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Catlin, John B: Part 3, Section C - Cousins - Rough Trip to Skalkaho - Fogarty Hanging - Missoula "Nothing there" - Johnny Grant's "Bug Juice" - Looking for Work - Fearfully Hard Winter - Dan Baker's "Yellow Journalism"

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In his interview with A. L. Stone above, Catlin mentioned that his cousins, named Elliott, lived in the Bitter Root and that he wanted to visit them after returning from the coast.  Eventually, Catlin would settle near these cousins in the Bitterroot, close to what is present day Hamilton, Montana. Their story illustrates the hardships and rewards that were so common to Montana’s pioneers.

David Catlin Elliott, John Catlin’s uncle, arrived in Virginia City, Montana Territory in July of 1864, with his wife, Amelia, and four youngsters. Widowed in 1850 when her husband, Robert Nicol, died in Michigan, Amelia married David Elliott in Iowa in 1855. Starting from Iowa in 1862, they traveled to Fort Collins, Colorado, where they briefly tried homesteading. They then decided to come to Montana Territory in 1864, when they heard about the excitement at Alder Gulch.

One of Amelia’s daughters, Caroline, married George Hackleman the previous year and already left for Montana in 1863. David and Amelia then brought 3 young boys and a girl with them to Bannack: Lynde C. Elliott, Clara E. Elliott, Robert Nicol, and Alexander Nicol.  All but one of these children stayed in Montana. Clara Elliott married Henry Buck of Stevensville in 1878. Lynde Catlin married Mary Harris, daughter of Warren E. Harris of Hamilton. Robert Nicol married Nellie M. Goff, daughter of Jacob and Emma Goff of Corvallis. Alexander moved back to Iowa.

Another cousin, Louise Elliott married George Hartman in Indiana in 1869. They came to the Bitterroot in 1871, where they farmed for six years, and then moved to Missoula where they raised vegetables for the market. (Mr. Hartman’s biography, found in M. A. Leeson’s History of Montana, states that he was also a veteran of the battle of Chickamauga where he was wounded and when becoming paralyzed in his limbs, was sent home.) 

The first of the cousins arriving in Montana, Mrs. Caroline Hackleman, nee Nicol, had one son, Will, near Virginia City. She later moved to the Bitterroot and then married Alfred Cave of Cedar Creek (Superior) in 1871. They moved to Missoula in 1873. Mr. Alfred Cave was an important Missoula citizen, representing Missoula County in the state legislature and serving as Missoula County treasurer. He also sat on the building committee that founded the University in Missoula.

Will Cave later wrote that when the David Elliott family started out they joined a train of 50 wagons in Council Bluffs, Iowa. They reached Fort Bridger with their animals in such poor condition that they could not proceed any further. The family stayed at Fort Bridger while two of the boys, Lynde and Robert took jobs with the Ben Holladay stage line. They remained there until the spring of the following year when they went to Fort Collins, Colorado, where they tried homesteading. Here they received reports about the excitement at Bannack and Alder Gulch and decided to go to Montana Territory. Once they reached Virginia City, they stayed only a short time and then moved on to Bannack where they contracted to build two stage stations for the Overland Stage Company. From Bannack they decided to move to the Bitterroot Valley for the winter, however they waited until almost too late in November to leave Bannack. (See Bitterroot Trails, Volume One, by The Bitter Root Valley Historical Society, – 1982, p. 370)

Robert Nicol wrote an account of these early days for The Western News of Hamilton, Mt., which appeared over a five-week period, starting March 7, 1894:

(See also, Bitterroot Trails - Volume One, by the Bitter Root Valley Historical Society, 1982.)

During the summer and fall of 1864, I had done some work for the Overland Stage Company, east of Bannack City and being unable to get my money until in November and thinking that Bannack City rather an expensive place to winter, and having had an interview with parties from the Bitter Root, I concluded to emigrate. A party consisting of my stepfather, my mother, a stepbrother, L. C. Elliott (he was killed in the Big Hole Battle), a little sister, now Mrs. Henry Buck of Stevensville, and a young man of name of Dan Baker, who is now editing the Santa Ana Standard of Orange County, California, started on the 22nd of November with two yoke of cows on one wagon and a small span of horses on another, headed for the Bitter Root Valley via the Big Hole Basin.

