M. Mark Miller, Author

Tag: James McCartney

  • A Tale: A Narrow Escape from the Nez Perce — Andrew Weikert, 1877

    mccartneys-at-mammoth
    McCartney’s “Hotel” at Mammoth Hot Springs

    In the summer of 1877, several bands of Nez Perce abandoned their homeland in Idaho and eastern Oregon in hopes of making a new life in the buffalo country of Montana. Pursued by the Army, they fled through Yellowstone Park.

    Although the Nez Perce chiefs wanted to avoid contact with whites, a group of young men separated from the main Indian body and attacked several groups of tourists. On August 26, the Indians attacked a group from Helena, Montana, killing one of them and forcing others flee. Most of the survivors made their way to the incipient resort at Mammoth Hot Springs.

    After waiting for two days for stragglers to come in, the leader of the Helena tourists, Andrew Weikert, got the owner of the resort, James McCartney, to return with him to the scene of the attack. They planned to look for two men who hadn’t returned and bury one they knew had been killed. Here’s Weikert’s story of their adventure.

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    While McCartney and I were on our way from the Springs to the old camp, this same band of Indians passed us somewhere, but we did not see them at that time. We went within two miles of the old camp and unpacked and stayed all night, for it was too late to go farther.

    We started early the next morning and got into the old camp, then began our search. We soon found Kenck’s body and buried it the best we could. We found his watch in his pocket and ring on his finger, which the Indians had missed. We spent the remainder of the day searching for the other two missing boys, but not finding them, concluded that they had made their escape.

    We packed up what little was left in the camp and started back, camping at night where we did the night before; had our supper then made down our bed, then went to picket our horses so they could not go too far away.

    Mack said, “Andy, something tells me we had better go on.” I told him all right, so we saddled up and started. I looked back through an opening in the timber and saw an Indian ride across, so we “lit out” pretty lively for a little ways. I presume he wanted to find out how we were fixed, but we slipped them that time and traveled on until 3 o’clock in the morning, then crossed the Yellowstone and camped until morning.

    It was about 9 o’clock when we found our horses, for we had to turn them loose so that they could get something to eat. Had almost come to the conclusion that the Indians had stolen them. We, at this time, were about eighteen miles from the Springs. We saddled and packed our horses then started to the Springs.

    We met a party of Indians on the trail; got within two hundred yards of them before we saw them. There were eighteen of them, so we thought there was not much chance for us. So we struck out for the nearest brush.

    We had a lively race for a mile, for the Indians were firing at us all the time and trying to head us off from the brush. Eighteen guns kept up quite a racket and they got some of the balls in pretty close. We could hear the balls whistle through the air and see them pick up the dust.

    We returned fire as best we could and think we made some good Indians. We rode together for some time, then Mack started right straight up the hill for the brush. I kept out on the hillside more so as to give my horse a better chance.

    The Indians got off their horses and kept right behind a reef of rocks, so we had rather a poor chance to return fire, but they kept pouring the lead into the hill close around me all the time, for they were not over two hundred yards from me. But they soon put a ball into my horse and he stopped as quick as a person could snap his finger. I knew that something was wrong, so I got off quick and in an instant saw the blood running out of his side.

    So I said, “Goodbye Toby, I have not time to stay, but must make the rest of the way afoot.” I made all speed possible for the brush, for I could not see enough of the Indians behind the rocks to shoot at and had no cartridges to waste. We had fired several shots apiece.

    About this time, Mack’s horse commenced bucking (the saddle had got back on his rump,) and bucked him off, then ran out to where I was, and followed up after me with the saddle under him. I took my knife after me, from my belt and was going to try and catch him, if he would come close enough, then cut the saddle loose and jump on him, but he tramped on the saddle and away he went.

    The Indians never let up shooting, but kept picking up the dust all around me. I think they must have fired fifty shots at me, but only cut a piece out of my boot leg and killed my horse. He had keeled over before Mack and I got together.

    Mack wanted to get down behind a big log that was lying close by, but I looked up and saw the reds almost over our heads, I then told him that I was going for the brush. He asked me to wait until he would take off his spurs, then he would go with me. He put his hand on my shoulder and yanked off his spurs, throwing them down towards the log saying they might lie there until some time later he might call for them.

    While he was taking off his spurs the reds fired three shots at us. I don’t think either of them was over ten feet from us. I made the remark that they were coming pretty thick; Mack says “Just so.”

    We soon got to the brush, but there was no reds to be seen anywhere. They were terrible brave so long is they had the advantage, but just as soon as the tables were turned, they made themselves scarce behind the hills, as they will not follow a man into the brush.

