Bibliography

The voyage down the Grand Canyon of the Snake, “Mad River Canyon,” was a series of nightmares. Steadily deepening and narrowing, the canyon walls closing in with oppressive gloom, the river became almost completely unnavigable. It was necessary to handline the boat down boiling rapids, drag her over the ice of frozen pools, portage the equipment, in this manner advancing 6 to 7 miles a day. Doane writes that it was

...very cold in the shaded chasm. Otter, fat and sleek, played around us on the ice and snarled at us from holes in the wall, all day long, safe from molestation in their fishy unpalatableness. We had no time to shoot for sport, nor transportation for pelts, and no desire for any game not edible. All day and as late at night as we could see to labor, we toiled to make six miles.

The upper end of the Grand Canyon of the Snake, Doane’s “Mad River Canyon.” The wicked white water of the Snake brought disaster to the Expedition on December 12, 1876, near the lower end of the gorge, when “all of a sudden the boat touched the icy margin, turned under it, and the next instant was dancing end over end in the swift, bold current.”

On December 11, Doane concluded to split his party.

No food left but a handful of flour. Shot White’s horse, and feasted. It was now evident that we were not going to run the canyon with the boat, but must tug away slowly. We were about 42 miles from the first settlement, if our information was correct, but the canyon, if very crooked as it had been so far, might double that distance. I desired to get the boat through if we had to risk everything in order to do so. This canyon was the terrible obstacle and we were more than half way through it. Apparently the worst had been gone through with. All the men agreed to this with enthusiasm. We gathered together all the money in the possession of the party, and arranged for Sergeant Server, the most active and youngest of the party, and Warren, who could be of no assistance to those remaining, as his stomach had begun to give way, to go on next day with the two horses and one mule remaining and bring us back rations.

Sergeant Server and Warren loaded up as planned the following day, leaving the Lieutenant and the other 4 men to continue with the boat.

The river was becoming better, the ice foot more uniform and the channel free from frozen pools when all of a sudden the boat touched the icy margin, turned under it, and the next instant was dancing end over end in the swift, bold current. All of the horse meat, all the property, arms, instruments and note books were in the roaring stream. A few hundred yards below there was a narrow place where the ice foot almost touched the middle of the river. We ran thither and caught whatever floated. The clothing bags, valise, bedding, bundles, and the lodge were saved. All else, excepting one hind quarter of the old horse, went to the bottom and was seen no more. All the rubber boots were gone excepting mine. The warm clothing all floated and was saved. We dragged in the boat by the tow line and pulled her out of the water and far up on a ledge of rock. 6 miles.

After this mishap, the Sergeant and Warren, who had been traveling along the river bank, keeping in contact with the boat party, were sent at once on their way, while Doane and his men dried out and rested. The boatmen fought their way down the river for the next two days, but on December 14 the boat was hauled high on the bank in an apparently secure place. The last of the horse meat had been eaten for breakfast, no food was left.

The following morning the bedding was stored away in rolls with the valise, high up among the rocks, and Doane’s party started,

... unarmed, without food, and in an unknown wilderness to find settlements (previously described by the trapper, Pierce) seven miles up on a stream which we had no positive assurance of being able to recognize when we came to its mouth.

That day the men waded the Salt River (near the present site of Alpine) having spent 7 days in the gloomy depths of the “Mad River Canyon.”

On December 16, they were moving at the break of day in bitterly cold weather, and about noon reached an ice bound creek which showed signs of placer washings. They assumed, correctly as it developed, that the settlements described by Pierce were on this tributary stream. Due to crusted snow they could make only about 1 mile an hour, but upon reaching the creek they walked on the ice, and were thus able to make better progress. Some distance upstream the creek forked, and the men took the left hand branch. By dark they had determined they were in error. They sheltered by a huge fire that night.

We slept a little but only to dream of bountifully set tables loaded with viands, all of which were abounding in fats and oils. What conservation there was turned entirely to matters pertaining to food. Davis talked incessantly on such subjects, giving all the minutest details of preparing roast, gravies, meat pies, suet puddings, pork preparations, oil dressings, cream custards, and so on, until Starr finally choked him off with the Otter experience. None of us felt the pangs of hunger physically. Our stomachs were cold and numb. We suffered less than for two days before, but there was a mental appetite, more active than ever. It was an agony to sleep. All the party evidenced the same mental conditions excepting Davis who was hungry clear through, sleeping or waking. One feeling we had in common. It can be found explained in Eugene Sue’s description of the Wandering Jew. We were impatient of rest, and all felt a constant impulse to “go on, go on,” continually. The men did not seem to court slumber, and Starr had an inexhaustible fund of his most mirth provoking stories which he never tired of telling. We listened, laughed, and sang. Afterward we tried to catch a couple of Beaver which splashed within a few feet of us all night long. Had not a firearm in the party and here was the fattest of good meat almost under our hands, enough to have fed us for two days.

