(Click on image to see full size)During the Christmas season of 1863, a heavily armed party -- bundled against the cold, mounted on horse or mule, and riding double file -- departed Alder Gulch, a twelve-mile stretch of gold mining camps located in a portion of Idaho Territory that was destined to become Montana. On the first night they camped at the crossing of the Big Hole River and partook of a supper of fiapjacks and fat bacon. Though the persistent cold and the lackluster diet soon became tedious, excitement over the dangerous venture ran high. To identify members of the road agent band they were chasing, Captain James Williams had brought along Long John Franck, the gangly, unkempt horse herder who had been the star witness at the recent George Ives trial. It had also been Long John who -- after a little persuasion with gun and rope -- had divulged the unsettling news that local criminals had organized into a formidable band .that intended to take control of Alder Gulch. In their haste to get on the road, some of the vigilantes had forgotten their gloves, and these men were now suffering badly, but Long John comforted them with the assurance that by nightfall they would be within striking distance of the road agents' horse camps.
Eager for their first encounter, they arose at dawn and split into small search parties. But after an entire day of scouring the countryside, they had not discovered a single outlaw shebang. There was nothing to do but cross the mountain and continue their search on the other side. After struggling to the summit of the windswept divide, they found it covered with more than a foot of unbroken snow. Though their fingers and toes were numb, and their beards and mustaches frozen, they dismounted and, leaning into the howling wind, trampled a trail for the horses and mules. [1]
The man they most wanted to find was big Alex Carter, a politician and freighter from the western side of the Bitterroot Range. After George Ives's trial, the convicted murderer had stood on the hastily rigged scaffold with halter encircling his throat, gazed steadfastly into the eyes of those gathered below him, and declared that he was innocent. "Alex Carter killed the Dutchman," he said in a firm voice. Though his executioners proceeded, they evidently believed Ives, for after the hanging they formed a vigilance organization and set out in pursuit of Carter. [2]
While breaking trail atop the divide, the party met a lone rider, a small, sinewy man with deep-red hair and beard. Anxious for news of their quarry, they inquired if the stranger had seen Alex Carter. "Lying drunk at Cottonwood," the redhead coolly replied, "kicked out of the ball last night." Then he followed the path they had just beaten. [3]
Captain Williams saw no reason to distrust the redhead's information. After all, if he had been one of the outlaws, Long John would have recognized him. Therefore the squad pressed on until they at last reached the Deer Lodge Valley, and then headed down river. In late spring, rows of green-leaved willows would delineate the creeks feeding the river, and patches of red clover would brighten the banks of the Deer Lodge; the valley traveler would be able to halt and feast on wild strawberries and red currants that were so sweet that one handful would sate the appetite. But now, in the gloom of winter, a monotonous white swept from the rolling hills on the east to the loftier peaks in the west. Williams's party was lucky to have their flour and fat bacon. [4]
That night while they were unsaddling their mounts, an Indian wandered into camp, carrying across his pony an entire venison and two jack rabbits. Longingly, Williams eyed the game; then he turned to the wealthiest member of the party. "Charley," he said, "we are awful meat hungry, and you are the only one who has any money."
Charles Beehrer felt obligated to provide meat for his penniless comrades. The German immigrant, so strong that he could pack a 196-pound keg of beer on his back for two miles without pausing to rest, was only twenty-seven, but he operated a thriving brewery in Virginia City. With fourteen saloons and four hurdy-gurdy houses as patrons, it would not take him long to refill his pouch with gold dust. As his grateful benefactors looked on approvingly, Charley shook some of the precious grains into the Indian's upturned palm. Immediately, anxious men began ripping off the deer and rabbit hides, while others built a fire and sharpened roasting sticks. Most were so famished that they only seared the meat, wolfed it down, and then, with full stomachs, curled up in their blankets and fell asleep. [5]
By morning nearly everyone was sick, with the exception of the brewer, who had been patient enough to cook his venison thoroughly. Despite their illness, the captain hurried his men into the saddle and continued toward Cottonwood. As they rode, he was pondering the best strategy for a successful capture. He prided himself on being such a good judge of character that after only a few minutes of studying a man, he knew all about him, and his gut feeling was that Carter would be difficult to take. According to a spy, Alex had been boasting that he and a few friends were "good for thirty of the Stinkingwater s of s." Therefore Williams decided it would be necessary to surprise the outlaw. They would surround the little settlement after dark and, at daybreak, invade. The plan would entail hours of restless waiting, without so much as a small flame to warm their hands, but Williams was not worried about insubordination. While leading a wagon train from Colorado to the northern mines, he had proven that, in his own words, he "had some leather" in him. The burly, torpid captain -- with his coarse features, scraggly chin whiskers, and untidy dress -- rarely faced a challenge. When the occasion did arise, he would stare down his opponent, repeating in a dull, menacing voice, "Did you hear what I said?" Most antagonists backed down quickly, meekly acknowledging that they had heard. Thus when the captain selected his night guards and informed them they were to spend hours stomping about in below-zero weather, he heard little complaint. [6]
At dawn, few men had to be urged into the saddle. It was the moment they had been anticipating for days -- the first capture. Breaking into small groups, they unobtrusively infiltrated the town. Built on rancher John Grant's extensive spread, Cottonwood was a trading center of one hundred inhabitants -- two "greasers," and the rest mainly Canadians. The vigilantes scattered themselves throughout the few businesses and commenced discreetly questioning citizens. But for the second time on the trip, they were disappointed. Their caution had been to no avail; there was no sign that the outlaw was in town. Then at dark, they noticed a red glow flashing out of the blackness of a distant hill. Obviously, Carter had escaped. His campfire was a nettling taunt to the group of ailing men who on the previous night had themselves foregone the comfort of warmth and cooked food.