The third night out we camped on Trail Creek, little thinking that nearly 13 years afterward, one of our party would lay down his life within one mile of where we were camped. The next morning we found about two inches of snow on the ground. We started and made about 10 miles that day and pulled up for the night on Round Prairie.

As we advanced up the canyon the snow continued to get deeper until we reached the summit where it was 12 inches. Rough-locking our wagons and tying two trees behind each one, we started down the mountain with a vengeance reaching Ross Hole about dark, believing we were in the Bitter Root Valley. It rained and snowed all night. The next morning we soon found that the road led us to the foot of another range of mountains to be crossed, and knowing that death was behind us and starvation in front of us, we concluded to tackle the latter and started up the hill.

Our teams already began to get sorefooted and weak from want of food, and we made slow progress, night overtaking us about one mile up the hill in 12 inches of snow. We chained our teams to trees for the night, cooked our little bite and went to bed, (and by the way, our provisions were getting low as we had only started with a few pounds of flour and a small sack of cornmeal thinking we could make the trip in four days). The next morning it was snowing and we worked hard all day. Just as dark came on we found ourselves on top of the mountain and started down expecting to find water soon. We had gone but a short distance when we found the hill so steep that our teams could not control the wagons and we brought up astride a pine tree. Here we put in as disagreeable a night as ever any poor mortals on the side of a mountain, at an angle of 45 degrees, in snow a foot deep, and about a mile and a half from our camp the night before. Morning came and we pursued our journey, lowering our wagons by tying a long rope to the axel tree and taking a turn around the trees allowing the wagon to descend by degrees.

Reaching the bottom of the big hill, we found the trail wound around on the ridges finally reaching the river just above the mouth of Rye Creek. Just as we reached the level ground, Dan Baker took off his hat, waved it a few times and began to sing that old hymn, “We are going home to die no more,” and before the last note had died out, our oxen seeing a bunch of grass, quickly turned to one side and over went our wagon, the first serious accident on the trip. We straightened it up and pulled into camp about dark where George Robbins now lives, having been three days coming 15 miles.

When we struck the valley the snow disappeared. The following day we made our way to where W. B. Harlan now lives. Here we met two men on horseback headed for Bannack City, the first persons we had seen on the trip.

The next summer I met one of these men in Blackfoot City. He said they had to leave their horse on Trail Creek, the snow becoming too deep to get them further, and made the remainder of the trip on snowshoes, nearly perishing before they reached Bannack City.

On the next day we reached Skalkaho, after having to ford the river six times from Rye Creek down. This was the 2nd of December and we had been ten days on the road, and were footsore, tired and hungry but not too discouraged. Here we met for the first time a rancher in the Bitter Root named James Tolan, who had just a few months before, located the ranch known now as the Hammond property and adjoining Grantsdale depot.

The Western News, March 14, 1894:

Here we learned the startling news that there was no flour to be had in the valley. Our provisions by this time were all gone, there not being five pounds of breadstuffs left. Thinking there must be some mistake we moved down to Willow Creek (now Corvallis) where we found the report was but too true. The wheat had all been manufactured into what they called flour, by a little old mill situated at Fort Owen and made of native material, consisting of an overshot waterwheel, wooden gearing and a pair of rude burrs chiseled from sandstone about 24 inches in diameter, and bolts of cheesecloth.

We found plenty of potatoes for sale at $6 per bushel, with the assurance that we could take them at that price or let them alone. The crop was raised wholly, I might say, by Indians, half-breeds and [others], with perhaps two or three exceptions.

There had been a small emigration to the valley in September – perhaps 15 or 18 families, who were scattered the full length of the valley. Among them were Elijah, Milton, and Anthony Chaffin, Miss Polly Chaffin (now Mrs. Slack), Mike Printz, William Woods, Tom Roup, James H. Cowan, Hank Cone, Mr. Davenpeck, Mr. Jerman, Ed Bass, “Red” Dobbins, Van Harris, and mother, Mr. Lanier, Mr. Fowler and D. C. Elliott. These were all men of families, and in addition to these, there were several white men living with [Indian women], and quite a number of single men who have since married and are still living in the valley.

They had all taken ranches with the expectation of building up homes, but six or eight became discouraged during the winter, living on potato diet with nothing better in sight for six long months. When spring opened they scattered to the four winds. Six of this number are still living in the valley, honored and respected as men who have opened up to cultivation one of the grandest valleys in the mountains. Too much cannot be said in praise of these old pioneers whose names are no doubt registered in the Book of Books.

