Old Missoula

J. P. “Perry” McClain – Lolo Pioneer (1846 – 1935) – Missoula – “wee village”

 

“Perry” M’Clain Lives Active Life, Although 82 Years Old

Works Large Ranch in Lolo District. Came to Montana With Second Wave of Civilization, the Miners.

When one thinks of 82, one thinks of senility and physical helplessness. That is what the sensible person expects when he says, “Oh, I hope I die before I am so old.” And if one expects to be active and chipper at that age, eating heartily and doing a good hard day’s work every day, one is expecting something beyond his allotment of luck.

But who can look ahead and imagine himself at 82, on a 225-acre ranch, and doing all the work, with no help, and with no neighbors around? It’s amazing, say the few persons who see for the first time this actuality. A man who was 82 years old a week ago today, cutting trees, hauling them down to the ranch yard, taking care of a band of 200 sheep in lambing time, and doing all the odd jobs, such as milking cows and goats, planting garden and repairing sheds and building shelters.

Eighty-Second Birthday.

Jacob P. McClain, known as “Perry” to all his acquaintances, lives on his ranch on Mormon creek, up in the hills west of Lolo. The foregoing paragraphs allude to him. It was he who sat at the end of the table last Sunday when 23 of his relatives sat down with him to partake of a birthday dinner the occasion being his eighty-second birthday.

“Perry” gives no recipe for long life. He drank whiskey for 50 years, had a demijohn of it always in his house, and took a good lusty swig of it – maybe two or three – when he went to bed. He smoked nearly all his life, until a traveling man gave him a vile cigar that made him sick. Quitting tobacco gave him the idea of quitting whiskey, and quit it he did. And now, although he was raised in an Iowa home where “good corn likker” was obtainable at all times, he is dead set against liquor. And he despises moonshine.

To watch him about his ranch, one might guess that he always has been too busy to stop and think of his age. He has been busy all his life, and he has been a living example of what Roosevelt made into a spectacle – the strenuous life.

He Goes to War.

It never seems to occur to Perry McClain that anything is hard to accomplish. Back in ’63 he wanted to go to war. The other fellows all had gone although one had to admit that they were older than he. But he wanted to go to war. His father, though, was not in favor of the idea. Besides, it was 300 miles to the nearest place where he could enlist. If he took a horse it would amount to theft. Well, Perry never considered odds too great, never said “I can’t,” until he had tried it. And nobody ever heard of him saying such a thing after he had tried it, either.

Three hundred miles to the Nebraska town where he could enlist. His father saying “No!” So he ran away from home. But that would not be the precisely correct word to use. One does not run 300 miles unless Indians are after one or unless one is after part of Mr. Pyle’s pile. It would be fully correct to say that he walked the 300 miles, for that is what he did.

The long hike completed, he enlisted in company L, Second Nebraska cavalry. The regiment was sent to Dakota territory to fight Indians. Just the opposite direction from that in which the youngster had hoped to be sent. But orders are orders. Fighting was what the 17-year-old lad wanted – for then, as now, boys were filled with vague and colorful visions of glory and blood and thunder and adventure, supposing them to be inseparable.

This was going a long distance in a short time, this 300-mile walk and then the trip with the regiment away out to Dakota territory. The lad’s first lesson, therefore, must have been that wartime soldiering consists mostly of a long, hard unpleasant grind, with even the thrill of traveling becoming a monotony.

In all the soldiering he did, the one real, honest-to-gosh battle he engaged in was the three-day fight at Whitestone Hills. Even that battle was not a series of heroic charges and hurrahs. It was a devilish running engagement with a lot of pesky redskins who knew every yard of the terrain and who were sneaky as cooties in a doughboy’s shirt. But it was a fight, and that was what the boy had wanted.

He almost got more than he wanted. If a small band of Indians had not been a bit too certain that they had him, he would have had the breath-taking – but oh, so agonizing – experience of being scalped.

A Fierce Fight.

It was a running engagement this battle of Whitestone Hills. “Were you ahead or behind?” he was asked. “Oh, I was behind most of the time.” And then, “But once I was ahead for a while,” he said.

“They were chasing me, and my horse fell.”

Both troops and Indians were scattered about over the hills. Young Trooper McClain was alone, and found himself the objective of a drive on the part of a small band of redskins. Perry knew what they wanted – every man engaged in war wants souvenirs, and just as the Yanks wanted Heinie helmets, the Indians wanted Perry’s scalp. He did not wish to part with it, but there was no time to bargain about the thing, and besides the Indians hadn’t been in the habit of palavering about scalps. So he made his horse hightail it for distant parts of Dakota territory. When he dug in his spurs the Indians dug in their heels, and away over the prairie and through the brush, sounded the ‘itty-clump! Itty-clump! of galloping hoofs. Perry tried to breathe his horse, but when he slowed down to a klokloklokloklok” his pursuers gained on him, so the laboring mount had to resume its brisker pace.