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Williams was infuriated at Carter's escape, and to make matters worse, his disgruntled men were now too sick to camp outside. Again the captain turned to the brewer, and again Charley provided. He found a hotel that for the sum of $130 would stable the thirty-two animals and allow the twenty-nine men to sleep on the floor for two nights. Out of sheer generosity Charley purchased twelve buffalo robes for certain men who had spent previous nights shivering under flimsy blankets. And to mollify their humiliating defeat at Carter's hands, the brewer also treated the entire group to a night on the town. Years after, citizens would remember the vigilante bacchanal as "the biggest drinking bout that the little village had ever seen." [7] While they were enjoying a game of euchre in a saloon, Charley happened to notice a large, good-looking man striding up to the bar. When the man later disappeared, Charley was unable to restrain his curiosity. He tiptoed to the bar and peeked down, discovering the handsome fellow resting on his knees while he loaded three revolvers. Seeing that he was observed, the man threw Charley a fierce glance and continued his task. The brewer rushed back to the captain and whispered in his ear, "I believe that man is a bad one, and ought to be hung." But Williams possessed better judgment than some of his men, and after pondering the suggestion, he rejected it, leaving the disheartened brewer with nothing more exciting to do than return to his euchre hand. [8]
On the third morning, the morose party started for home, still smarting at having been outwitted by the man they had hoped to see dangling from the coils of rope they had carried all the way from Virginia City. The worsening weather did not lift their dampened spirits. The snowflakes were growing larger, horses and mules were becoming weak from the scant diet pawed from under the snow, and the flour and bacon were dwindling. But the long hours on the trail did give Williams some needed thinking time. It was still unbelievable to him that a man of his foresight had been bested by a mere rough. Only if the outlaws were as well organized as Long John claimed -- a captain, lieutenants, oaths, passwords, secret meetings, and spy network -- did the failed mission become understandable. While his men were setting up camp under a canopy of heavily falling snow, the captain suddenly figured out what had gone wrong. He held the lone rider personally responsible for the aborted operation. In all probability, "Red" had carried a warning that had sent Carter scurrying off to the next valley. Williams had no intentions of returning to Virginia City with a report of defeat. The moment the weather cleared, he would select his best men and ride after the redheaded messenger. [9]
Bulky thighs gripping a lean mule, rounded shoulders slumped, and bull neck hidden by upturned coat collar, Captain James Williams may not have presented a particularly prepossessing appearance as he led seven of his men into Rattlesnake ranch. Between midnight and dawn, they had eked out a few hours' sleep at Stone's ranch and then with fresh mounts ridden until dark in order to reach Rattlesnake. They found Red Yeager alone in a brush tent situated just beyond the ranch house. After surrounding the wickiup, Williams called, "It's a mighty cold night; won't you let a fellow warm himself?" As Red appeared to welcome the speaker, he found himself blinking into the close-set eyes of a shotgun. "Come along," Williams ordered, and the unarmed redhead quietly obeyed.[10]
With prisoner in charge, the party spent the night at the ranch, informing curious guests that they were taking Red to Virginia City to stand trial for horse theft. Next morning they were on their way, Williams leading the caravan along the beaten trail with the rest strung out single file behind his mule. One vigilante stuck close to Red, who was maintaining his dignity by refusing to show the slightest fear. The captain set the pace by goading his little beast into a jogging gait. Though snow continued to fall, obscuring the path, and a penetrating wind chilled them to the bone, they continued. Then suddenly the lead mule made a misstep, stiffened his forelegs, and slid over the edge of the bank. As his men and prisoner watched, Williams tumbled to the ground, rolling in the snow after the sliding beast until both completely disappeared in a deep drift. When rider and mule emerged unharmed, stumbled to their feet, and commenced shaking off the clinging snow, the rest of the party burst into laughter. As soon as Williams had regained his composure, he good-naturedly remounted and headed for Dempsey's ranch, where the main group waited.
