges of Arizona and New Mexico.  When every man went armed, and a person never knew what minute he would have occasion to use his gun.  When a man rode up to camp he always took his Winchester off his saddle and stood it against a tree where he could reach it.  If he were cooking a meal over the camp fire, his Winchester was within reach; if he went on guard, horse-wrangle or any other work he always went armed.  One morning one of the boys on horse wrangle was riding a mean horse, and since he would not be more than an hour rounding up the saddle horses, he left his gun at camp.  He rode into a bunch of outlaws who happened to be passing that way.  They held him up, relived him of his pocket knife, a couple of dollars in money, did him considerable bodily injury, and warned him to say nothing, and he didn’t for several days.

Since coming to the Gila, 1899, Nov. 1st, have been in considerable public work.  Have held the following positions:  City and district road overseer, member of board of directors, also secretary and treasurer of Central Canal Co., Book keeper and straw boss for the Star Milling Co. of Thatcher for ten months.  One of the board of directors of the Thatcher Creamery Co., City Marshal of Thatcher for several years; also served as constable and deputy sheriff.  Fourteen months missionary work in the Southern States Mission and have usually been active in church work since coming home.  During the war was appointed as a Four Minute Man, also a member of the Graham County Committee to pass on the names of those who were drafted into the army.  We recommended to the state army headquarters whether a man could or could not well be spared for military duty.  Also appointed as one of ten Minute Men of Thatcher to render assistance if necessary to  quell any Mexican uprising in Graham, County at the time the Mexican situation was so acute.  We furnished our own horses, saddles, and guns.  No compensation.  Appointed on the executive committee Arizona Cattle Grower’s Association.  Tailings inspector for eight years.  Deputy livestock brand inspector.  Member of board of directors Montezuma Canal Co.  Chairman Graham County United War Work.  Also was married to Miss Eliza Skinner, July 13, 1913 (sic), don’t remember for sure but think it was on Friday, and who has always been loyal and true..  Think I could not have done better.

Evans Coleman's Wife, Eliza Skinner
Anyway, will close by remarking that I have always tried to fill every public positon in a manner that would show my appreciation of the confidence of the person or persons who appointed or elected me to those positions of public trust.

Have observed this in life:  That money is a good and necessary thing to have, but one may have money and no really true friends, and can’t get them.  But if he had friends “good and true” he can usually get the money—and then h will have both.  Solomon said:  “Get knowledge.”  I may add; also get the implicit confidence of your fellowman, and cherish that confidence as you would a precious gift.  I enjoy life—and were it all to do over again, I think I would not change it very much, and I hope that I may so live that when the final summons comes that in my  may be recorded the little helpful things that go to make the world more pleasant for my less favored neighbor.  And that when I hear the horse that is to carry me over the great Divide, whiney at the “gate” and champ the bit and paw the ground sorter nervous like, that I may make my exit from this good old mother Earth in a dignified and worthy manner.

I think I rode in over the Divide on a horse, and I sure don’t want to go back over the trail on foot.  I have always imagined that there is a horse running on the range of the Great Beyond that will be all saddled and bridled and ready at the proper time to carry me back to the place from whence I came.  It seems to me that would be much more pleasant than to have the much talked of Guardian Angel meet a weary world-worn pilgrim and start out on foot: besides one wouldn’t want to be asked embarrassing questions.  It would take all the joy out of the trip, and besides he would likely have to meet his mother-in-law the first thing.  I suppose of course she’d more than likely be plumb tickled to death to see us, but you know they don‘t have to say things to make you feel what they think.  Anyway, I’d prefer riding in:  it would be more dignified like and one would attract the attention of the street loafers and others.  Yes, I want it to be a bay paint horse with a white spot on one side of his neck, and a “glass eye.”  A horse that will kick a dog when he runs out and barks at us, shy at a man on a bicycle, and make a hand “pull leather” a little when a piece of paper blows under him.  Oh boy!  You won’t have to tell anybody we’ve arrived.  They’ll come to see us.









