REMINISCENCES OF EARLY DAYS IN OTTAWA COUNTY.
Written for the Kansas State Historical Society by Mrs. Emily Haines Harrison.1
My name is Emily Haines Harrison. I came to Kansas in June, 1866, from Logan, Ohio, in company with Dr. John McClintock and his family. We came up from Kansas City on the Union Pacific railroad to Topeka. My nephew, Henry H. Tucker, and my son, Waldo W. Haines, went on in search of a homestead, and I remained at Topeka for about four weeks, staying with the family of George W. Herron. My son then returned with a team and we went west, stopping at St. Mary’s, then an Indian mission, and at Junction City, where I had a talk with the receiver of the land-office, S. D. Houston, who told me that my destination, the southwest corner of Ottawa county, was a wild place, no women, nothing but soldiers, and seemed to think I would find it uncongenial. I told him I was accustomed to soldiers, having spent the last four years of the war with them, and we went on. Mr. Tucker had taken a claim where the town of Tescott, Ottawa county, now stands, on the north bank of the Saline river. Here he erected a onestory cabin of driftwood, mostly Cottonwood, which he found in huge drifts at every bend in this very crooked stream. He cut green Cottonwood branches and laid them from the ridge-pole to the walls, covered them with cottonwood brush, and piled on the earth. We moved in at once.
I had brought with me all my little keepsakes, and these and the liitle luxurious appointments which I had foolishly brought were placed about to adorn our rough habitation. Then a heavy rain came, ran through the loose earth with which the roof was covered, and poured in rivulets over my furnishings, and rained mud three days after the sky was bright without. By that time my keepsakes were ruined and the earth firmly packed on the roof, so that we had little trouble of that kind again. I remember of frying pancakes on my stove while Mr. Tucker held the umbrella over me and the stove. My temper became nearly spoiled that summer. If I had had a husband he certainly would have had just cause for separation because of the incompatability of my temper. In the fall a man who had taken a claim just south of my nephew’s abandoned it. At the first opportunity I jumped the claim. Then, as we had nothing to make us comfortable on the homestead, we all went down to Salina to spend the winter. I rented a two-roomed log house, quite a conspicuous residence for that time, and my boys stayed with me.
Towards spring Mrs. W. A. Phillips decided that she would like to go on to Washington before the close of the last session of Congress, and asked me to take care of her children while she was absent. I did so, going up to her house, and remained there until April, when Grandma Phillips came to stay with the children until their mother’s return. Yes, I know about the death of John Phillips. He was the oldest son of Colonel Phillips, a very fearless boy of about twelve. Thanksgiving day, 1867, was a very bright and mild day. The men all went out buffalo hunting. John went, taking his father’s war horse. The blizzard came on in the evening. It is supposed that the horse became unmanageable, and that John, already overcome with cold, fell from his back when crossing a dry branch. The horse seems to have turned there and come home. As soon as his absence was known hunting parties at once began the search, but it was two weeks later that a party of Kaw Indians found the body. Thanksgiving night Colonel Phillips was attending some kind of social gathering in Washington, when he had a vision of John. He left the place at once and returned home. That night Grandmother Phillips said to John’s mother, “I think we had better fix a place in the parlor to lay John. ‘ ‘ The mother said, ‘ 1 He is not dead ! ” ” Yes, ‘ ‘ said grandmother, “I have had a message.”
It was either the 8th or 12th of April when I set out to return to my claim in Ottawa county. Mrs. T. E. Skinner, mother of Everett T. Skinner,2 at present member of the house of representatives, was with me. She had come to Salina for supplies, and learning that I, her nearest neighbor was in town, looked me up, so I decided to return with her. We stopped at night with a Mr. Fisher. It rained during our first day’s journey and finallyturned into a late snow-storm, and the ground was soon covered with a heavy fall of snow. Eighteen soldiers from Fort Harker were in the neighborhood for hay, and spent the night in the same dugout. It had two rooms. The soldiers spread hay over the floor of the inner room, and slept on that. Mrs. Fisher, Mrs. Skinner and myself slept on a narrow bed in the outer room. As I was the smallest they put me in the middle. The next morning, our ways from this point diverging, Mrs. Skinner continued on the journey in her own wagon, and I, not caring to tarry until our wagon could be brought for me, and receiving an invitation from one of the soldiers, mounted behind him on his horse, my arms encircling his waist, and was carried a distance of three miles or more to my cabin. Here I commenced housekeeping with my son, who had put things in readiness at our own claim. The house was built of hewed logs, the roof like my nephew’s, only it was well packed. I had a cook-stove, having brought it all the way from Cincinnati with me. My neighbors all cooked on fireplaces, and considered a stove a useless luxury.