On the arrest party's arrival, the vigilantes were elated to see that the captain had gotten his man this time. The inquisition did not commence until the following morning, with Red steadfastly denying any knowledge of an outlaw gang. Add though he freely admitted having handed Alex Carter a letter, he insisted that it had been completely innocent. On his way to Cottonwood, he said, Dempsey's bartender had asked him to deliver a message, and he had complied, just as any courteous traveler would. Williams was pleased to learn who had written the letter. He immediately summoned bartender George Brown and commenced a joint examination of the two suspects. Though Red remained cool, his fellow prisoner appeared badly shaken. Immediately Brown admitted that he had sent the letter warning Alex that the vigilantes had marked him for early extinction. Brown did not seem to realize that this confession made him guilty of obstructing vigilante justice, a crime his captors considered worthy of the death penalty. Red's admission to having delivered the letter left him in the same predicament. [11]
But the two confessions did not put an end to the session. Instead, they set off an even more rigorous grilling. His aim, Williams explained, was to give the suspects the opportunity of "putting the Committee in possession of information as to the crimes of others." The ordeal had just begun. After closely observing the two bartenders for some time, Williams felt certain that if the pair were separated, Brown would soon break down and provide the names of the outlaw gang.
Finding himself in a room alone with his interrogators, plus the added tension of wondering what Yeager might say behind his back, did nothing for Brown's confidence. Since the vigilantes were insisting on a list of names and since he was maintaining that he had no such knowledge, he realized that he was in for a severe test of endurance. He had heard the rumor that only two weeks earlier this same party of men had looped a rope around Long John Franck's neck and repeatedly hoisted him off the ground until John became more cooperative. And then at George Ives's ensuing trial, Brown had made himself highly unpopular with his present captors by attempting to establish an alibi for the defendant. As he awaited the private interrogation, the young bartender's face paled and his hands were atremble. [12]
George Brown had no social standing in the community, no powerful friends. His only claim to respect came from owning an undeveloped ranch on the Big Hole River and from providing good service to the travelers who stopped at the stage station. As for the "gang of drunken loafers" (as the more respectable citizens labeled them) who hung out at Dempsey's bar, they cared little whether the man behind the counter was clean cut and spiffy uniformed or whether he was colorful about mixing drinks. [13]
Like his Irish boss, Brown had a young Indian wife, but she and their two small children had remained in the East until their provider could get a foothold in the new land. Born in New York state, Brown had first migrated as far west as New Ulm, Minnesota. By the age of twenty-three, he had amassed an estate worth $450 and taken a bride, who soon bore him two heirs. Drawing on the knowledge he gained of his wife's people, he became a scout for General William Marshall during Minnesota's Indian campaign of 1862. Later that year, he took leave of wife and "babies," as he called them, for both children were under the age of two, and joined the Holmes wagon train, bound for the western gold fields. But the New Yorker made no fortune at the mines. Instead, he became a rancher who earned a living by acting as barman and general hand at Dempsey's station (located between Beaverhead Rock and Pete Daley's ranch). Though Brown had committed no crime in the area, neither had he distinguished himself for sterling character. And observing his nervousness during the initial questioning, Captain Williams had picked him as the easier of the two to break. [14]
What passed behind the closed door at Dempsey's ranch house will never be known, but George Brown proved that he was not the coward Williams had expected. After a long inquisition, the suspect emerged from the room unnerved, but without having confessed to anything other than writing the warning letter to Alex Carter. And despite the captain's stern insistence that Brown had interfered with justice, the nervous prisoner maintained that writing the letter had been no crime at all.
Apparently Williams was undaunted that his intuition of Brown's weakness had proven incorrect. It was approaching noon, and the captain was hungry. Leaving the fate of his two prisoners in limbo for the time being, he instructed Brown to fetch food from the kitchen. Then when they had finished their meal, he summoned his men outside. The afternoon of January 4, 1864, was crisply cold, and the captain walked the snow-trampled path until he reached a small bridge spanning the stream. Positioning himself in the exact center of the log structure, he waited as his men gathered about him. "Boys," he said, "you've heard all about it." His men were listening intently, hanging on his every word. "Vote your conscience," he continued. "All those in favor of hanging those two men step to the right side, and those who are for letting them go, stand on the left." As his men stood gazing into their leader's impassive, sparsely bewhiskered face, he took one heavy step to the right side of the bridge. Not another word was spoken, but the entire party moved in the same direction. The fate of Red Yeager and George Brown was set. [15]
The vote was unanimous, but suddenly the enormity of the decision to take two men's lives overwhelmed one vigilante. "I've got to go home," he announced as he commenced elbowing his way out of the bunch. "If I don't go, I'll lose two thousand dollars." Some of his companions called for him to come back, but the dissenter only set his lips tightly and continued pushing his way to freedom. As usual the captain was slow to react. (In later years, his wife Lizzie's quicker tongue would always manage to eject several harsh criticisms before he could even begin to speak his mind.) Though Williams believed in democracy up to a point, he also realized the danger in letting one man go his own way. From behind him, the departing man heard the distinctive sound made by cocking a shotgun. It was followed by several more clicks. The loner spun about and hurried back to rejoin the group. [16]
Williams wasted no further time. He went inside and informed Yeager and Brown that an escort would take them to Virginia City to stand trial and then selected eight guards, ordering them to depart immediately with the two prisoners. As they rode toward J. B. Laurin's ranch, Red remained calm, even cheerful. But Brown was edgy; though he was not aware of the voting on the bridge, he seemed to sense that the bitter cold and harsh wind were the sensations of his final hours.