After two or three days’ rest, we moved back onto the place now occupied by the writer (the Nicol homestead south of where Hamilton is now located) and there we set our tent, determined to cast our lot with these people.

L. C. Elliott and Dan Baker (hereafter known as Dan) took a yoke of oxen and a wagon and, with plenty of money in their pockets, started down the valley in search of something that had more nutrients in it than potatoes. They went as far as Frenchtown and were gone eight days, having begged, pleaded and threatened every person between here and there for something to eat, but only succeeded in getting 23 pounds of flour and 15 pounds of bran and “middlings” at a price of 25 cents a pound. This constituted our supply of breadstuffs for a family of six until the next spring. We then started to build a house, using logs for the body, poles and dirt for the roof and logs split in two for the floor. Such a thing as lumber being unknown in these parts.

The house being finished we moved in, thinking ourselves fortunate being alive. The weather up to this time had been very nice excepting an occasional shower of rain. Game was plentiful, especially chickens and many a one was added to our bill of fare. Grass was in abundance where our thriving little city of Hamilton now stands. A fair crop of hay could have been cut, the bunch grass resembling fields of waving grain, so we had no occasion to worry about feed for our stock.

About this time word was sent us from Stevensville that a man by the name of Pat Fogarty had murdered and robbed a neighbor by the name of Wilson and for us to be on the lookout for him as he had been seen coming our way. In four or five days he came to Jim Tolan’s place and asked for something to eat and to stay overnight. He had tried to cross the mountains but the snow being too deep he had to return. He was taken in and the next morning while at breakfast Tolan slipped out and went up the creek to where some stockmen by the name of Pat Bray, Butler, Barnes, and Kennedy were wintering, and informed them of his guest. Bray went back with him and took Fogarty to Stevensville.

Word soon spread that Fogarty had been captured and in a short time everybody was on hand. A jury of twelve was quickly selected and a trial began, which lasted about three hours, resulting in a verdict of guilty. Fogarty was so informed and told he had but 12 hours to live. This being about midnight, he was granted ten hours more and at the appointed time was taken over to Fort Owen mill and a rope placed around his neck and over a joist. He was then asked if he had anything to say, or word to be sent. He gave the address of a sister somewhere in Illinois and requested that some trinkets be sent to her (which was promptly done). He then declared himself innocent of the crime for which he was to suffer. Everything being in readiness the block he was standing on was knocked out and he was launched into eternity. The body was left hanging perhaps two hours then cut down, put into a box and buried just below the mill, and thus ended the first murder trial in the Bitter Root Valley.

The Western News, March 21, 1894:

I closed my last letter with an account of the first legal trial and execution ever occurring in the Bitter Root Valley, but there had been two other men hanged previous to this by the vigilantes just below Stevensville. They belonged to Henry Plummer’s gang of road agents and had been traced to the valley and there captured and finished as above stated.

By the time we became settled for the winter it was evident that we would have to look elsewhere for implements if we calculated to do any farming, as nothing of the kind was to be had here, there wasn’t even a blacksmith shop in the valley. Bannack City being our nearest post office (125 miles via Deer Lodge), there was no show to correspond with outside parties to see what we could do. Dan and I volunteered to make the trip on horseback, and on, or about January 15, we rolled our blankets, tied them behind our saddles and made our start, choosing the Deer Lodge route, as the other one was impossible excepting on snowshoes.

The ground was nearly covered by ice by this time owing to snow melting and freezing and our horses being barefooted, our progress was necessarily very slow. The horses fell about every mile, resulting on the second day in crippling one of them.

We got as far as where Missoula now stands (nothing there then but one little old log house standing at the mouth of Rattlesnake Creek, the land not even being claimed by anyone) on the third day, and the following morning one of our horses was on three legs, so we concluded the best thing we could do was to try and get him home, as it was evident we could never get him through to Bannack in his crippled condition.