With the first gray streaks of dawn they were again on their way, working over the ridge to the other fork of the creek which they reached a few hours later.

A couple of miles farther on we stopped to build a fire and warm ourselves. Davis showed signs of undue restlessness. We had to call him back from climbing the hillsides several times. While we were gathering wood for the fire, I found a section of sawed off timber blocks such as they use for the bottoms of flumes. It had been recently cut on one side with an axe. This satisfied me without farther evidence that the mines above were not old placers, now deserted. The men were not so sanguine, but were cheerful, and we soon moved on again. In a couple of hours we came to an old flume. Shortly after, Applegate declared he smelled the smoke of burning pine. In half an hour more we reached a miner’s cabin and were safe. We arrived at 3 pm. having been 80 hours without food in a temperature from 10 degrees to 40 degrees below zero, and after previously enduring privations as before detailed. Two old miners occupied the cabin and they were both at home, having returned from a little town above with a fresh stock of provisions. They at once produced some dry bread and made some weak tea, knowing well what to do. We had to force those things down. None of us felt hungry for anything but grease. About this time, to our unspeakable delight,Sergeant Server and Warren also arrived. They had passed the mouth of the creek on the 13th and gone below to the next stream which they had followed up fourteen miles without finding anything, and returning to meet us had found our trail and followed it, knowing that we had nothing to eat, while they had two horses and a mule with them. Mr. Bailey and his partner now gave us a bountiful supper of hot rolls, roast beef, and other substantial fare, and we all ate heartily in spite of our previous resolutions not to do so. Cold, dry bread had no charms, but hot and fatty food roused our stomachs to a realization that the season of famine was over. The change affected us severely. I had an attack of inflammation of the stomach which lasted several hours. All of the men suffered more or less, excepting Starr who seemed to be unaffected.

The next day the party moved upstream to the little town, Keenan City, which consisted of a store, saloon, post office, blacksmith shop, stable, and “a lot of miners’ cabins.” Doane found that they had followed McCoy Creek, and that the settlements were collectively known as the Caribou mining district. The Lieutenant records that his weight was down to 126 from a normal 190, and the others were similarly reduced.

A “jerky stage line” operated between Keenan City and the Eagle Rock Bridge on the Snake above Fort Hall, and Lieutenant Doane accordingly prepared the following telegram to be forwarded by the Post Adjutant at Fort Hall:

Commanding Officer, Fort Ellis, Montana. Arrived here yesterday. All well. Write today. Send mail to Fort Hall. (Signed) Doane.

It was the Lieutenant’s plan at this time to construct small sleds for the rations and bedding rolls, these to be drawn by the 2 horses and the mule left to the expedition, and thus proceed downriver to Fort Hall. All was in readiness by December 23, and the party set out, proceeding some 20 miles through Christmas Day. While in camp on the evening of December 26, voices were heard in the river bottom nearby, where a party of troops had just gone into camp.

It was Lieutenant Joseph Hall, 14th Infantry, with four men and a good little pack train. I shall never forget the puzzled expression on the face of this officer when he first met me. He conversed in monosyllables for a couple of minutes and then told us that he had been sent to arrest a party of deserters, half a dozen in number, which had been advertised for in the Montana papers, as having left Fort Ellis and were supposed to have gone through the Park and down Snake River. Thirty dollars each for apprehension and capture. The stage driver had read the papers it seems and denounced us to the Post Commander at Fort Hall. We first had a hearty laugh over the joke and he then placed himself and party at my disposal. We sat by the fire and talked nearly all night. (He was Post Adjutant at Fort Hall, and evidently knew something more than he felt at liberty to tell me, but he denounced Major Jas. S. Brisbin, 2d Cavalry, my Post Commander, in unmeasured terms, and told me that I was being made a victim of infamous treachery. This was a revelation but not a surprise.)[4]

Next day Sergeant Server and 4 men were sent with fresh animals to recover the boat and the bedding cached upriver. They returned the day following, reporting that it was only “fifteen miles by the trail on the other side of the river.” They brought with them the equipment but not the boat, which had been crushed to splinters by an ice jam which had piled up in masses 20 feet high.