At Laurin's ranch house, they halted and entered the bar, and about sundown, the main party caught up. The captain was weary from the cold ride and lay down in the parlor for a nap. The other vigilantes, however, were far too restless to sleep. Long after the two prisoners had bedded down on the barroom floor, their wakeful guards hovered about the bar, gathering in small knots for spirited discussions. "Virginia City is the headquarters of the outlaw gang," one commented. "And they know we've got Red and Brown." Though the captain did not seem worried, they were. "The gang may give us a battle," someone said. Finally the thought most were harboring surfaced: "We'd better hang them and be done with it." It was ten o'clock -- only two more hours left of January 4 -- when they shook their leader awake. They had voted, they informed him, and were ready for action. Still groggy from sleep, the captain indulged in his customary period of deliberation. After some moments he told his men that he agreed. [17]
Hefting himself to his feet, Williams trudged from the parlor into the dimly lit barroom. At the sound of heavy footsteps, Red stirred and then, sensing a new tension in the air, bolted to his feet. The captain's form, massive and black against the flickering candlelight, moved unrelentingly toward the darkened corner that confined the two prisoners. "I know I am going to die," Red blurted out to his guard. It was the first time he had lost control. "I am going to be hanged," he said.
"It's pretty rough," the guard admitted.
Perhaps it was the tone of sympathy in the remark, or only an overwhelming desire to cling to life, that made the formerly collected prisoner suddenly decide to, as the vigilantes put it, "give up his guts." For whatever reason, Red was ready to talk. "What I want to say is that I know all about the gang. I'd die happy if I could see them hanged." He turned pleading eyes up to the face of the stolid figure now stationed before him. His only hope lay in the mercy Williams might extend. [18]
The captain was a man of humble origin, the son of a poor Pennsylvania farmer whose severe discipline had driven the youth from home at age sixteen. Fleeing to the nearby town of Greensburg, James Williams had moved in with an older brother, a shoemaker, and himself followed that trade for several years. Then the two brothers migrated across the plains with a bull train and unsuccessfully labored at mining and farming in Colorado. Things had gone better for them after James led the wagon train to the northern mines. [19] At Alder Gulch the two brothers had become packers, following the universal custom of selling their transported goods at double what they cost. [20] With their profits, they opened a stable of fine horses, in fact the very mounts that had borne the vigilantes on their snowy trek. Despite the new prestige he was enjoying at the Alder Gulch mines, Williams was unaccustomed to holding a man's life in his hands. Therefore, he pondered Red's plea for some time; obviously the li tt1e redhead was asking for his life in exchange for information. But the captain decided that his job was not to grant clemency. "Your doom is sealed," he replied.
"I don't say this to get off," Red protested. "I don't want to get off."
As if to soften the blow, another vigilante explained, "Men have been shot dawn in broad daylight, for sport. It must be put to a stop."
"I agree to it all," Red came back, a strong note of penitence in his voice.