The weather was getting very cold by this time, and the ice was beginning to close up the streams. The second night on our return we reached Eight Mile ford and not wishing to put our horses in the cold water at night, we camped on the west bank. In the morning we found the river had nearly closed with ice, there being a small opening in the middle of the stream, and how to get across we hardly knew. Finally we led the horses to the edge of the ice and jumped them off into about three feet of water and got into the saddles. Riding across to the other side we managed to get onto the ice ourselves and then endeavored to get the horses up also. The uninjured one made it but the crippled one, rearing up got his front feet on top, fell back, the jar breaking the ice up and down the river for a distance of fifty feet more. It caught the horse, as he was not able to get up, but we held to the bridle until the ice broke in two and swung around him. Then we let go and he got up and went out on the same side as we went in. We shoved the other horse off the ice, then jumped into the river ourselves, and waded to the shore. It was only a few rods to our campfire which was still burning, the only thing that saved us from freezing as our clothes were frozen stiff when we reached the fire. Here we stayed all day and that night, and the next morning we went up the river and found a place open and there we crossed, getting home on the seventh day.

Although the trip was a failure, we were in no way discouraged and began to make preparations for another start by procuring another horse, and about the middle of February again turned our faces from home determined to get through. About the same time Mike Printz and Hank Cone determined to try the Big Hole route on snowshoes. They were taken to Ross Hole with horses and then turned loose to make the trip or die in the mountains.

We had no trouble other than cold weather and deep snow through Hell Gate Canyon to contend with, selecting bare spots under pine trees, sometimes on the hillsides, for our beds. The sixth night we reached the mouth of the Little Blackfoot, where Garrison now stands. The night was very cold and a cabin being in sight, we concluded to ask permission from the owners to camp with them that night. When the owner of the ranch hesitated we told him we were not as bad as we looked, being only tough cusses from the Bitter Root. He then let us in, thinking he could sell us some of his “Bug juice” as he kept a bar. We spread our blankets on the floor, in the corner, and in the morning, for manner’s sake we asked the proprietor how much we were indebted to him. He said he would only charge us fifty cents for sleeping on the floor. We formed a very warm opinion of Deer Lodge people on that trip and I never had the occasion to change it in after years when I became a freighter. They used to call us Bitter Root squash peddlers and we responded with “Deer Lodge horse thieves.”

[This stopover was likely at Johnny Grant’s place near present day Garrison, well known for hospitality and other accommodations. He was a larger than life figure, said to have had 21 children by 7 different mothers. His father, Richard Grant, was one of Missoula’s first settlers. His half-sister, Julia Grant married C. P. Higgins, a founder of Missoula. One description of Johnny Grant's place went thus:

“This log structure was erected by John F. Grant, a rancher, about 1855, near the mouth of the Little Blackfoot River. It became known far and wide as a stop- over for prospectors and as a place to trade, gather news, and forget frontier hardships in fiddle-inspired revelry. If a blizzard swept down while a dance was in progress, hospitable Johnny Grant would tell his visitors to stay until it was over. They usually danced all night, slept on buffalo robes on the floor, and woke to eat and dance again.” (See Montana: A State Guide Book by Federal Writer’s Project, also: http://www.nps.gov/archive/grko/grant.htm]

Some years later, one of the leading merchants of Deer Lodge, under the firm name of Osborn & Denee, made the remark that he would rather sell goods to the people of Deer Lodge for credit than to people of the Bitter Root for cash. This shows the feeling that existed against this valley.

We went through Deer Lodge city that day. The “city” consisted of a few log houses, occupied principally by Mexicans and halfbreeds. Our flasks being empty, we stopped in one of the cabin saloons and got some kind of lightning, which, I think was manufactured in the same house. The stuff cost us $1.50.

That night we camped on the river opposite the mouth of Race Track Creek. Taking an ax and coffee pot, I went down to the river after water, which I succeeded in getting after chopping through about three feet of ice. There was no snow on the ground for the simple reason the wind wouldn’t let it lay there.

We only tried sleeping in a house one more night and that was on Divide Creek, and we paid fifty cents for the privilege. Our horses began to show signs of fatigue by this time so our progress was slow. The third day from this place we reached the hills just west of where Dillon now stands. Here one of our horses “threw up the sponge,” or, in other words, became exhausted. We put both saddles and both packs on the other horse, leaving the exhausted one to rustle for himself, and we started on foot for Bannack, a distance of 18 miles, through about 18 inches of snow, reaching that place after dark, nearly worn out, having been eleven days on the road with the thermometer ranging from 15 to 20 degrees below.

We found Mike Printz and Hank Cone had got in the day before us, having had a terrible trip, traveling the whole distance on snowshoes with snow four feet deep in the Big Hole Basin, and not having provisions enough, they had to limit themselves to half rations.

We found but one plow in the town; this one Hank had secured at $85.