This was a bitter disappointment as they found the river open all the way down, and we so found it afterwards below. Here was another strange occurrence. In exploring as in hunting there is an element of chance which cannot be provided against. No foresight will avail, no calculations will detect, no energy will overcome. Caution might prevent, but with caution no results will be obtained. Risks must be taken, and there is such an element in human affairs as fortune, good or bad. I decided at once to make all possible speed to Fort Hall, there refit and returning bring lumber to rebuild the boat on the ground where it had been lost, and continue to Eagle RockBridge on the Snake River, previously going back far enough beyond Jackson’s Lake to take a renewal of the system of triangulation and notes, lost in the river when the boat capsized. At Eagle Rock Bridge it would be necessary to rebuild the boat again in a different form and much larger, to run the heavy rapids of the lower rivers to Astoria, at the mouth of the great Columbia. The hardships and greater dangers we had already passed. With food for one day more we could have made the passage of “Mad River Canyon” despite the loss of all our weapons, instruments, and tools. We had run all the rapids but two, and these were easier than many others safely passed above. All the party enthusiastically endorsed this plan.

Lieutenant Doane was indeed a persevering and meticulously thorough individual, so much so that he not only planned to return to run the river from the point where he had been obliged to leave off, but to retrace his route to a point above Jackson Lake in order to bring his notes to completion. It is difficult to follow his thinking when he indicates his intention of running the Columbia to Astoria, since his orders were to “make exploration of Snake River from Yellowstone LaketoColumbia River.” His statement that the “greater dangers” had already been passed seems incompatible with the Hell’s Canyon of the Snake below, a section of the river about which Doane must have had some knowledge. Here indeed were “risks to be taken” with “bad fortune” certain, quite probably occurring beyond a point of no return.

The party continued on December 29 toward Fort Hall, with Doane’s journal describing in detail the route followed, the nature of the terrain, and the course of the river. They arrived at Fort Hall on January 4, having been met about half way between Fort Hall and the Eagle Rock Bridge by ambulances sent to bring them.

Captain Bainbridge, Commanding Officer at Fort Hall,

... received us with the greatest kindness, and everything possible was done for the comfort of myself and party, by all at the post.

There followed an exchange of communications between the Lieutenant and the Commanding Officer at Fort Ellis, Major Brisbin, with no reference therein to the charge of desertion. In the meantime, Doane records,

We put in time at Fort Hall preparing to get together materials for another boat, intending to renew the expedition from “Mad River Canyon.” Meantime I had made one of my Centenial Tents for Captain Bainbridge. While so engaged on the 8th of January, the following telegram came.

Dated Chicago, Ill. January 6, 1877Received at Fort Hall, Idaho, January 8, 1877To Commanding Officer, Fort Hall, IdahoYou will direct Lieut. Doane, Second Cavalry, with his escort to rejoin his proper station Fort Ellis, as soon as practicable. Acknowledge receipt.R. C. DrumA. A. G.

Dated Chicago, Ill. January 6, 1877Received at Fort Hall, Idaho, January 8, 1877

To Commanding Officer, Fort Hall, Idaho

You will direct Lieut. Doane, Second Cavalry, with his escort to rejoin his proper station Fort Ellis, as soon as practicable. Acknowledge receipt.

R. C. DrumA. A. G.

That Doane was very bitter at this turn of events is indicated by subsequent entries in his journal.

This was the result. I simply note here an extract from Sergeant Server’s journal. The only one left us when the boat capsized. “Lt. Doane was very mad in consequence of our having to return, and so were all the men, but we tried to make the best of it.”Over a year afterward I received the key to this mystery. And here it is. It will be observed that there is some little truth in it, and much that is false. And bear in mind that my letter and telegram from Keenan City were received on the 28th December, and that I had not yet been heard from at Eagle Rock or Fort Hall.

Over a year afterward I received the key to this mystery. And here it is. It will be observed that there is some little truth in it, and much that is false. And bear in mind that my letter and telegram from Keenan City were received on the 28th December, and that I had not yet been heard from at Eagle Rock or Fort Hall.

Fort Ellis, January 2, 1877TelegramTo Assistant Adjutant GeneralSaint Paul, Minn.I hear Doane lost all his horses, seven and mules, three, his boat and camp equipage, even to blankets; lived three weeks on horse meat straight; the last three days, before reaching the settlement, his party being without food of any kind. I recommend that he be ordered to his post for duty with his company.(Signed) BrisbinCommanding Post

Fort Ellis, January 2, 1877

TelegramTo Assistant Adjutant GeneralSaint Paul, Minn.