But Williams was tiring of the exchange. "It would be better if you give all the information in your possession," he said. The information spilling out of Red's mouth conformed exactly to William's suspicions: a gang of roughs, highly organized and headed by a mastermind. "I know them all," Red assured his listeners, "all the bloodthirsty villains." As Brown listened, the hope he had been desperately clinging to dissolved, but still he refused to make a confession. [21]
It was nearing midnight; only minutes remained of January 4. The vigilantes, gleeful that the climax of their manhunt was at hand, scurried about the ranch house collecting the meager supplies required for their first formal execution: an ax and two stools. The lengths of rope they already had with them. Pulling on overcoats, all stumbled out into the frigid darkness, the stunned prisoners in tow. They lit the path with candle lanterns, while overhead a few feeble pinpoints of light barely penetrated the deep haze, the last night sky the bewildered eyes of the two condemned men would ever view. A steady wind moaned down from the mountains, chilling their exposed faces and trying to hold back their bodies, as if exhorting them to return to the security of the house. But the tight body of men pressed on. Brown could not believe that he was to die simply because he had warned Alex Carter to flee a lynching squad; it seemed horribly unjust. Twenty-six years of life had been much too brief. It was only a short walk to the Stinking Water. They were now breaking a fresh trail through the snow, aiming for a river bend lined by towering cottonwoods. Suddenly Brown's thoughts focused in on the real tragedy of his rapidly approaching death; his wife and half-white children would be left alone in the world. He began to cry for them. His tears disgusted those around him as a mark of shameful weakness, but Brown commenced praying aloud anyhow, pleading with God to take care of his Indian wife and babies. [22]
Throughout the brisk walk, Red had borne up manfully. "Brown," he said, "if you had thought of this three years ago, you wouldn't be here now, or give the boys this trouble." [23] Brown was too distraught to attempt to convince his fellow prisoner that three years ago he had been in the safety of Minnesota's deep snow, confidently laying plans with his bride, rather than roving the mining camps with a band of robbers. Now they halted before the huge, spreading cottonwoods, and in the dim lantern light, faceless figures began to hack away the lower limbs of one tree. Then there was the resounding whack of the rope encircling the sturdy, exposed branch. One vigilante stepped underneath it and stacked one stool atop the other. Another man grabbed Brown's arms, twisting them behind him and lashing his wrists together. Then they were urging him up onto the stools, and he felt the weight of another body hopping up beside him. His companion leaned against him as he raised his arms to slip the noose over Brown's head. Suddenly the executioner lost his balance, lurched against Brown, and tumbled the two of them off their perch into the snowdrift. Brown arose and once more climbed to the unstable platform, his clumsy hangman close on his heels. The rope slid past his face, and then fingers were cinching it tight about his neck. For just an instant he was alone on the rickety scaffold. "God Almighty," he breathed, "save my soul." They jerked away the bottom stool and he dropped, falling until the rest of his body came into violent, jarring conflict with his neck and head, then jerked and twitched, and at last swung limp. [24]
Red watched the execution without a sign of emotion; it was as though he did not believe that he was destined for the same fate. After all, he had done as Captain Williams asked, while Brown had not cooperated. That thought provided a glimmer of hope. Just as Brown's final moments had been haunted by the image of wife and children awaiting him in Minnesota, memories of home and family were flooding Red's mind. In his coat pocket, he carried a letter postmarked "West Liberty, Iowa," correspondence from a sister who still lived in the little settlement where he had spent his boyhood. [25] A shameful death would disgrace a respected family name. Erastus "Red" Yeager was groping desperately for a thread of ingenuity that might prove a lifeline. "Chain me," he pleaded, "and carry me along so I can see the others punished." In his time of crisis, they left him dangling for precarious moments, waiting for the answer to his urgent request. [26]
On a winter day some twenty years earlier, twelve-year-old Erastus Yeager -- embarrassingly small for his age and conspicuously noticeable to the other children for his shock of dark-red hair -- had faced another crisis in another unsettled country. But then he had relied upon the support of two older brothers. In turn, two younger sisters and one brother had been in need of comfort from him. The frightening occasion had been the opening of winter term in the new school built in a remote community of Iowa Territory, which was itself but five years old. It was not only the fear of a first day at the new school which gave the six Yeager children butterflies in the stomach; they had recently been taken from their comfortable and familiar home in Indiana, where all had been born, to settle a land still inhabited by Indians. The soil their parents -- John and Sarah Jane Yeager -- had chosen to bring under cultivation was fertile. The broad prairie waved with high grass and colorful wild flowers, and a muddy creek marked its winding course with a strip of walnut, maple, oak, hickory, and butternut trees. But by the time the few settlers in the area found time to establish a school, the creek was frozen, the weather hovered at zero, and two feet of snow blanketed the surrounding countryside and the small village of Moscow. [27]
The little log schoolhouse sat on a bank of the Cedar River, whose icy surface provided a convenient path for those students lucky enough to own skates. Those who were less fortunate could hitch a ride with a skater by squatting behind him or her and clinging to a coattail. The school did not prove to be as forbidding as the Yeager children had anticipated. Though the schoolmarm was stern and exacting, and sitting still on a rough-slab bench and studying all day was no picnic, there was a certain joy in learning about the vast world beyond Indiana and Iowa. Erastus was not one to rile the teacher. He was a willing scholar -- quiet and intelligent -- and a prime candidate for an award of merit. A fellow student, for example, had won a paper "thumb stall," designed as a red-and-yellow-winged butterfly which perched upon one thumb to keep it from griming the pages of the precious books. [28]