Then the redskins dropped out of sight. But only for a moment. They reappeared, this time closer. The momentary hope changed to tense anxiety. The Indians closed in slowly. Renewed spurring enabled Perry to hold his lead, and he began to feel a hope that almost amounted to cockiness.

A gopher hole. Slam! Perry’s horse rolled in the dirt, and Perry hit the earth with a crash. An arrow sped by his head. Another. The Indians were almost on top of him, still riding fast. More arrows, a show of ‘em. But none of them struck their mark.

And the Indians went on. Perry was safe. He was bewildered by his luck – he couldn’t figure it out. But afterwards he guessed that the redskins, seeing his horse fall, had supposed that it had broken its leg, leaving him afoot out on the prairie. And since other Indians were a short distance behind, they took it for granted that the blue-coated lad was as good as dead.

But the horse was not disabled. After rolling around a while it jumped up. Perry mounted the critter, a strong little military mustang, and took off into the brush to the left, circling around to rejoin his command.

Today he briefly mentions his experience, despite the fact that he very nearly made the soldier dead 61 instead of 60. And he helped to make the total Indian losses 300.

Back to Nebraska went the second Nebraska, and Perry left the ranks of general Sulley. He was mustered out December, 1863, the brief campaign completed. He went to the home of an aunt four miles away from the town. His dad was in town, but the lad had run away from home, and the youngster was dubious about seeing him.

Back Home.

The dad, however, had seen Perry’s troop commander. “Has he been a good boy?” asked the father. “One of the best boys I had,” was the reply. “He never got drunk, and he never gambled, and he always did good job of what he was told to do. And he could saddle his horse and get into line quicker’n any other man in the command.”

That tickled the dad. He found his boy, and when they walked into the old home door his arm was around the son’s shoulder.

Four years in the Nebraska home – for the McClains had moved from the place in Iowa where Perry had been born April 1, 1846 – and the longing to go back to the wilds of Dakota territory became too great to withstand. So in 1867 he went up the Missouri in a steamboat that stopped every once-in-a-while to take on wood, and landed at Fort Benton, the terminus of the old river navigation line. Then to Helena, where the tough old miners drew shining pans of gold from the water that trickled down the gulch. Then the lad learned the longing for water, out in the dry coulees where men strayed in their search for gold. And he slept beneath the stars that were like diamonds scattered over a canopy of black velvet, with the fiendish yap of coyotes to make the liquid nights more lonely. He panned for dust at German gulch, and his pick clicked in gullies where long since the sound of human footsteps has been absent. He was with the second wave of civilization as it made its slow wash into the new territory. It was in 1871 that he left German gulch.

In the Third Wave.

And then in 1871 he joined the third wave of civilization. The first wave was the voyageurs and the trappers. Next came the miners and he was a part of that. Next were the ranchers and became a part of that wave. He settled on a ranch in the Deer Lodge valley, and he stayed there until 1874. In that year he moved to the ranch two and one-half miles north of Carlton, to property which still is in his name. The ranch was one of 600 acres.

Missoula was a wee village when he first saw it in 1874. Just about like Lolo, he says. Board buildings, mostly on Front street. The Welch & Bonner store was here then, and Al Lent and Jimmy Osborne ran a livery stable where the Florence hotel now stands. And then there was the Kennedy hotel and the Worden & Higgins store.

Early Days in Missoula.

Over the Missoula river there stretched a trembly structure of wood. A narrow, fragile thing that had to be nursed along to keep it on its feet. At each approach there was a sign warning cattlemen that they would not be permitted to drive more than 10 animals at a time over the bridge. McClain came along with 40 scarey horses. They rushed upon the bridge pell mell before he saw the sign. In a moment he saw why the warning had been posted. The bridge wiggled and wobbled and groaned and trembled and threatened to end its existence by collapsing into the water. McClain’s mind was filled with two fears – first, that his horses might drown, and second that he might be fined. But he got over the riketty thing and got away without a fine.

In 1878 he became a partner of C. P. Higgins in the cattle business. They centered their activities around Dupuyer, near Chouteau. They had 4,000 head of cattle. In 1880 McClain drove 2,000 cattle up into the Blackfoot, and the trail in those days was so narrow that the animals had to be driven single file.

In 1883 he broke up his partnership with Higgins. Mrs. McClain who died a few years later, was fearful for his safety, and did not like to have him away from home half the time, as he was. So he sold his half to Higgins and returned to his Bitter Root valley ranch.

