Old Missoula

 

A Visit to “Whoop Up” in the Days Gone By – Charles Schafft

A few years ago when a man suddenly and mysteriously disappeared from his accustomed haunts, and the inquiry was passed around, “What has become of him?” the answer and conclusion arrived at in some instances was, that he had gone across the line to “Whoop Up;” and the very mention of that place would cause the imagination to picture forth red-handed desperadoes performing bloody deeds, and defying the laws of civilization in a secluded wilderness made almost inaccessible to the ordinary mortal, owing to the dangers reported to be besetting the trails leading in that direction.

The disturbed state of Indian affairs in Montana in 1874, made me desirous of viewing the investigations then in progress, from some other standpoint, and I finally came to the conclusion to disappear for awhile across the border. Being greatly interested in the efforts, successes and failures attending the civilization of the aboriginal inhabitants, and somewhat tired of the society of mortals who, although no longer regarded as savages, were yet deemed but little above the brute, civilization having taken away what little romance attaches to the wild man. I determined to take a trip to Whoop Up, where I could see and meet the great North American in all his native glory and savage wildness. I had no apprehension in regard to the desperate whites who were supposed to be out there, and whom I might encounter, because having come to the mountains in early days, I was accustomed to the association of all sorts of characters and knew “roughing it” in all its phases. Accordingly, one fine day in the summer of “the year first above written,” I found myself at the town of Benton in search of an opportunity with which to convey myself to my destination. There was a sort of an irregular express run from Benton across the line in those days by the boys who were on the “trade,” and having the advantage of being acquainted with some of the traders, I experienced no difficulty to secure a passage on the hurricane deck of a prairie schooner at an early day. My craft was commanded by Captain “Fred,” who boasted of having one of the best prairie teams on the road, and I was told to be in readiness inside of twenty-four hours, and that we would whoop things up. Requesting one of my friends knowing in such matters, to fix up an outfit for me to take on the prairie, he judiciously selected and put up two or three gallons of whisky and an assortment of canned conveniences, advising me to be careful in regard to drinking the water to be met with. “It’s regular pizen,” said he, “to them that ain’t use to it.”

My captain and conveyance being ready to start, I was assigned a birth amidships with instructions to keep a good look out and hold on, because the fiery steeds would go like “blazes” after once being warmed up. I had some misgivings when the lash was applied and the word to go was given, on seeing the two lead horses turn around and look at the driver, while the wheelers were rubbing each other to save their hides from the whip; but after expenditure of a voluminous volley of mixed expletives and some buck-skin, our cayuses finally seemed to know what was wanted, and headed for the Teton, at a pace that might have compared favorably with the slow and measured march of a funeral. “I know,” said Fred, “what ails the horses, those confounded stable men kept them in the corral for the last four days, and they are hungry.”

The first occasion I found to hold on and let go both at the same time, was going down to the Teton, when the wagon started down one coulee and the horses another. A small sage-brush saved an upset, but Fred was obliged to unload the wagon and pack the load to the bottom on his back. He had hoped to overtake some team ahead of us going in the same direction, but as it was getting late, we encamped at the foot of the hill, Fred deploring the mishap, because he had hoped to be helped up the opposite side by the other teams. Next morning about day-light we were awakened by an unearthly war-hoop, coming down the river, and immediately began to look for a hiding place among the sage, but the rattling of wheels soon after heard, informed us that a white party was approaching. And so it was, some of the boys were going out on a trading expedition up the Teton, and having tendered us the morning cup agreed at once to help us up the next hill. Then, when nearing the Leavings we saw the last one of the wagons ahead just starting up, and Fred urged his animals with all the art in his power but no use. A small mud-hole held on to the wheels and the overhanging brush kept us from being seen, and we were left alone the second time to mourn the unloading of the wagon. Having at last reached the middle of the hill, the cayuses concluded it was dinner time, and stopped to camp. Not being able to persuade them out of the notion, we unhitched and took a lunch ourselves, and how long we would have remained at this place, it is hard to tell, had not opportunely Captain Nelce came along, who, assuming command for the time being, made the horses believe that he was a live Comanche, and they got away from him and up on the prairie with the load behind them very easily. Thanking the Captain for his courtesy, we traveled on over the smooth plain at a smart pace and overtook the outfits that night at Pend d’Oreille springs. Fred was happy now, for other animals would assist him over slight elevations, and enable him to reach the end of his journey without much further jaw-breaking and expenditure of whip material. Our new comrades were evidently on the “trade” also. In jogging along they would frequently cast anxious looks behind, and in camp the distinguished name of Dusold[1] was often mentioned, but we met with no accidents or adventures worth mentioning the balance of the trip. Only at one place did I have to hold on with main strength; it was going down to the Marias, when a thunder storm coming from the south lashed up our team with lightning flashes, and caused them to exhibit a marvelous agility in the descent to the bottom.

The plain 200 miles north of Benton does not show many interesting features generally, and we met with only a few small bands of bulls, some antelope, and further on the industrious badger, whose holes attracted the most attention.

When within a few miles of the St. Mary’s, at the junction of which with Belly river, Whoop Up Fort was situated, we met with the first indication of violence, by finding a dead Indian lying spread-eagle fashion in the center of the road. He could not have been exposed very long, for, exposed to the rays of the sun without any cover except a fragment of Uncle Sam’s blue attached to an army button, decomposition had not yet taken place. We reached Whoop Up. It was a large and solidly put-up trading post, the construction of which must have cost way up in the thousands. Situated as it was, in a bore flat, its inmates could easily stand off any number of hostiles contemplating an attack. A small grave-yard on the outside attested the fact that not every one who came to the country was permitted to return; but no inscription told the story of those who were here laid to rest.