Though texts were scarce at the Moscow school, each of the children received a speller, complete with picture on the cover. One pupil, however -- in fact the same boy who daily incited the envy of the rest of the class by sporting his colorful thumb stall as he studied -- found the speller cover more discouraging than inspirational. The award winner interpreted it as "a picture of a very lightly clad young man weakening when half way up a high mountain with a little cupola on top of it and on its front gable the word 'Fame,' in large letters, and a rough looking female ordering him to climb or bust." Contemplating the weakening, lightly clad climber eventually convinced the thumb stall wearer that becoming famous, especially in that costume, was impossible. Daily, he reported, "hope died within me." The well-meant but misdirected speller illustration may have had a similar effect upon Erastus, impregnating his small soul with a feeling of utter hopelessness concerning future fame. [29]
Despite such possible forebodings of a difficult mountain to scale in some hazy future, Erastus's fears about life in the Iowa wilds gradually dissipated with time. The local Indians proved friendly enough to regularly treat the settlers' children with chunks of maple sugar, and the ominous booming that startled the family awake of a spring morning turned out to be nothing more than the mating call of amorous prairie chickens. In addition to the chickens, there was an abundance of wild turkey and deer for the Yeager boys to hunt, and their sisters returned home from plum and crabapple thickets with skirts full of fruit from which Sarah Jane made pies and jam. The family finances had never been better. Their father, who had attained an education before marrying, was practicing law in town as well as operating a farm and mill. As years passed, the family continued to grow. The six children had three new brothers and sisters, who one by one took a bench seat at the school, while the older children were completing their learning and one by one leaving home to marry or take their own Muscatine County farmland. [30]
Shortly after Erastus turned seventeen, his parents had their tenth and last child, a daughter whom they named for her mother. But Sarah Jane, now forty, did not survive the difficult birth. At age fifty-four, John was left to both support and rear his family. After two years as a widower, he journeyed to their old home in Indiana, married the daughter of a former neighbor, and brought the seventeen year old back to Iowa. Amanda, the stepmother, was greeted with distrust, but she was so kind and unassuming that she eventually won over even the married children. Her presence in the home allowed John time for community work, a service generations of Yeagers had rendered since 1717, the year their German forefather had immigrated to Virginia. Both William and Austin, Erastus's older brothers, joined their father in local politics. With Austin serving as polling clerk, the three male Yeagers who had reached a majority and eighty-eight other Muscatine County residents cast ballots in the 1851 election. [31]
Shortly before the arrival of the stepmother, who was two years his junior, Erastus had left home. He had developed into a young man of slight yet sinewy build who stood five foot five. Despite his even temper and courteous manner, he alone of the five older children had failed to find a mate. On leaving his father's home, he had moved in with his brother and sister-in-law and their infant daughter and worked on William's farm. But William was not content to be an Iowa farmer. Restless to move farther west, he sold his Muscatine property and headed for Washington Territory, taking his own family and younger brother. William and Erastus's departure marked the beginning of the disintegration of the closely knit clan. Other brothers and sisters migrated to Kansas Territory, and John, who was now declining in health, moved to a smaller farm located on Sugar Creek in nearby Cedar County. Despite the absence of the five older children, he once more had eight youngsters to support: five by Sarah Jane and three by Amanda. Though John continued to practice law, he also planted the new land to wheat, oats, and corn, started a pig herd, and harvested a large crop of maple sugar. But his attempt to homestead at age sixty proved more than his health could withstand. On his deathbed, he entrusted the care of his large family to the young widow. Amanda held the family together for a few years, but when she also became sick and died, the eight orphans were forced to move in with an older sister and her husband. Then with the outbreak of the Civil War, three Yeager brothers enlisted in the infantry. Thus the thirteen children of the deceased lawyer were literally scattered from coast to coast. [32]
In the Far West, William settled his growing family into a log cabin, and he and Erastus broke new farmland. Later the brothers established a freighting business that transported supplies to the various mining camps of Washington Territory. As in Iowa, William became active in politics, winning election as the marshal of Olympia. But traveling the wilderness trails for his brother only increased Erastus's wanderlust, and he soon gave up the freighting to follow a gold stampede. It was the first time in his life that he had been separated from family. [33]
Among gold camp drifters, Erastus became known as "Red." A first stop on his odyssey through the wilds he had once seen marked on a map of his Moscow school geography book was Walla Walla, a popular wintering spot for miners during the early 1860s. In this "wide-open" town, a citizen recalled, "a reckless element" dominated. The large dance hall was constantly "running full blast," and despite a regulation confining "foreigners" to a restricted district, robberies and murders were "frequent." The town barber discovered that he was not safe even inside his own shop. One day while he was trimming a client's hair, a stranger appeared at the open door and aimed a revolver at the man in the barber chair. "I'm going to kill you for murdering my father in California," the armed man warned. As the barber jumped back, a ball ripped into the customer's body, killing him instantly. But in spite of the hazardous environment, Red Yeager survived his stay in Walla Walla without becoming involved in violence. The conciliatory ways he had developed from years of coping with older brothers and placating younger siblings enabled him to play the role of camp peacemaker. [34]