    We camped there for about an hour, then ventured out to see if the walking was good, or probably they had missed one of our horses. We did not find any except the dead, and from even this they had taken my saddle and bridle. We saw the Indians about four miles off so concluded to make it on foot to the Springs.

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    Weikert later returned to retrieve the dead man’s body and take it to Helena for a proper burial. Soldiers pursuing the Nez Perce rescued the two missing men.

    I’m working on a book titled Encounters in Yellowstone 1877 that will chronicle more stories of Yellowstone tourists who ran afoul of the Indians.

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    Adapted from Weikert’s Journal published in Contributions to the Montana Historical Society, 1900.

    — NPS photo from the Yellowstone Digital Slide File.

    — You might enjoy:

    For other related stories, click “Nez Perce” under the categories button.

  • A Tale: The Last Outpost of Civilization — 1874

    Late in the summer of 1870, men rushed into the area that was to become Yellowstone Park looking to find Truman Everts and claim the reward that was offered for his rescue.

    McCartney's "Hotel"

    Everts, who had become separated from the famous Washburn Expedition, had been alone in the wilderness for thirty-seven days when Jack Baronett found him. Everts refused to pay the reward on the grounds that he would have made it to safety on his own. Baronett said  he found Everts nearly starved to death and raving mad.

    The searchers also discovered Mammoth Hot Springs and immediately saw an opportunity to convert the area into a bath resort. The next summer, two entrepreneurs named James McCarntey and Harry Horr took out homestead claims near the springs and build the first hotel in Yellowstone Park—a 25-by 35-foot log cabin with a sod-covered slab roof. “Guests” at the cabin had to provide their own blankets and sleep on the floor.

    Although the hotel had hot and cold running water (a 40-degree stream on one side and a 150-degree stream on the other), the Earl of Dunraven  wasn’t impressed with the accommodations when he visited in 1874. Here’s his description.

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    The accommodation at the Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel was in an inverse ratio to the gorgeous description contained in the advertisements of the Helena and Virginia newspapers. No doubt the neighborhood of these springs will some day become a fashionable place. At present, being the last outpost of civilization—that is, the last place where whisky is sold—it is merely resorted to by a few invalids from Helena and Virginia City, and is principally known to fame as a rendezvous of hunters, trappers, and idlers, who take the opportunity to loiter about on the chance of getting a party to conduct to the geysers, hunting a little, and selling meat to a few visitors who frequent the place in summer; sending the good specimens of heads and skeletons of rare beasts to the natural history men in New York and the East; and occupying their spare time by making little basket-work ornaments and nicknacks, which, after placing them for some days in the water so that they become coated with white silicates, they sell to the travelers and invalids as memorials of their trip. They are a curious race, these mountain men, hunters, trappers, and guides—very good fellows as a rule, honest and open-handed, obliging and civil to strangers if treated with civility by them. They make what I should think must be rather a poor living out of travelers and pleasure parties, doing a little hunting, a little mining, and more prospecting during the summer. In the winter they hibernate like bears, for there is absolutely nothing for them to do. They seek out a sheltered canyon or warm valley with a southern aspect, and, building a little shanty, purchase some pork and flour, and lay up till spring opens the rivers and allows of gulch mining operations being recommenced. If you ask a man in the autumn where he is going and what he is going to do, ten to one he will tell you that it is getting pretty late in the season now, and that it won’t be long before we have some heavy snow, and he is going “down the river or up the canyon.”

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    — The Earl of Dunraven, Hunting in the Yellowstone, Outing Publishing Company, New York, 1917.

    — Photo detail from the Yellowstone Digital Slide File.

    — To see more stories by this author, click on “Dunraven” under the “Categories” button to the left.

    — You might also enjoy Truman Everts’ chilling tale of being “Treed by a Lion.”

  • Early Yellowstone Entrepreneurs

    Just in case you missed it, I decided to post a link to my article, Entrepreneurs on the Edges of Yellowstone, that was published in the summer 2008 issue of The Big Sky Journal.

    It describes the first intrepid entrepreneurs who tried to turn a dollar in Yellowstone Park. There’s Gilman Sawtell, a rancher and commercial fisherman who harvested thousands of fish from Henry’s Lake near the west entrance to the park. And Fred Bottler, who started ranching north of the park and hunted elk for their hides shipping them back east by thousands.  Sawtell and Bottler were also the first park guides.

    There are hotel and road builders and their first customers including women who rode sidesaddle through the roadless wilderness. Just click this link to read all about them.

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