Table Rock creek lay south of my claim. The stream was a dry bed most of the year. When a heavy rain fell or snow melted, the banks would be full. On the south side of Table Rock creek, in Lincoln county, possibly three miles west of me, on the second bench of land, was Table Rock, a natural formation of red sandstone, standing perhaps twenty feet above the surface of the ground, with a broad flat rock capping it, I suppose of the same material, with grass and cactus growing upon it. This rock stood on more elevated ground than the surrounding country, and I used to go up there to its base, where I could look in all directions as far as the eye could reach. It was between my place and T. E. Skinner’s farm. There were inscriptions made on this rock by campers. It was said that Fremont’s party’s names were on the rock. I once wrote an account of Table Rock for the Mail and Breeze, which was published. Soon after an article denying its existence was published by some indignant citizen of that locality. I wrote to my nephew to find what could be meant by such a statement. He visited the place and found that the rock had been blown up by some one having no respect for natural curiosities. I have since been comforted to find that the State Board of Agriculture illustrated a geological article written by Prof. B. F. Mudge with a picture of this identical rdck.3
Catfish were very plentiful in the Saline when we settled on that stream. We could set a pole with baited hook on the river margin and go on about our work. One day I heard a splurging in the river and ran down to see what could be on the line. The rod was nearly jerked from its place. I caught and tried to hold it, but while I was doubled up trying to hold the rod down I was pulled in. Grabbing the willows I extricated myself, but not until my clothes were badly drabbled. Thinking that the fish had turned the tables on me and was fishing for me, I let go the pole and he swam off with it. The boys made great fun of me, but a day or two later I heard another great splashing in the water and went down again. There came the fish up-stream towing my pole and making a great splashing as the pole swung back and forwards. He evidently could not get rid of the pole. I made Tucker wade in and bring him out. The fish was nearly two feet long.
When 1 first came, the year before, my nearest neighbors were the Tripps. They were frontier born and bred. So far as I know there was then no other woman within fifteen miles of me. The Tripps had come into possession of a two-roomed, well-built cabin, built and occupied by Jas. R. Mead, and purchased of him on his removal to Butler county, in 1863. 4 Tripp, being too lazy to chop wood, knocked out a stone in the back of the lireplace and thrust a log through into the fire. When the end was burned off he went out and pushed it further in. The chimney was capacious. A crane was hung in it, upon which a haunch of venison or huge piece of buffalo could be suspended. When a meal was needed the crane would be swung so that the meat would be over the fire. When the lowest or exposed surface was cooked, a slice would be cut off, and the meat swung off to cool again. Mrs. Tripp believed in having everything convenient.
In the summer of 1866 Mr. Tripp paid me thirty dollars to teach his two youngest children, Emma, ten, and Sarah, eight. That was the first school held on the river. Before state school funds could be secured a school had to be taught in the district, so my school was considered to have been the first public school in that district in Ottawa county. The little girls wore only their short calico dresses and a sunbonnet each. They were full of the life of the prairies; acquainted with all the little animals of the country. At recess they would beg to be allowed to go and play with the rattlesnakes. On speaking to their mother about it she said, “O yes, let them go. The snakes won’t hurt them.” While in my cabin at their lessons one day they saw a skunk coming up the path towards the house, and were anxious at once to kill him. I tried to prevent them, but they were sure their mother would not care. So, being not unwilling to witness the sport myself, I said, “Well, go ahead and kill your skunk.” It was quite a large one. They each seized a buffalo rib and ran down the hill towards it. The skunk fled, but finding they were overtaking it, the animal turned about, as if to chase them, and they, having some respect for his weapon, retreated, when the skunk again went on his way. But they pursued, and after several similar maneuvers, finally killed the animal, being much worsted themselves. I sent them home, not liking the smell of their clothes. The next day they returned, their mother having washed out their dresses, which still had some odor of the fray. The mother was not at all displeased with the episode; said she wanted the skunks killed, for they killed her chickens.