But when he wrote home about his wilderness experiences, family members still in Iowa replied that their community was suffering problems similar to those in Walla Walla. A rash of horse thievery had left many farmers without a team to cultivate their crops, and certain citizens had banded together to form a regulating society. Mr. Corry, a former neighbor of the Yeagers, had circulated a rumor that an industrious young settler named Alonzo Page was actually a member of the horse thief gang. One night while Page was sitting up with his critically ill wife, the couple heard a noise in the clearing. Peeping out the single window, Page saw a ring of horsemen surrounding their cabin. Then a fierce pounding came at the door. Realizing it must be the regulators, Page called out the window that his wife was near death, but the pounding continued. Quickly he barricaded the door and loaded his shotgun, but before he could reach the window, assailants broke down the door and shot him. Then the regulators rode away, leaving the bedridden wife and her mortally wounded husband to their fate. Later the killers learned that Page was innocent and that Corry had started the false rumor out of personal enmity. The incident had provided Cedar County with a sobering lesson: not only could summary execution take the life of the innocent, but a vengeful individual could use a regulating society as a tool against personal enemies. It was a lesson the new territories would have to learn for themselves. [35]
From Walla Walla, Red traveled northeast to the Clearwater River mines and at Lewiston hired on as the cook for an eleven-man party bound for the Grasshopper Creek mines on the other side of the Rocky Mountains. Upon reaching Cottonwood, the travelers heard that along the trail that lay ahead, the Indians were "very ugly," but the news did not dissuade them. With Francis Thompson (later to become a Montana territorial legislator) acting as guide, the party departed for Bannack. In his diary, Thompson noted that his traveling companions were "nice fellows" and that Red was "a good cook." By nightfall of the fourth day, Thompson safely led the group to a ranch outside Bannack, and they spent a restful night sleeping in a haystack. [36]
Red arrived at what was to become his final home on August 30, 1863. The thirty-two-year-old loner had but four months of life ahead of him. It is not necessarily to his discredit that he arrived at the eastern mines as an employee of the Howard party. Though Doc Howard and friends would later chop to death and rob a wealthy freighter named Lloyd Magruder, Red may not have been aware of Howard's true character. Like Francis Thompson, Red might have regarded his employers as "educated men of agreeable manners." Furthermore, Red split with the party on arrival, taking a job as bartender of the Rattlesnake ranch, located about fifteen miles east of Bannack. Within a matter of weeks on the job, his courtesy had earned him an admirable reputation with passing travelers, and his peacemaking habits were serving him well during altercations that arose among drinkers.
On the night of November 13, 1863, attorney Wilbur Sanders had occasion to be grateful for Red's mediation skills. Sanders had arrived at the Rattlesnake inn during a raging blizzard. As he stepped inside, he saw a fire glowing on the hearth, and from behind the bar, Red cordially welcomed the guest and then hurried out into the storm to stable and feed Sanders's mule. When the bartender returned, carrying bridle and saddle, he noticed that his guest was spreading his blankets on the floor and invited him instead to sleep on the straw mattress that lay before the massive fireplace. [37]
With a drunken doctor snoring loudly from the corner, Sanders fell asleep between Red and the inn proprietor, Bill Bunton. At midnight a hammering at the bolted door awakened them, and Red, exhibiting his usual patience, uncomplainingly roused himself, lit a candle, armed himself with shotgun, and unbarred the door. But while he was serving the newcomer -- deputy Jack Gallagher -- a bottle of whiskey and a pan of cold beef, gunplay broke out between his two customers. After persuading lawyer Sanders to stop waving a shotgun barrel in the deputy's face, Red scolded Gallagher for having initiated the ruckus. Jack was to blame, Red stated, and should be ashamed of himself. Sheepishly, the deputy apologized to Sanders and then, as a sign of friendship, intimidated the teetotaling lawyer into taking a swallow of whiskey. After Gallagher had finished his meal and departed, Red and Sanders crawled back in bed alongside Bunton and once more fell asleep. [38]
It was six weeks after resolving the Sanders-Gallagher tiff that Red set out for Cottonwood. En route, he stopped at Dempsey's ranch, where bartender George Brown asked him to deliver a letter to Alex Carter. Red agreed, though he was no friend to his counterpart at Dempsey's. In fact, Red had few friends. He had recently had an irreconcilable quarrel with Bunton, and when his boss had sold out to his partners and moved to Cottonwood, he and Red had parted as bitter enemies. The Iowa transplant Yeager, who had wandered from the hearth of his brother's Washington home, was now "a stranger in a strange land," much as when the Yeager family had pulled up Indiana roots and resettled amidst the bark huts of the Musquawkee Indians. The great difference, however, was that the middle brother was now alone, bereft of all family ties except an occasional letter. And the news from home was not good. On July 4, 1863, one of Red's younger brothers had been fortunate enough to survive the battle at Vicksburg, but another brother had died. Back in Cedar County, Iowa, a monument would soon be erected to John Yeager, Jr., and other soldiers "buried in graves far away from home and kindred." [39]
When Red's time to die far from home and kindred came, there would be no monument, only an unmarked grave near the Stinking Water River. Despite his newness to the area, Red had lived in the Far West long enough to be familiar with the ways of a lynch posse. Thus when he met Captain Williams and his men on the divide and they inquired after Carter, he had a premonition that they would ferret out the information that he had carried a letter to Alex. And though he was the son of a respected lawyer and the brother of a marshal, the posse might, he realized, track him down and subject him to a dog's death. [40]
Within a few days of the crucial meeting on the snowy trail, a man had appeared at his wickiup and taken him prisoner. Williams had promised to take Red to Virginia City for a trial, but he had not kept his word. Up until the moment he heard the captain's heavy tread on the Laurin barroom floor, Red had hidden his terror, but when he knew that his time had come, he was filled with an aching desire to live. If it would give him the life that now seemed so precious, he was ready to say whatever his captors wanted to hear.