[1] This Family History was found among family papers that fell into my hands because of my interest in family history.   This history is typewritten and appears to have been produced as a carbon copy or via a ditto machine.  The type is blue.  There are rare handwritten insertions which are included in this transcription along with some spelling corrections and punctuation changes.
      By way of introduction, I might make a few comments about the author.  As a child, I remember my Uncle Evans entertaining us children at a family reunion in either Alpine or Thatcher, Arizona.   I was about 12.  He wore cowboy boots and a wide-rimmed cowboy hat.  We crowded around him.   We heard of “the range,” entertaining of an outlaw on the trail, and even his riding of a bear that had apparently been lassoed.   He “showed” us how the bear snapped at him.  I think he said he did it on a dare.  Needless to say, he was a great story teller.  The experience was unforgettable.     Richard N. Heywood
[2] David Evans Coleman was born 12 February 1873 in Spring Valley, Nevada.  He married Eliza Emily Skinner, 12 Jul 1912 in Thatcher, Arizona.  His parents were Prime Thornton Coleman (1831-1905) and Emma Beck Evans (1840-1913).  He died 15 December 1954 in Thatcher.  He spent his early life in Nevada and Utah and most of his adult life in Arizona where he died at the age of 81.  He had four children, Eola, David Envar, George, and Abbot.  He was a cowboy, a rancher.  He was a bit of a humorist and philosopher.  He was known for his wit, his stories, and his writings.  Some of the latter are housed at the Arizona Historical Society in Tucson Arizona.
[3] Lehi (/ˈlh/ lee-hy) is a city in Utah County, Utah,United States. It is named after Lehi, a prophet in the Book of Mormon. …  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lehi,_Utah David Evans, Emma B. Evans’ father, was a principle leader in Lehi’s founding and development.
[4] David Evans, the father of Emma Beck Evans.
[5] Parents of Emma Beck Evans:  David and Mary Beck Evans. 
  Parents of Prime Thornton Coleman:  Prime Coleman (died in Nauvoo in 1844) and Sarah Thornton.
[6] Boughten in an archaic  participial inflection of the verb to buy.  It was once a fairly common colloquial form—it was used to describe something bought.  https://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20100107171120AATdKVG
[7] The Santa Clara River is a 52-mile-long (84 km) river whose three forks join above Pine Valley in the Pine Valley Mountains in Washington County, Utah.  https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#q=santa+clara+river+utah
Santa Clara is a city in Washington County, Utah, United States and is a suburb in the St. George Metropolitan Statistical Area.  https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#q=Santa+Clara+Utah
[8] Pinto is an unincorporated community in Washington County, Utah. It was established in 1856 by Rufus C. Allen and other leaders of the LDS Southern Indian Mission.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pinto,_Utah
[9] Pioche is the county seat for Lincoln County, Nevada. A ghost town reborn, Pioche traces it roots back to discovery of silver that was shown to William Hamblinby the Indians in 1863.  https://familysearch.org/learn/wiki/en/Pioche,_Nevada
[11] Alpine is an unincorporated communityand census-designated place in Apache County, Arizona, United States, in Bush Valley in the east central part of the state. . .  Alpine was settled in 1876 by Anderson Bush, who built a log house originally known as "Fort Bush". Bush sold his holdings in 1879 to William Maxwell and Fred Hamblin, Mormon settlers who established the town as a Mormon community. . .  Alpine is located at an elevation of 8,050 feet (2,450 m) above sea level in the eastern end of the White Mountains and surrounded by the Apache-Sitgreaves National Foresthttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alpine,_Arizona#History
[12] Victorio (Bidu-ya, Beduiat; ca. 1825–October 14, 1880) was a warrior and chief of the Warm Springs band of the Tchihendeh (or Chihenne, usually called Mimbreño) division of the central Apaches in what is now the American states of New Mexico, Arizona, Texas and the Mexican states of Sonora and Chihuahuahttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victorio
[13] Elizabeth Eagles Coleman.  Birth 22 Sep 1847, Burlington, Des Moines, Iowa.  Death 26 Mar 1833, Alpine, Arizona.  Marriage 26 Nov 1864.  Mother of 3 boys and 3 girls born in Southern Utah and two boys born in Alpine, Arizona.
[14] Sorrel is an alternative word for one of the most common equine coat colors in horses. While the term is usually used to refer to a copper-red shade of chestnut, in some places it is used generically in place of "chestnut" to refer to any reddish horse with a same-color or lighter mane and tail, ranging from reddish-gold to a deep burgundy or chocolate shade. The term probably comes from the color of the flower spike of the sorrel herb.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sorrel_(horse)