Mrs. Tripp had a son commonly called Polk. Later, when he ran for sheriff of Ottawa county, he announced himself as Woodville Tripp. The boys laughed at him, and said he would never be anything else but Polk, and he was elected by that name.
I was a guest of the Tripps many times, and they always treated me with respect. There was nothing bad about the old man; his voice was pleasant and gentle. Their table was made of two cottonwood boards laid across wooden horses. At my first meal they had a piece of buffalo meat and corn bread. Our plates were pie-pans. The meat sat near Mr. Tripp’s end of the table, the corn bread toward the center. I sat furthest from the food. Mr. Tripp said to me, “Sit up and help yourself.” Mrs. Tripp, seeing my predicament, said, “You old fool, you’ve got everything to your end of the table. How do you expect she can help herself?” At another meal Mrs. Tripp made one more effort at civilization, and had spread some white muslin over the boards for a cloth. The old man noticed the cloth, passed his hand gently over the edge of it, and finally bent down and wiped his mouth off on it. Sarah was disturbed. “Why, papa, what do you mean by wiping your face on that cloth?” He was surprised, and replied, “Why, what is this thing for, anyway?”
Sarah was a beautiful bareback rider. As there were no fences, the farmers had to picket their animals or hire them herded. Mr. Tripp kept the herd of perhaps forty animals, and Sarah herded them. She could ride any horse she was put on before she was big enough to mount without help. She rode bareback with a surcingle, her head in a big sunbonnet, and her tiny little legs standing out like little sticks on either side of the horse. One of the farmers had a fine blooded animal in the herd. Sarah rode any and all, and thinking to make a little money on the side, rode over to see the owner of the horse. “What ’11 you give me to break your horse,” she inquired. “Give you ! Why, I don’t want him broken.” “You don’t? Why, I’ve half broken him already.” The irate owner went at once and took his horse out of the herd.
The Tripp children were bright, and Sarah later went down to Salina to school. While there an equestrian craze went over the country. The Saline County Fair Association offered a big prize for the best woman rider. Sarah’s friends made her a riding-habit, and though she was hampered by the unusual togging, she won the race over all competitors. Having received the award, she asked of the judges a favor; to allow her an exhibition of riding her own horse in her own way. It was granted. Her horse, with bridle and surcingle only, was brought around. She discarded the riding-skirt, and proceeded to give the delighted audience a marvelous bareback performance. It is possible that her husband met her on this occasion. He was a cultivated young man, visiting his relatives there, and saw and married her. He took Sarah back to his home in Ohio, and tried to civilize her. She had two children, but the life was distasteful. They separated, and she became a bareback rider in a circus. Her children were educated by their father, but I think that one or both have since become theatrical performers.
There were two older daughters of Mr. Tripp, who were married before I knew him. One is the wife of Mr. Coldwell, and now lives at Culver, Ottawa county. Polk, after serving his term as sheriff of Ottawa county, went to Washington territory, where he died. He had married a civilized white girl in Kansas, but after living with him two years she returned to her father’s home. I do not know that he tried matrimony in Washington. He seemed to be an honest, well-intentioned man.
One morning about the first of June, 1867, we noticed that the Saline river, upon the banks of which our cabin was built, was rising rapidly, and as no rain had fallen in our vicinity we decided that the water came from melting snows in Colorado or heavy rains in western Kansas. I wanted to abandon the house, but my son called my attention to the trees on the banks of the stream, saying we could see from them there was no danger; they had withstood all freshets. My fears were calmed. By evening the water had raised from between fifteen to twenty feet, and was on a level with our cabin floor. It kept raising in the night and we took refuge OH the roof, where I lay awake gazing at the stars until morning. At daybreak Waldo took the horse, which had been lariated to the corner of the house, and rcconnoitered. Our place, situated at the junction of the Saline and Table Rock creek, between the two streams, was covered to a depth of nearly two feet. For miles, it seemed to me, was an expanse of water. Waldo returned ; I climbed onto the horse, astride, my arms clasping the horse’s neck, my skirts wrapped as closely about me as possible, and my feet held up to avoid the water. Waldo led the horse perhaps a half-mile north to the former crossing of the Saline. There we could see the people on the further bank. Near the crossing had been an enormous cottonwood tree. This was now partially washed out, had fallen into the stream, and, clinging by some of the roots, was tossed slowly backward and forward by the current. This was the only landing visible, and I climbed from my horse to this foothold. Then I stood up and called to the people on the further bank. They were soon attracted by our cries, and called repeatedly to me to “hold on.” They afterwards said they thought I was floating down-stream on the log. The men were soon at my side with a skiff, and I was safe on the north side of the Saline. My son came across in the same manner, and the horse, turned loose, swam over. We stayed a couple of days with our rescuers, and then returned to our cabin, the floor ankle deep in mud.
