© R.J. Christensen
The Indianola Reporter, Thursday August 7, 1941
Jim Gammill Writes Interesting Early History of Frontier County
by J. N. Gammill
Frontier County was organized in January 1872. Meeting was held in Hank Clifford's 'Wigwam' about one and one-half miles north west from Stockville.
Hank and Monte Clifford were French, and their wives were half breed Sioux. They and J. H. Dauchey had been freighters together, from Nebraska City to Denver and Salt Lake before coming to Frontier County. Drome Dauchy and sons were fine horsemen and horse raisers. Monte Clifford was a veterinarian and practiced over a large territory for years. One morning a neighbor went by and talked with a squaw. When he came back by in four or five hours, she said "come in see the new papoose." And he said, "what, since I went by this morning?" And she said, "sure."
These were all fine people. Mr. Dauchy (and some others) were thought by many, as being aloof and not too friendly as he made such remarks as, the more I know men, the better I like horses and dogs. But his close friends knew that among other things he did was give a large sum of money to buy flour, sugar, beans etc. to be given to widows and old maid homesteaders and other needy. But don't tell them Drome Dauchey is paying the bill, were his orders. Another of these old timers was A. S. Shelley. He had been roaming from here to Montana. A Peaceable man, but was known to knock a big buck Indian down before his whole tribe, which scared his white partner pretty near to death. They being the only whites in hundreds of miles.
There was a big shot Professor of a large eastern College with Mr. Shelly on some of these trips, hunting fossils. The most unique and comical character of probably the whole west was W. H. (Paddy) Miles. Born in Fla-a-da the land of flo-a-ers, as he said it. Was in the Confederate Army and wanted to tackle ten Yanks at once. Until he got in the tangle, and then one was enough. He was a great story teller and actor. Looked like a southern Colonel. And could look like a monkey. He enjoyed packing a bone handled six-shooter. Was liable to shoot up the town. Once after trying some rifles at a shooting gallery, which he claimed were no good, he drew six-shooter and shot the targets to smithereens. The scared owner who thought he was ruined financially, didn't know that Paddy carried a roll of bills that would choke a cow, to pay all and more of damage done on these escapades. And by the way, this six-shooter had belonged to the Russian Grand Duke Alexis who dropped it accidently when he and Paddy were chasing a buffalo on Red Willow Creek in this same January 1872. The Duke didn't know where he had lost it, but Paddy said he did.
My father, James M. Gammill, who had worked on the Union Pacific R. R. around Fort Steel and Pollans, Wyoming in 1867, decided to settle down. In April 1873 he walked out from North Platte and homesteaded in Frontier County. He went back to Iowa, and the next spring he and J. H. Morgan drove a hundred head of heifers from Decatur County Iowa, to Frontier County, having a cow hitched with a horse to the wagon, so as to ride one horse. These cattle belonged to my uncle John C. Gammill, who came out the year of 1874.
My grandfather and family, William H. Allen had located the year before on November 8, 1873. The late Thomas Andrews (of pure bred short-horns) of Cambridge, had cattle in Frontier County at this time. He at once brought a gift of two loads of hay to Allens.
If my memory is right my father said, out of the first forty two settlers, thirty six had been in the Civil War.
E. L. Clute put Arapahoe on the map. He owned a store, hotel and liverybarn. And these old-timers traded there, if it wasn't North Platte or Lexington which was Plum Creek then.
In that eventful roundup of 1877, a widow on the Platte River wanted a man to look after her interests. And through recommendations of J. H. Morgan and Burk Brothers, (then on the Platte) my father took the job. And with success, by his fist under the chin of a big two gun bully and telling him some things. There were two riders from Ogallala that were having trouble, caused by older one picking on younger. In North Platte the young one bought a Colts six-shooter remarking to my father, that this damn thing will probably get me into trouble. When the roundup was on Mitchell Creek, about four miles east of out old place, the men rode out and fought a duel. The young one is buried there. He had hardly a chance and was really murder, for the other was a crack shot and had killed other men. But he finally reaped his reward (so we heard) by going insane and dying in an asylum, supposedly caused by worry over picking a fight then killing this boy.
By 1880 all or most of the creek land was homesteaded, and the writer arrived on January 6.
These old timers were mostly stockmen, and supposed that the upland would never be settled. But in 1885 and 1886, people swarmed in like flies. And my father would remark that, "There's another damned grainger to get located. Ask him (often a whole surveying gang) in for dinner or, to stay all night. And sell him timber for his dugout, whether he had a cent or not.
Most of these old timers used strong language at times to express their thoughts, which horrified some Easterners until they found out that these men gentle as a dove. But if needs be could be as hard as steel.
These people were of all classes. College graduates, and others who ran away from College, who's parents had expected them to be priests, preachers, lawyers, doctors, etc. A rancher told a story of how he rode up unbeknown one morning and watched one of these men. He was astride a calfs neck trying to learn it to drink out of a bucket. After getting so much milk blew all over him, he grabbed the calf by the ears and gave it a good shaking. Saying if it wasn't for my religion, Damn your little soul, I'd beat hell and damnation out of you. Now in these hectic eighties there were a lot more people, also a lot more stealing and rows of various kinds going on, that received an airing in court. W. H. Allen who had ran a Post Office on his ranch, which he named Equality, (believing in the equal rights of all) was County Judge, and W. H. Miles was still Sheriff. Now these two William H's could be hard boiled if need be to enforce the law. But they were really peace makers, and probably spent a dollar out of their own pocket for every nickel collected as fees. John Welbourn told about being at Stockville once on court business, when the Judge dismissed court for a recess so he could marry a couple who had driven a long way. And says John, we all had some liquid refreshments, from the marriage fee. Quite often the Judge would get a settlement. Sometimes soon, and sometimes after my grandmother had worked herself half to death feeding the bunch. The Judge would say, you folks settle this and I will throw off my fees and I think the Sheriff will too. And Paddy would say, yes sah Judge, I will throw mine off too.
