Old Missoula

Missoula Woman Tells A Story – Martha Edgerton Plassman

One evening near sunset, in the spring, or early summer of 1865, a small company of Indians rode into Bannack and to our front door, where they dismounted. A front door having been mentioned, the inference will be that our house, unlike most in the town, had more than one exit. There were two, which fact served to place it in a class by itself as one of the architectural triumphs of that locality.

A visit from Indians was not unusual, but they came to the back, not the front door; entered unannounced; examined with curiosity the various cooking utensils, or whatever else in the room attracted their attention, asking as they did so in musical accents, “Mericana what you call ‘em?” then giving the Indian name, that we might gain in knowledge as well as they. After this preliminary was ended, they generally intimated that they would like something to eat, and left as unceremoniously as they came, with no suggestion from them, or us, that they should tarry a while at the close-at-hand wood pile.

Looked in Windows.

They also, old and young, daily flattened their noses against our front window panes, in their laudable desire to learn what was going on within, meanwhile making audible comments on what they saw, in a language unintelligible to us. Perhaps, for our peace of mind, it was well that we could not understand what was said, for our observers were frequently moved to gales of laughter. No, Bobbie Burns was mistaken. It is best not to crave the “giftie” “to see oursel’s as ithers see us,” even though those “ithers” may be savages, for it might disturb our “poise,” “morale” or whatever it may be termed.[1]

We were not surprised at a visit from Indians, although they were not accustomed to come at so late an hour, but we saw at once that these newcomers did not belong to any of the tribes with which we were familiar. They were smaller men; dressed their hair differently, and the fashion of their moccasins was not the same. Moreover they came to our front door, and showed that they were somewhat conversant with civilized customs by knocking, and waiting to be admitted. On entering the house, one of their number, who dressed like a white man, and speaking English fluently acted as interpreter, introduced his companions and told why they came.

Were Flathead Indians.

It was a delegation of Flatheads sent by Chief Victor, to negotiate peace with the Bannacks, and they wished my father to act as mediator. Having obtained my father’s consent to their request, and arranged that the conference should be held the following morning at our house, the delegation left, but not before a very devout old man had blessed us one and all. At least we thought it was a blessing he pronounced, because of the many times he crossed himself. I recall that I watched the performance with a great deal of interest, as I had never before seen anything like it.

Later that evening, the interpreter returned, and entertained us for a couple of hours with thrilling tales of adventure, that whether true, or false, proved him to be a good narrator, and endowed with a fertile imagination. He claimed to be a Delaware half-breed, and had doubtless often narrowly escaped death while on his way to this far western country.

Conference Is Held.

The next morning the conference was held between the interpreter, and George, chief of the Bannacks. The latter was a fine specimen of savage manhood, being six feet tall and well proportioned. He entered the house with the air of a monarch honoring a vassal, and seating himself, remained apparently indifferent to what was said during the meeting. There was no mistaking his attitude from the beginning towards the proposed treaty. He was emphatically “fornist” it and, unlike our modern statesmen, indulged in no subterfuges of secret diplomacy, but spoke his mind at once in words that were capable of but one meaning.

His ultimatum ended the conference. With no abatement of his regal bearing he drew his blanket about him, left the house, and strode away to his camp beyond the Grasshopper; the bedraggled eagle feather set at an absurd angle in his battered slouch hat, alone detracting from his dignified appearance.

Interpreter Admits Failure.

The interpreter, although manifestly in haste to leave, remained long enough to acquaint the feminine portion of the household with the failure of his mission.

“You are a long way from home and in an enemy’s country. What will you do?” we asked.

“Ride like hell,” was the quick reply. This he did, judging from the speed his party was making when they left town.

They started none too soon, as they were followed by the Bannacks, and shots interchanged. Whether any of the Flatheads were killed in the encounter we never knew. But the silence of the lovely moonlight night that closed the eventful day was rudely shattered when, from their camp on Horse Prairie hill, was heard the weird ulullu of the Bannack women mourning for their dead, slain by the Flatheads, whose proffer of peace had been so disdainfully rejected.

 

The above article appeared in The Daily Missoulian on July 27, 1919.

https://www.newspapers.com/image/349053742/

 

The talented author above is the subject of an online profile sponsored by The Montana Historical Society. She had an amazing life in Montana’s early days as a frontier daughter of Montana’s first territorial governor, a wife and mother of seven children, and as an editor of a fledging newspaper. She lived in Missoula for a time, while her children attended the university in Missoula. She was involved in socialist and suffrage causes and wrote a column, “Socialist Notes”, for the Missoulian newspaper. She also wrote a wonderful story about her father’s appointment as Montana Territory’s first governor which appeared in “Contributions to the Historical Society of Montana”, Vol. 3 – available on the internet.