Our attempt at crop and garden was washed out by the flood. The drought followed, and after the drought came the grasshoppers of 1867. They covered the earth and stripped the prairies of everything green, including the leaves of the cotton woods on the river bank. Food was costly in those days. I paid ten cents a pound for salt, seventy-five cents for poor butter— hard to get at that price. I sold my watch for sixty dollars and bought a Texas cow. My son and nephew being absent, the duty of milking devolved upon me, a novice. I took a pan and tin cup, and approached the cow in a conciliatory manner. She licked my hands, listened to my soothing words, and allowed me to milk. She licked my slat sunbonnet during the process, and always did thereafter, as she might have done her sucking calf. When she dried up I sold her. It was not until then that I learned that she had never allowed a human being to touch her before I made the attempt, and no one was able to come near her after she left me. She was finally killed by lightning. That year I bought a yoke of work oxen for $100, and a mare, Molly, half Indian pony, a beautiful animal, for $120. Her colt I sold the next year, when it was weaned, for $100. In the spring of 1868 I put in a crop, but raised nothing.
Early in August the Indian raids commenced in our county. I was acquainted with most of the women— Mrs. Alderdice and family, Mrs. Morgan and Miss White. Mrs. Morgan and Miss White were recovered in the Indian Territory in March, 1868, having been carried off the previous October. Mrs. Morgan’s story is a pitiful one. Both women were dreadfully abused at the hands of the Indians. But Miss White, on her return, took it as an awful incident well over, made a little income from rehearsing her story to interested writers, sold her photograph, married a good man, and let time haze her memory. When they returned to their homes they were besought by newspaper men and book writers to give an account of their experiences, and furnish their portraits for publication. This Mrs. Morgan refused to do. She never told any one what befell her while with the Indians. She considered it a disgrace, and that a relation of it only added to the infamy. Her brother, Mr. Brewster, felt as she did. Mrs. Morgan was a beautiful woman, yellow hair, blue eyes, and a lovely complexion. She lived for some years, but her mind gradually failed, and I was told she died in an asylum— I have supposed a Kansas asylum— only a few years ago.
The Indian raids at last moved the government to do something in defense of our frontier. Col. Geo. A. Forsyth raised a company of frontiersmen from our locality, most of the men having been soldiers in the Rebellion, and went on the Indian expedition which terminated in the fight at Beecher’s Island, on the Arickaree branch of the Republican, in northeastern Colorado, September 17-19, 1868. 4 My nephew, Henry H. Tucker,5 was one of these men. The bone of his left arm was shattered in that fight, and as it was two weeks before it was attended to, he never afterward had the use of it. The thumb and index-finger of the right hand were also ruined. After being cared for at Fort Wallace for a time he came down to Salina, where I looked after him until his wounds were healed.
It was learned very soon after my arrival in Ottawa county that I had been an army nurse. As there was no doctor in the country, my services were always in demand as midwife, or for any other case beyond the knowledge of the family of the sufferer. This took me frequently from home, and enlarged my acquaintance with the people all over that section. At this time, in the early fall, on my return from such an errand, I would sometimes find my cabin empty, my son being engaged with other neighbors on the lookout for marauding Indians. I remember one night, having nothing to protect myself with, I brought the pitchfork in and stood it up by my bed, then laid down and slept until broad daylight. I recall with what surprise I found both myself and pitchfork there safe and sound the next morning. How I could have forgotten my fright in sleep was a surprise to my neighbors, and was probably so to myself.
