(Great uncle of the contributor, Richard N. Heywood)
Family History[1]
by
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”
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.”
=
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. 26
th,
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.
[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.
[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
[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)
[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
[26] Rattan:
A plant with very long, strong stems that are woven together to make
baskets, furniture, switches, etc
[28] Mogollon: A
lso 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