The writer remembers of hearing Paddy tell of a case he had settled that day, he came to out house to stay all night. An Irish family living in the east part of the county was in a family row, and people thought murder was about to be committed. So Paddy rode some twenty miles to see about it. He had persuaded them to divide up their property, and separate out of court. So he helped them. When they came to a jar of butter, the old man claimed the jar and the old woman the butter. So Paddy says, old man what's your jar worth? Paddy paid him, and gave the jar to the old woman. But these things happened quite often from there on. Well they finally were all settled up. Then they decided to kiss and make up. But Paddy says, the old man never offered to give any of the money back.
In 1880 the most dangerous man in the whole County moved in. He settled about one and one-half miles from us. He was really a crazy man. And in these days would be locked up in an asylum. He was a powerful man at any time. And when mad (which was often) could do super-human stunts. Such as picking up a mowing machine and putting it in a wagon. The man who located him had lied to him, telling him that a large spring, or rather the head waters of Sand Creek was on this land. Otherwise this Swede would not have paid him the $50. The locator soon made himself scarce. The owners of this water was Mrs. Sherwood (a widow whose husband had been killed in the Civil War) and he son Eugene. This Jonas Nelson was always threatening to kill Eugene, and would have done so once with a shovel if some men hadn't stopped him, who were with the County Surveyor. Jonas finally did kill him in 1885 or six, I don't remember which. He hid behind a tree and shot the top of his head off with a shot gun. Then he goes to the barn and shoots himself through the hand with his own pistol. Leaves both guns in his shanty and starts for North Platte, changes his mind and comes to our place. He told my father his story, which my father did not believe. It is said that my father was one of the few that was not afraid of Jonas. As quick as he saw the hand, he accused him of shooting himself, and said I'll bet you've killed Gene. Elwood Clark a young cousin was with my father, and they were working near the house of Orville Work (who had been in the same company in the war, and was the best fiddler in the neighborhood) so Orville and Elwood watched Jonas with a shot gun, while father ran over to see what had happened. There was snow on the ground which made everything plain what had happened. Gene had on heavy mittens and had never cocked his gun. He never knew Jonas was there. Father was soon back and sent Elwood for the Sheriff. The Sheriff then takes Jonas to Judge Allen, who gives him a hearing. A crowd of people wants to hang him, but the judge orders him taken to North Platte to appear before the District Court. Jonas had burned hay stacks etc. on the Platte for people he was mad at, and a crooked lawyer there by getting a Swede jury had turned him loose. Jonas said that would happen again, and he would come back and kill everyone that had anything to do with this trial. When Sheriff Miles started with his prisoner for North Platte it was getting late, so he decided to stay all night in a place that happened to be in the neighborhood where this murder was committed. He said a bunch of masked men had him covered with guns that night, and ordered him to turn over his prisoner. And what else could he do. The next morning he and some other men found Jonas hanging to the tree that he had been behind when he had killed, twenty-two year old Gene, as he was called, as nice a young fellow as could be found in the county. They cut Jonas down and buried him a few rods back from his dugout.
The writer has some faint memories of the big county seat fight of 1886. I can remember seeing my father getting his old 50-70 needle gun and other neighbors having some guns and of a lot of excitement. And grandfather Allen and our family going to Stockville and staying all night. I found out since that it was reported that they were coming down from Curtis to steal the Records from the court house. My Uncle J. C. Gammil was appointed Captain of a bunch of men to protect the records, and a crowd of women was at a private residence with most of the records hidden under a table. It was said that a man rode to Curtis and told them what would happen if they came to Stockville and apparently they didn't want it to happen. These old pioneers were about the greatest, if not the greatest generation that trod this earth. I would like to see how the man, or men look, that could have made these men believe that there were democracies in Europe, or that there were anyone, or all that could come over here and do anything to them. Well our spineless, thoughtless generation of picnicers, have had quite a spree. We went to school (when we had any) in a log cabin, soddy or a dugout. And they taught us to write so that you could read it.
In the summer time we fished for five and ten pound catfish and caught them.
Everyone played baseball, croquet and seven-up. Filled up at leisure on wild plums, grapes, chokecherries and hackberries. We ate watermelon that were dandy near as big as heating stoves. Went to a Fourth-of-July picnic that was a humdinger. Took in the county fair, and saw our first fakers. Also saw some peaches and oranges and could sample one for a nickel.
In the winter the cellar contained a lot of wild fruit. Mostly in the shape of butters and jellies. About fifty bushels of spuds and some other vegetables. At least one barrel each, of cucumbers and sorghum molasses; for you know it takes a lot to feed eight kids, and that seemed about the average. It didn't cost much to come into the world, if you were lucky enough to get a doctor at all. He and his horses ate a meal or two and didn't say much more about it. Nurses, hospitals and nippled bottles were almost unknown, and every kid had to do its own milking.
We had boxing and wrestling, as well as good hunting. At parties we popped corn and pulled taffy, and played ring around rosey. Had old time dances, where fiddlers could really play, "Sally Goodin" and "Old Leather Breaches." The girls and boys were bashful. (The writer went with his future wife a year before he huged [sic] her, and was dang near scared to death then.)
Well here we are in 1941. And most of us have lost our financial inheritance, and we are trying damn hard to lose everything else that our forefathers suffered, fought and died for. But we shall always keep those sweet but sad memories of those great pioneers. Our FATHERS and our MOTHERS.
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