About the first of September a young man by the name of Schermerhorn came for me to go to his brother’s wife, Mrs. Alonzo Schermerhorn. I had agreed to care for her when called, and so went along, asking no questions. When within a short distance of Schermerhorn’s ranch I heard firing, and inquired what was the occasion. The young man said: “The Indians have attacked the blockhouse above here, and we have sent to Fort Harker for the troops.” It was too late to turn back then if I had cared to. Mr. Schermerhorn met me at the door. When he handed me out he said, “Mrs. Haines, my wife’s life depends upon you; I know you have no fear. I will put the bed in the wagon and take my wife away, if you say so. ” I went in and looked at her, and told him her condition did not admit of her being moved. “Well,” he said, “if the Indians comedown upon us and the worst comes, I will kill my wife.” I remonstrated at such talk just then. He replied, “Wouldn’t you rather die than fall into the hands of the Indians?”
I said “Yes; but there is no need of talking about that. The troops will likely be here in time.” We went in. He loaded two pistols and placed them with a bowie-knife on a chair near the bedside. His wife, a girl of sixteen, watched these preparations. He told her there would be no danger so long- as I seemed cool. It seemed to me as though she never took her eyes off me. Mr. Schermerhorn stood with his loaded gun at a four-paned window facing toward the besieged blockhouse, which was about a mile distant. The troops would come from the same direction. The young woman’s mother was there also. I have no recollection of her saying anything. I have never been able to recall any incidents of the two hours before the troops came, except that when the child was born I tore a strip from the string of the white apron I wore, tied the cord and cut it with the bowieknife. When the troops came like the wind from the direction of Fort Harker the Indians fled. The tension being over I fainted away, there being nothing further for me to do. They thought they would never bring me to. When I did revive, General Sulley, a white-haired man, was standing rflfear the couch. He asked me if I had been hurt. I told him, “No; I have been scared to death.” This was a vagabond body of Indians, perhaps 400 in all, which had stayed behind when the soldiers were chasing the main body met at the Arickaree.
Colonel Benteen led the troops which came to our rescue from Fort Harker. They were colored men, part of the Tenth cavalry. They did not give chase to the fleeing Indians, but were ordered to camp there at the blockhouse. General Sulley followed in an ambulance and camped with the troops, making that point his headquarters. The people were ordered to camp around Schermerhorn’s.
A call was made for a scout or messenger to go to a squad of the Tenth Colored cavalry camped at the Great Spirit springs. My son Waldo volunteered, and was sent on this duty. He was absent about two weeks. The troops at that point were out of food, and were obliged to hunt in the neighborhood. While he was there they had a skirmish with a small body of Indians in which one of the latter was killed. My son’s report of the burial was that “they sent him head first to the happy hunting-grounds by the way of the Great Spirit springs.” â– When the spring was finally cleared out, in later years, the remains of a human skeleton were found in it. My son said he had no doubt that it was the Indian whose moccasin stuck out as he saw him go head first into the waters of the spring. I was sick for about two weeks. When my son got back I was well enough to be taken in a wagon to Salina, where I stayed with Mother Bickerdyke. I lay sick there a good while. Mr. Alonzo Schermerhorn, I understand, still lives in the neighborhood of Ogden. This first baby lived only about six weeks. It seemed to be frightened from the first, and its eyes were always moving as though looking for something.