Dan and I got the blacksmith to construct us one. The moldboard consisted of strips of wagon tire riveted to an upright steel point and a place to set a post with a tenant on each end, the bottom to set in an iron socket, the other to go into a mortise in the beam. For just the iron work we paid $60, and the woodwork we put on after we got home. This was made out of whatever we could find in the timber here. We had an order for a yoke of cattle that was on a ranch near Bannack, which we secured, and Hank bought another yoke. Dan had a navy revolver which he traded for an old wagon and by doubling it we had quite a respectable outfit to start back with which we did after staying there for over four weeks.

On our return we had no trouble until we reached William Wallace’s place eight miles below Drummond, where we were told there was no possible show of crossing the Flint Creek Hills with our wagon as there was four feet of snow on them and no one had passed over them but a band of Indians who were returning from their annual buffalo hunt. We were not to be stopped thus, so Hank bought a packhorse for $8 on which we put our plows, blankets and what provisions we had, and made another start on foot, this being the first day of April. The weather turning warm the snow began to melt and we were wet to our waists every night. Opposite Lolo one of our horses again gave out and we had to leave him, putting the load on the other two, and on the fourth day of April we arrived home hungry, tired and footsore.

The Western News, April 3, 1894:

Arriving home on the 4th of April from Bannack, with our plows we commenced to look around for seed and after begging and pleading succeeded in getting two bushels of wheat from one party for which we paid $8 per bushel, and two bushels from another party for which we paid $10 per bushel, making $36 for our four bushels and we were glad to get it at those figures. We also bought ten bushels of potatoes for $60, and this was the extent of our seed.

I cannot say that our plow was a success, but we managed to scratch up the ground with it by having two good yoke of oxen for motive power, and we got our seed planted.

Then began our first experience in ditching. The spring was very bad and the grasshoppers hatched out by the millions. (To illustrate, I was walking along the road one day and had a switch in my hand about four feet long, and struck it down full length, killing 56 hoppers with one stroke.) And it was evident if we didn’t get water soon, we would not get our seed back. We failed on two ditches, but the third we got water through on the 22nd day of June, and after all our work, (not saying anything about our prayers) the hoppers went over our field, leaving it as bare as the road.

We now found a chance to buy a hundred pounds of flour from some parties who had bought more in the fall than they needed, for which we paid $35. This was like striking a bonanza to us. Dan, myself and my brother could stand the potato diet very well, but when it came to Father, Mother and Sister, going without bread, it was the hardest experience we ever had to endure, and one that the writer will never forget.

I then made a break for the mines looking for work. I was at Blackfoot City, then to Washington Gulch on the stampede, but failed to get anything to do. A short time after I left home my brother struck out also. We got together at French Gulch (25 miles from where Anaconda now stands). We got a chance to buy eight cows at $40 per head (this was in August) and we had until November to pay for them. Brother went to work herding and delivering beef cattle at $100 per month, and I went to peddling milk at $1 per gallon and by the time the money was due had made the cows pay for themselves.

Brother quit work about the middle of October, and going home he got a team and returned. About the first of November we got the chance to buy 800 pounds of flour from a Mormon freighter at $8 per 100, sugar at $50 per sack, coffee 75 cents per pound, tobacco $2.50 per pound, all of which we laid in a supply for a year and then came home, as we thought well fixed for the winter.

When I began to peddle milk, I had to have a measure. I went to Milt & Myett’s store, but could only get a pint cup. I also needed some salt so I filled the cup with it and they charged me $1.50 for cup and salt.

Dan had rented a place on Willow Creek, but met with the same success as ourselves, and had then went to the mines for a grubstake, coming back in the fall. “Uncle” Milton Chaffin had rented ground on what is now the Weir farm, and if memory serves me right, sowed 12 acres of wheat from which he threshed 400 bushels, this being about all the wheat raised in the neighborhood, and was only accomplished by keeping a continuous warfare on the grasshoppers day and night. This wheat he had ground into flour and sold it for $25 per hundred.

There were several families added to our settlement that fall, among them being “Uncle” Jacob Sherrill, who, like the rest of us, had drifted into the valley for the winter and had never been contented to live elsewhere. Himself and wife are both buried in the Corvallis cemetery.

During the winter we began to long to hear from friends in the east and the only way was to find someone who would make the trip to Bannack and Virginia City. Finally, a man by the name of Lawrence Hizer agreed to go if we would pay him a dollar for every letter he would bring back. We agreed to this and he started, I think about February 15 returning the latter part of May. He brought us the startling news of the death of Abraham Lincoln, which had occurred nearly six weeks before.