The Nez Perces.

Through the ranch there ran a creek, known now as McClain creek, and beside the stream, a few rods from his ranch house, was a campground of the Nez Perces. The Nez Perces brought their buffalo hides to that place and tanned and treated them, then bartered them to the Flatheads. The campgrounds always was the scene of much intertribal activity, and one would suppose that a white family in such a place would experience a great deal of trouble.

But McClain had only one run-in with an Indian. That is, except for the Whitestone Hills affair. The incident was not very exciting, to hear him tell about it now. A Nez Perce was in his house, and one of McClain’s youngsters ran out into the field crying that a drunken Indian was in the house and wouldn’t go away. McClain hurried to the house and told the Indian to leave. The Indian refused, complaining of heap big sickness. His unwilling host grabbed him, pulled him out of the house and chucked him head-first into the creek. When the redskin came to the top McClain had a board ready and gave him a hard swat where the Indian’s breechclout had been.

That was the only skirmish that he had with an Indian in this part of the country. But he almost got into a real battle with the natives, the only battle fought with them in Western Montana – the Battle of the Big Hole.

But before one tells of how McClain did not get into the Big Hole scrape one must tell of Fort Fizzle. It was named for what it was, except for the “fort” part of it.

Fort Fizzle.

McClain had a number of cattle strayed over the region south and west of here, and went up into the Lolo canyon country to see if any were there. He went as far as a wagon could be hauled, and then turned back for home. On the return trip he met an officer from Missoula with about 35 regulars.

“How far can we get with a wagon?” asked the officer.

“I just came from there,” replied McClain, and he estimated the distance.

“If you know how to get there would you mind going back up there with us to show us the way?”

So McClain guided the detachment of troops up into the Lolo country. The commander ordered his men to cut down timber and drag it to a certain spot in the narrow canyon. Then they built a stockade.

“That was Fort Fizzle,” McClain relates.

“But why did they build a fort way out there?”

“Well, that was where the Nez Perces were coming over, and they built the stockade to catch ‘em as they came down the canyon. That was the only pass that the Indians could use, coming over that way from Idaho, and the soldiers thought that the Indians had to come down that canyon. And they figured that when the Indians came down there they’d get as far as the stockade and then would have to stop. Then the soldiers would have them penned up.”

“Did they really believe that, or –“

“Yes! They did! They figured on corralling the Indians there.”

“Then that’s why it’s called Fort Fizzle, eh?”

“Sure. But it was the soldiers who were corralled. The Indians simply turned off over the hills. About four or five hundred Indians lined up on one side of us and the [women] and horses were sent over the hill behind them. The men formed a screen, and we didn’t see what went on behind. But they had us penned up there, instead of us penning them up, and we couldn’t get out till they went on to the east.”

And after he returned to his ranch near Carlton McClain had more experience with the Nez Perces. He raised his hay on a meadow, and when he came back home he found the Indians’ horses foraging there. He asked the names of the chiefs. Joseph, he was told, was the big chief, and Looking Glass and White Bird were the sub-chiefs at the camp. Looking Glass was in charge of the band there. McClain was a friend of White Bird, so he went to him.

“Where your woman?” asked the sub-chief.

“Why, when you go to war you don’t have your women near where you fight, do you? Well, we heard that you were coming over to fight us, so we got ready to fight you, and we sent our women away. My wife is in Missoula.”

Not Fighting Settlers.

“You foolish,” White Bird expostulated. “We your friends. We do not want war with you! We only fight bluecoats – we call them dogs!”

Then on to Looking Glass went McClain. He told the leader what he wanted, and told him in a tone of authority. He did not ask. He demanded.

Looking Glass said something to a young buck and several of them scooted away. A little later McClain looked over the meadow. The horses had been driven up on a hillside.

“We never lost a thing when the Nez Perces went by. We often were not at home, but we always left our doors open. And they never touched a thing. But when troops went by they nearly stole us blind!” McClain declares.

And so on went the friendly Nez Perces to their bitter experience in the Big Hole. McClain was not at home when the settlers organized and started, after the Indians. So he started out after the settlers. On the way he met a friend who had a place near him in the valley. When McClain told him where he was going, the friend argued, “But why do you want to do that? Those Indians never did you or any of the rest of us any harm. They’ve been friends of ours. You’re making a mistake – there’s no reason for your going down there and fighting those people. You might be killed – then what of your family?”

The friend talked McClain into going back home, and that was how he missed participation in the Big Hole battle.

About a year later a handful of Nez Perces stopped at the campground near McClain’s house. They started to tell him of the fight in the Big Hole.

“Yup – I remember – I was there,” said McClain.

“You lie!” they replied.

The Nez Perces knew every white man who fought against them, McClain says.