That fall Governor Crawford came up on the Saline and Solomon to look over the country and see the damage the Indians had done. He said some one ought to come down to the capital and see what could be raised for the destitute settlers. I seemed to be the only one who had a general knowledge of the state of affairs, or could go, and I went. Governor Crawford told me to wear my best clothes, to go to the best hotel and talk for the people; to say nothing about my own hardships. I think I must have made that trip in October, for Governor Crawford was in his office at Topeka. I remember
it rained while I was there, for pools of water stood on the floor of the governor’s office. I went to the Tefft house. A Mrs. Greer had come with me from Salina and looked after me. I went to bed. Arrangements were made for a meeting in the Methodist church. Mrs. Greer came and got me up, and took me to the church. I went upon the platform with the others, but when I went to make my talk 1 fainted away. The meeting went on without my aid. John Ritchie was appointed to take charge of the matter of raising relief goods. Two cars were loaded with food and clothing, and I returned with them to Salina. I think an announcement was made at church Sunday of the relief meeting, and I believe our meeting was called in the afternoon.6
I later made a second trip to Topeka, Lawrence, and Atchison, in search of relief. This time ex- Senator Thos. H. Baker, of Irving, Marshall county, managed the solicitation of aid, and Governor Green occupied the chair of the executive. At Lawrence I was obliged to go to bed again, and the doctor said I needed rest, and proceeded to give me something which made me lie flat on my back and still, until the goods were raised. The third time I came down ! went to Leavenworth with a little German girl. I had a pass then, and Mike Sheridan met me on the train on his way to Leavenworth. He wanted to give her in charge of a woman, so gladly turned her over to me. She had been ransomed from the Indians at Medicine Lodge, and had been taken by the troops to Fort Harker. She would not talk to the men, and had been dumb to all their attempts to elicit any information. After a short time with me she became as talkative as any child of her age with an old friend. She said that the Indians at Medicine Lodge had her mother’s and sister’s scalp-locks. I asked her how she knew that. She said : ‘ 1 Mamma’s hair was yellow and sister’s too, and I saw the Indians kill them. ” They tomahawked her sister. The baby cried and they killed it, and then they killed her mother. I think her father was on a scout away from home when his family was captured.
Finding that I was unable to care for myself, 1 accepted the offer of Judge William Harrison, of El Dorado, to care for me. I married him and returned with him to his home in El Dorado, where I lived for over twenty years. He died suddenly at the residence of his daughter, near Augusta, where he was visiting, May 1, 1890. I met Judge Harrison at Topeka, In April, 1866, during my first month in Kansas. He was in attendance upon a grand jury, and we had kept up a correspondence.
Note 1. — Mrs. Emily Haines Harrison was born in Windsor, Vt., October 21, 1825. Her parents were Waldo Tucker, a Scotchman, and Lydia Ginny. She was the youngest of eleven children. Her great, great grandfather was the captain of some water craft and was drowned. He was one of the Mohawkers who emptied the tea in Boston harbor, some of which fell out of his hob-nail shoes on his return from the tea party, and was saved in a bottle as a relic. Her mother, Lydia Ginny, was born on Dorchester Heights. The mother of Lydia rocked her cradle and molded bullets for her husband, Job Ginny, who was in the Revolutionary war. Mrs. Harrison’s father was in the War of 1812, and her brother, S. W. Tucker, was captain of a company in the war with Mexico. Emily C. Tucker was married to William Henry Haines in 1848. He served as a lieutenant in the Mexican war. By this union she had one son, William Waldo Haines, now of Wichita. Following the example set before her, as there were no brothers left to take part in the war for the Union, she offered her services as a nurse. Her army certificate shows that she served in the medical department of the United States army from 1861 to 1865. Before coming to Kansas her home was at Logan, Ohio, where she had been acquainted before the war with the Shermans, who lived at Lancaster, to the northwest of Logan, and with the Sheridans, whose home was at Somerset, in Perry county. In 1897 Mrs. Harrison was given the Red Cross by Clara Barton, and she has been president of the Kansas branch of the National Army Nurses Association since 1903. Her home is at Ellsworth.
Note 2. — I was too young to recollect many of the events recorded at so early a date. My mother, Mrs. T. E. Skinner, taught the first school in Lincoln county in a little dugout on the Saline river, December, 1866, to April, 1867, the pupils being her three boys, Bing, Everton, and Alfred; also, Eli and Frank Zeigler.— E. f. Skinner, Topeka, February, 1905.
Note 3.— First Biennial Report State Board of Agriculture. 1877-78, p. 68.
Note 4.- Wichita, Kan., August 2, 1908. Secretary Martin : Yes, I built that hewed-log house and fireplace, also cabins, corrals, etc. The premises described was my ranch, a mile or two east of the present town of Tescott, and about fifteen miles west of Salina. It was at that time the most suitable, beautiful and sheltered site on the Saline river. In the fall of 1859 I had built an ordinary log cabin, corral, etc., and that was my hunting headquarters, being in the midst of the buffalo and other game. The next year I built a hewed-log house Of one and one-half stories, shingle roof, split in the near-by timber, of oak. The floors were of lumber hauled from Junction City or farther east. With my own hands I built a large fireplace and chimney of stone laid in adobe mortar. In December, 1861, I married and took my wife to the ranch, also brought up a family to live in the cabin for company and to aid in our work. In the fall of 1862 the Indians became so threatening, scouting and war parties of Cheyennes bothering us, that we- moved to Salina for safety, and in the spring of 1863 I sold the ranch to a Mr. Tripp. The guerrillas from the mountains who captured Salina camped a couple of days at my ranch after I had abandoned it before striking Salina. In those years the banks of the Saline were lined with big cottonwood trees, and in the bends were groves of oak timber. Not a tree was growing in the valleys and hills. The places I selected for my hunting and trading ranches seemed good places for towns. Tescott was built near my first ranch on the Saline. Towanda was built on the site of my ranch on the Whitewater, in Butler county. Wichita was built on the site of one of my trading stations. I also had trading and hunting •cabins at Clearwater and at Pond Creek in Indian and buffalo days. J. R. Mead.