He made a paying trip of it even if he was gone a good while, as nearly everyone had from one to a dozen letters. I paid him $6 for our part. This was all the mail we got until the freight teams started in the fall.

We had a fearfully hard winter. The snow began falling on the 14th of January and continued for days, closing with four feet on the level in the valley. Along the east mountains from Skalkaho to Burnt Fork the hills were nearly bare and had plenty of grass on them, which was all that saved our stock. The snow stayed with us until the middle of April, the month of March being the worst I have ever seen. Calves froze to death in the corrals, the thermometer registering from 20 to 40 below all month. The next spring we rustled up more seed wheat at $5, oats at $4 and potatoes at $3 per bushel and started again. Brother taking the cows and going to the mines, and I staying home to help run the farm. We had no grasshoppers that year until August, when they came, but too late to do any harm. In August I loaded about 1,022 pounds of vegetables, such as beets, potatoes, turnips and cabbages on a wagon and went to Bannack City, where Brother was. I sold the produce readily at from 20 to 30 cents per pound, clearing $300 on the trip, being gone from home 15 days.

Dan concluded he was not cut out for a farmer and went into the mines to work, and in the fall bid goodbye to the mountains and in company with some others chartered a mackinaw boat and struck out for his former home in Iowa via the Missouri River and has only made one trip to the valley since then, but he has a warm spot way down in his heart for, as he says, “dear damned old Bitter Root.”

In the fall of 1866 the first threshing machine made its appearance in the valley. It was owned by John S. Caldwell, who afterward located in Grass Valley, eight miles below Missoula. He brought the machine across the plains from Omaha, Nebraska, being he told me four months on the road. I afterward purchased a half interest in the machine with Jack Slack. I raised about 250 bushels of grain and my threshing bill amounted to $66.

Mr. Caldwell told me his threshing accounts amounted to between $6,000 and $7,000 that fall, his charges being 25 cents per bushel for oats and 30 cents for wheat. Our money at this time was gold dust, everybody having gold scales, and he got his money as he went along, so it is easily seen that threshing was a paying business at that time.

We depended entirely on the mining camps for our markets and every farmer had his freight teams which were principally oxen and as soon as vegetables were large enough he started his teams on the road and kept them there until it got too cold to go longer.

Every stream of any size had a toll bridge or ferry boat on it and at one time cost $30 for one trip, but this we could stand very well at the prices we were getting for vegetables.

That fall we went into winter quarters well fixed with vegetables, having done well with the cows and tolerably well on the ranch, securing groceries in Deer Lodge at about the same prices as the year before.

Dan Baker

When John Catlin mentioned that he talked to a man who had lived with the Elliotts in the Bitter Root, he may have been referring to Dan Baker above. Baker went to Bannack and may have been there, or even Boise, when Catlin and Grover passed through. Baker would go on to another career - the newspaper business - for which he is still remembered in Santa Ana, California. An article from the Orange Coast Magazine, October 1991, had this to say about Dan Baker’s style:


Orange County, once deemed “the Graveyard of Newspapers,” gave birth to an odd assortment of rags in the 1880’s. Perhaps the most controversial was the Standard, due in part to its opinionated and flamboyant publisher, D. M. “Fighting Dan” Baker. A lawyer and former Iowa state legislator, the outspoken Baker brandished barbs at anyone within hearing – or reading – range and dished out titillating and sensational accounts of local news.

Imagine the discomfort of sensitive Santa Ana readers on opening their Saturday morning paper over breakfast to read the headlines:

Cruel, Cowardly, Crime!
- of a –

Mrs. O.R. Scholl of Tustin
Cuts Her Children’s Throats
And Takes Poison!

Although the virulent Mr. Baker was not laid to rest in the Santa Ana Cemetery, it is the final resting place of Effie Scholl, who died November 2, 1889, at the age of 28 year and 4 months; John Scholl who died October 16, 1889, at 5 years and 7 months; and Eva Scholl, who also died October 16, 1889, at 4 years and 2 months.

(See also: Turn the Rascal Out! The Life and Times of Orange County’s Fighting Editor, Dan M. Baker, by Jim Sleeper, published 1973 by California Classics)

Last Updated on Sunday, 08 January 2012 19:11