[15] The Buckskin Mountains on the Arizona-Utah border, is about a 15-mile (24 km) long[1] mountain range divided almost equally in the counties of Coconino County, Arizona, and Kane County, Utah.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buckskin_Mountains_(Arizona-Utah)
[16] Lee’s Ferry has been the most important of the few canyon breaks along the river’s stretch from southern Utah to western Arizona.  Anyone with wagons or livestock to move between Utah and Arizona had either to make the river crossing at Lees Ferry or travel hundreds of miles out of their way.  http://cpluhna.nau.edu/Places/lees_ferry1.htm  See also:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lee's_Ferry
[17] Lee’s Back Bone:  The wagon route for traveler across the Colorado ran along this formation for one and a half miles.  Despite attempts to level the hard rock, the road was so difficult that it was proclaimed the worst stretch of frontier road in the west, and nicknamed “Lee’s Backbone.”  http://walkingarizona.blogspot.com/2009/07/two-accounts-of-lees-backbone.html
[18] Picture copied from Historic Trails of Arizona.  http://azstateparks.com/trails/historic/trail_09.html   Note: Lee’s Back Bone was part of “The Mormon Wagon Road” which later came to be known as “The Honeymoon Trail.”
[19] Joseph Neal Heywood, Jr. and Spence Coleman Heywood.
[20] . . . Although the Little Colorado River Basin has been occupied by Native Americans, including Navajo and Hopi groups, for hundreds of years, intensive settlement of the region was undertaken by Mormon colonists in the late 1800s.  Under direct order from Latter Day Saint church leader, Brigham Young, hundreds of settlers were sent out on a mission to occupy every arable valley along the Little Colorado and its main tributary, Silver Creek, to the south.  http://cpluhna.nau.edu/Places/littlecolr.htm
[22] Holbrook  (Navajo: Tʼiisyaakin) is a city in Navajo County, Arizona, United States. According to 2012 Census Bureau estimates, the population of the city was 5,005. The city is the county seat of Navajo County.  Holbrook was founded in 1881 or 1882, when the railroad was built, and named to honor the first chief engineer of the Atlantic and Pacific Railroadhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holbrook,_Arizona
[23] Springerville is a town in Apache County, Arizona, United States, within the White Mountains  Elevation of 6,974 feet (2,126 m).  Along with its neighbor Eagar, the communities make up the place known as Round Valley which is in the northeastern part of Arizona close to the New Mexico border. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Springerville,_Arizona
[24] Nutrioso is an unincorporated community and census-designated place (CDP) in Apache County, Arizona, United States. As of the2010 census, the population was 26.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nutrioso,_Arizona
[25] Alpine is an unincorporated community and census-designated place in Apache County, Arizona, United States, in Bush Valley in the east central part of the state. . .  Alpine was settled in 1876 by Anderson Bush, who built a log house originally known as "Fort Bush". Bush sold his holdings in 1879 to William Maxwell and Fred Hamblin, Mormon settlers who established the town as a Mormon community. . .  Alpine is located at an elevation of 8,050 feet (2,450 m) above sea level in the eastern end of the White Mountains and surrounded by the Apache-Sitgreaves National Foresthttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alpine,_Arizona#History
[26] Rattan:  A plant with very long, strong stems that are woven together to make baskets, furniture, switches, etc
[28] Mogollon:  Also called the Mogollon Historic District, is a former mining town located in the  Mogollon Mountains in Catron County, New Mexico, in the United States. . .  it was founded in the 1880s at the bottom of Silver Creek Canyon to support the gold and silver mines in the surrounding mountains. A mine called "Little Fannie" became the most important source of employment for the town's populous. During the 1890s Mogollon had a transient population of between 3,000 to 6,000 miners and, because of its isolation, had a reputation as one of the wildest mining towns in the West.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mogollon,_New_Mexico
[29] Panhandle derives its name from its location in the Texas Panhandle. Originally named Carson City, it was later changed to Panhandle City  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Panhandle,_Texas#History
[30] Now a ghost town.

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