Note 4.— A photograph of the monument erected by the states of Kansas and Colorado to commemorate the battle of Arickaree, fought September 17-19, 1868, with accompanying explanation, is printed in volume 9, Kansas Historical Collections. Col. Geo. A. Forsyth’s account of this battle is published in Harper’s Monthly for July, 1895.
Note 5.— Mr. Tucker’s death occurred on his farm near Roosevelt, Oklahoma, March 6, 1908. at the age of 67. Besides his service as a frontier Indian fighter in Kansas, Mr. Tucker served in the Rebellion as a member of Co. G, 20th Ohio vol. inf., and was mustered out with the company August 28, 1861. He afterwards served as first lieutenant in Co. B, 143 Illinois volunteers, and was mustered out September 26, 1864. In the spring of 1869 he acted as a courier, informing the settlers on the upper Saline of an Indian invasion. His son, H. H. Tucker, jr., is the secretary and treasurer of the Uncle Sam Oil Company.
Note 6.— “Mrs. Haines and Mrs. Doctor Greer, from the upper Saline river, came into town on Thursday to ask our people for clothing and food to enable the settlers in that section of the state to live through the winter. It is known to our citizens that owing to the drought in that locality the crops were very light. What little was raised was destroyed by the grasshoppers and the Indians. Not only did the Indians destroy what little crops were raised, but killed and drove off the stock of the settlers, leaving them entirely destitute of the means of living. They are in the same situation that nearly the whole state was in in 1860. The eastern portion of the state has had good crops and our people in the main have been blessed with prosperity. If these people are not helped they will be forced to leave, which will bring the ‘frontier’ much further east than it is.”— Topeka State Record, October 17, 1868.
“The meeting at the Methodist church called for last Sunday to devise measures to collect food, etc., for the sufferers on the upper Saline river was well attended.’ Rev. Mr. Leak was called to the chair, and F. P. Baker appointed secretary. Mr. Leak stated the objects of the meeting, and Mrs. Haines, from Salina, gave an affecting account of the needy condition of the people. They were without food, clothing, bedclothes, crockery, and had but little shelter. In answer to the question how the articles gathered were to be distributed, she said she was personally acquainted with every family and its needs, and that she would make the division here, and put up in separate packages what she designed for each family. The city was divided into sixteen districts, and a committee of ladies appointed to solicit. The committee are as follows : Mrs. Swallow, Mrs. Baldwin, Mrs. Ogden, Mrs. Clarkson. Mrs. J. C. Miller, Mrs. S. Gordon, Mrs. H. W. Farnsworth. Mrs. Battey, Mrs. Bliss, Mrs. Howard, Mrs. J. M. Spencer, Mrs. Osterhout, Mrs. T. J. Anderson, Mrs. Mileham. Mrs. M. Anderson. General Ritchie was appointed chairman of the committee and H. W. Farnsworth treasurer. Mr. J. C. Miller and Mr. Piatt were appointed a committee to solicit vegetables, corn, etc., from farmers. The committee were to collect all it was possible to ship this morning, as a telegram was received from Salina saying that their necessities were great.” —Record, October 20, 1868.
As a result of this meeting the sum of $174.60 was collected, of which Mrs. T. J. Anderson collected $99. She also reported the gift of new goods worth $60. Mrs. Haines and Mrs. Greer, after allotting the goods, reported that there were sufficient to make all comfortable for the winter, though more food was needed, and an effort was made to load one or two cars from the farms in the neighborhood of Topeka.