My means of introduction having gained for me a temporary home at the fort, I soon became acquainted with some of the men who frequented it, and to my surprise found them to be what are generally called good and intelligent men, who could go to and return from the United States without hinderance at most times, and no reward was set upon the head of any of them. There was said to be only one man in that country who kept away from Uncle Sam’s Territory on account of having committed a crime, and there were two or three deserters from the army who probably regretted having exchanged a life of comparative ease for one of disappointment and unforeseen hardship. Trade was conducted in the legitimate business principles of that day, and liquor was kept at the independent trading posts as an auxiliary, on the same conditions that the Hudson Bay Company kept it. At times a small camp trader would come in from across the line and exchange a mixture of pure alcohol and water with the Indians for robes, and the stimulant, acting upon the passions of savages, in heart hostile to each other, would result in a fight that sometimes would end in the death of one or both combatants. At the time of my arrival an Indian had just met his fate from such a cause. Whoop Up being a central region where the various tribes generally met, fights and battles between members of different bands took place occasionally without any other stimulus than natural animosity; and as those Indians do not bury their dead, bodies, skulls and skeletons could frequently be found. One day examining a rather poor specimen of cranium, I casually remarked that I would give four bits for a good one, and Billy, the oldest inhabitant out there, said he would get me one. Several days after he came in slightly “flushed,” from another post, and emptying a gunny sack full of skulls at my feet, consolingly intimated that I would probably receive a wagon load in a few days, as he had told the boys that I had offered fifty cents a piece for them. That night the festive board was graced with a bottle adorned with an old scalp and skulls for candlesticks; but it was merely done as an illustration to show how Whoop Up was painted by those who knew nothing of its realities. An old preacher traveling through the country, had met a lot of the boys just returning from a successful trading expedition, taking a slight recreation and feeling generally happy. He being evidently unused to the rough hospitality and expressions of frontier life, sent a lengthy report to the Canadian press, painting a most fearful picture of outlawry and crimes committed upon the British Indians. Whoop Up was pictured as an almost invincible stronghold, defended by hundreds of American renegades, and bristling with needle guns and cannon. This report, coming from religious sources, backed by interesting testimony of the Hudson Bay Company, gained credence, and the Canadian Government organized the Northwest Mounted Police for the purpose of driving out the American “freebooters,” and making a man and subject of the “Poor Indian.”

During my sojourn in that country there were but few white men from this side of the line in it, and only one fight occurred while I was there. It was at Kanouse’s Fort, where, through some erroneous impressions a skirmish took place between the Kootenais and the whites. The latter acted in self-defense, and after the termination of the misunderstanding, nearly blew up their whole establishment by the accidental discharge of a gun into a pan full of powder, while trying to demonstrate how the fight commenced. One or two Indians were killed on this occasion, and some of the whites, owing to the explosion, slightly powder burned. Indeed the whites did but little shooting at any time, unless it was to protect life and property.

Reports of the coming of the Police reached us now very frequently; those who had contraband in stock cached it; everything was quiet and trade nearly at a standstill, because no one knew to what extent the red-coats would interfere in business matters. At length a reliable messenger on running gear, came in and brought the intelligence that the force would be here in a few days. At last they arrived and encamped within a short distance of the Fort. On the following morning Col. Macleod, with about twenty mounted men, entered the Fort. He was met at the gate by Billy’s little boy, whom he had decked with an old red uniform coat. There were only six or seven white men all told in the place, which had been painted as formidable. The Col. entering the store implied that after a long prairie trip they were rather thirsty, and wanted to know if we couldn’t come out with something to drink, but we had nothing and had tasted nothing of the kind since early that morning. He seemed to be a little disappointed and detailed three or four parties of his men to search the place, which being done, a Sergeant Major reported that nothing contraband could be found. The Colonel, no doubt feeling very dry, and wishing besides doing his duty, probably to get hold of a good American drink to compare with Winnipeg poison, ordered another search to be made, which turned out as fruitless as the first one. While the rummaging was going on, I heard one policeman say to another, “Oh, if we only had the price set on some of the fellows’ heads by the American Government, wouldn’t we be fixed?” but then their impressions were new and based upon false reports. The Canadian authorities have long since learned that matters were not nearly so serious as painted. The police found that the men whom they had come to perhaps fight and conquer were peaceable traders, and the heavy siege guns brought along were useless; they had only effected the death of several horses dragging them over the prairie from Garry.

Since the establishment of Fort Macleod, Walsh and others, the relative positions of white persons have been slightly changed, but whether the Indian derived any benefits from the general changes accomplished, is doubtful, as they are reported to be in a starving condition today.

My time for disappearance having expired, I was glad now to take passage once more for Uncle Sam’s dominions, and the name of “Whoop Up” no longer excites my imagination with pictures of desperadoes and bloody deeds. C. S.

The article above appeared in The Benton Weekly Record on January 16, 1880.

https://www.newspapers.com/image/143747930/?terms=c.%2Bs.

Charles Schafft’s incredible friend and editor, John J. Healy[2], was reputedly one of the first Whoop Up traders. He had already made a fortune in the trade by the time Schafft went to Canada. Healy was also one of the discoverers of Florence, Idaho, in 1861.