The flickering candlelight from the lanterns brightened the snowy river bank, and a blast of wind set the cottonwood branches above them to clattering. Brown's suspended form rotated slowly, catching the faint rays of unstable light for a moment and then receding into shadow. "Chain me," Red said, keeping his voice firm and calm, "and carry me along." But Williams did not bother to respond to the plea. They were nudging him forward, toward the stools, and then they were tightening the rope to the contour of his neck. Red extended his hand and in turn grasped the hand of each man within his reach. "Goodbye, boys. God bless you." Then they kicked the stools out from under him. When his body was still, they pinned a note to his back: "Red! Road agent and messenger." The other bartender's note read: "Brown! Corresponding secretary." [41]
In Red's pockets, his executioners found a letter. As soon as they showed it to Granville Stuart, the former Iowan recognized the postmark and realized who the redheaded bartender was. Granville's claim to distinction went beyond the pioneer mining he and his brother James had done at Gold Creek. For dedicated scholarship at a rural Iowa school, he had once won a red-and-yellow butterfly-shaped thumb stall. Seeing the name "Erastus Yeager" inscribed on the letter from West Liberty resurrected nostalgic memories in Granville's mind, images of children seated on unplaned benches. Their feet could not reach the earthen floor of the schoolhouse, but instead dangled in midair. The glow from the fireplace and the gray haze filtering through the greased paper windows lit the tattered books on their laps, and though their eyes may have been on an open page, their minds were desperately "wishing that night would come." Among the restless pupils were the two Stuart brothers and "a red-headed boy about ten or eleven years old who was a bright intelligent lad." Granville looked at the letter and felt "very sorry for poor Yager." Though Granville believed the circulating report that his former schoolmate had joined with robbers, he doubted that Red had really known the names of all the members of the gang, as his executioners were claiming. [42]
After the two midnight hangings at Laurin's ranch, the vigilantes rode to Nevada City and, according to Captain Williams, "went silently to bed." Apparently the captain's conscience was unperturbed despite the fact that he had just taken the lives of two untried men. He was fully aware that by hanging the bartenders without trial, he had in effect assumed the mantle of "chief." And in later years he would boast that he "was one of organizers of Vigilantes" and "was Commander and Chief of all for 2 yrs." Williams's pride was understandable; within the space of a few years, a poor shoemaker from rural Pennsylvania had risen to a position of awesome power. [43]
The leathery vigilante leader did not seem a likely candidate for suicide. True, in his later years he developed a drinking problem, but nevertheless he was easygoing, prone to playing practical jokes, and tolerant of hard working Lizzie's continual carping. But the feelings and fears that may have lurked beneath the impenetrable shell guarded by almost brutish features remain a mystery. The vigilantes became painfully aware that they were in danger of prosecution for past executions that did not appear justified. Therefore Williams opposed Dimsdale's proposal to write the history of the vigilante reign and angrily refused to help finance the project. [44] Yet, despite unspoken fears, financial worries, and a continuing struggle with alcoholism, the self-proclaimed "chief" did not seem the type to resolve his problems by swallowing a bottle of laudanum and shifting the burden of feeding and clothing their children to the frailer shoulders of ex-schoolmarm Lizzie. [45] so perhaps it is naive to believe that in the dark morning hours of January 5, 1864, the captain rested peacefully in Nevada City, nor for that matter, that he rested in complete peace on any night thereafter.