When the first celebration of the anniversary of the fight was staged, the settlers trooped down into the Big Hole. McClain stayed in the Bitter Root. He met Major Catlin.

“What,” exclaimed McClain, “you’re not going down there to the celebration?”

“I should say not!” Catlin exploded, “Why should we go down there to celebrate? What have we got to celebrate? Why, they had us whipped! They licked us bad!”

A Friend of Indians.

So, although he was one of the settlers, McClain never failed to speak a good word for the Indians if he thought they were right. Just so, he always has voted a certain political ticket if he thought it was right. And he always has thought a certain political ticket was right – that has been the Democratic ticket. His father was a Virginian of Scotch-Irish family, the same as Wilson.

Building up the country has been his work since his arrival here in 1874. He still is doing it. He is building up his ranch. He bought it some time ago, and the man who had it for about 18 years left it. Declared no man could make a living on it. McClain, 79 years old, said, “I’ll make money on it rather than let it lie idle, and rather than sell it for less than it’s worth!”

That was three years ago, and since that time McClain has cleared $2,000, built his flock to 200 sheep – plus 30 lambs so far this year – built sheep shelters and sheds, repaired the buildings on the place and in general kept himself too busy to think of his age.

So Sunday 23 of his relatives gathered at the ranch house to celebrate his eighty-second birthday. Six of them were grandchildren, and four were great-grandchildren. They brought their own grub, or most of it, for feeding 23 persons would be too much for Mrs. McClain. Tuesday they had more visitors, and a birthday cake from Deer Lodge was sliced for the guests.

Here are the names of the 23 relatives who were at the party Sunday:

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes McClain and daughter, Mary Jane; Miss Emily McClain, Miss Thelma Chaffin, Mr. and Mrs. John Schroder and son, David, Mr. and Mrs. Enos Henderson and daughters, May, Violet and Phyllis, all of Lolo; Mr. and Mrs. Marcelus McClain; Misses Phyllis and Marjorie McClain, Gene McClain, Leo McClain, and Mrs. Hutchinson, all of Missoula, and Gladys Dennis of Deer Lodge.

Before his Tuesday visitors left the ranch house, McClain said, “There’s something you’ve had wrong in your paper. You said there was only seven members of the G. A. R. post left in Missoula. There are eight.”

And he gave their names and organizations: Patrick Donnally of Superior, and Frank Kohn, Columbia Falls, privates, Co. F. Seventh Vermont Infantry; Henry Forey of Columbia Falls, private, Co. E. First Pennsylvania Light Artillery; Jacob S. Ohl of Missoula, private, Co. D. First Ohio Light Artillery; Henry Snyder of Missoula, First-sergeant, Co. A, Third Missouri Regular Infantry; J. S. Sparling of Missouri (sic), private, Co. I, Twentieth Ohio Infantry; J. M. Weise of Missoula, private, Co. B, Forty-Eighth New York Infantry.

And as his visitors rolled down the road and past the fishpond which he had built, he was walking rapidly toward a shed to get a sack to wrap around a lamb which might be coming into being just about that time, away up in a gully at the other end of the ranch.

 

The above article appeared in The Sunday Missoulian on April 8, 1928.

https://www.newspapers.com/image/348708110/

 

Notes:

J. P. “Perry” McClain died at his Lolo ranch in 1935. He came from an Iowa family of eight children. At least 2 of his siblings, Thomas A., and Shelton M. McClain also came to the Missoula area. He was survived by his wife, Ellen, three sons, nine grandchildren and 10 great-grandchildren.

Ellen, his 3^rd wife, died at Lolo, Mt. in 1938. Born in Helena, she was 61.

The 1880 census shows that Jacob P. McClain (33) and 1^st wife Emily [Etta Coon] (34) McClain, had one daughter, Cara V. (13) and five sons, George (10), William (7), Perry A. [Albert] (3), Charley (1), and James (age 0). Another son, Frederick Homer McClain, was born shortly after the census in 1880. J. P.’s 1^st wife, Emily E. McClain, apparently died early in 1896. McClain’s 2^nd wife, Hannah Rhoads McClain, died in 1920, and is buried at Carlton / Florence cemetery.

 

The above Missoulian article was written by Al Schak, author of one of first real novels written by a local Missoulian. “Soul Wounds” was about his experiences as a soldier in WW1. Participating in 5 of the large battles of WW1, he was injured and later received the Croix de Guerre, among several other medals for his service. He was a “special” student of the University of Montana and contributed several of his writings to H. G. Merriam’s publication, ‘The Frontier’ in the 1920s. He worked for the Missoulian-Sentinel for several years and died at age 46 in a tragic fire at his Missoula home in 1945.