To Assistant Adjutant General

Saint Paul, Minn.

I hear Doane lost all his horses, seven and mules, three, his boat and camp equipage, even to blankets; lived three weeks on horse meat straight; the last three days, before reaching the settlement, his party being without food of any kind. I recommend that he be ordered to his post for duty with his company.

(Signed) BrisbinCommanding Post

(Signed) Brisbin

Commanding Post

Accordingly Doane and 4 men were returned to Fort Ellis by stage, arriving on January 20. Sergeant Server and White, leaving Fort Hall on January 12, “with the expedition’s baggage and the extra horse” arrived at Fort Ellis on February 2, bringing to a close the final stage of the exploration.

One last entry in Lieutenant Doane’s journal is worthy of mention.

In December, 1878, I was told by my commanding officer, Major Jas. S. Brisbin, that he had disapproved of the expedition from the beginning, and had worked to have me ordered back because I had not applied for the detail through him. I make no comment.

A careful study of the journal reveals statements that can be questioned in the light of later knowledge. The mellifluous descriptions, the references to “hundreds of otter,” and some other observations, together with the general tone of the document, may to some readers appear overdrawn. It must be borne in mind, however, that the journal was obviously written some time after Doane’s return to Fort Ellis, and from Server’s notes, since the Lieutenant’s records had been lost when the boat capsized on December 12. Server’s notes were probably sketchy at best, much of the writing then was done from memory. That the account is colored by some imagination and a desire to make a “good yarn” of it is probably true, but forgivable, particularly when one considers the usual tenor adopted by writers of that day.

However critical the reader’s opinion may be, it cannot be denied that here is an odyssey which defies comparison with any other record of winter exploration of the region. It was fortunate, beyond any reasonable doubt, that Doane’s expedition did not continue. That his party could have survived ultimate disaster in the Hell’s Canyon of the Snake is incomprehensible. That Doane, stubborn and fearless as he was, would have been turned back by any terrors the river threw at him is equally so. Doane was an explorer in every sense of the word, he was determined to overcome all obstacles, he was, in truth, a man “to ride the river with.”

Chittenden, Hiram Martin:The Yellowstone National Park, J. E. Haynes, Saint Paul, 1927.

Doane, G. C.:Expedition of 1876-1877, 44 pp. typed from original manuscript, Library, Grand Teton National Park.

Panning for gold

Jackson Hole, widely reputed to have been the favored retreat and rendezvous of cattle thieves, outlaws, and “bad men” in the early days, has long enjoyed the glamour which goes with a dark and sinful past, and this reputation has by no means been lost sight of by those who have been active in advertising the assets of this fascinating region. But when the dispassionate historian critically investigates the basis for this reputation he is surprised to find so little evidence wherewith to justify it, or to indicate that pioneer times in Jackson Hole were much different from those in other nearby frontier communities; and he is forced to conclude that the notoriety of Jackson Hole, like the rumor of Mark Twain’s death, has been slightly exaggerated. Doubtless the geographic features of the valley have encouraged the popular belief, for from the standpoint of isolation and inaccessibility Jackson Hole might well have been a paradise for the fugitive and lawless.

But, in fairness to the old idea, which one is reluctant to abandon, it must be conceded that among the authentic narratives, that have come down to us from pioneer times, there are 1 or 2 which hold their own with the choicest that wild west fiction has dared to offer, and these bolster up to some extent the rather faltering case for Jackson Hole’s former exceptional badness. Such a narrative is the story of Deadman’s Bar.

There are few residents of the Jackson Hole country who have not heard of the Deadman’s Bar affair, a triple killing which took place in the summer of 1886 along the Snake River and which gave this section of the river the name of Deadman’s Bar. It is the most grim narrative and the most celebrated in the pioneer history of the valley, and its details are sufficiently bloody to satisfy the most sanguinary tourist, thirsty for western thrills.

When Colonel Ericsson, Mr. Owen, and the writer visited Emile Wolff on August 9, 1928, we found him stricken with the infirmities of old age and confined to what proved to be his deathbed. Nevertheless his senses were alert and his memory concerning the period in question keen and accurate. The account he gave checked in detail with one he had given Colonel Ericsson a year earlier, and his recollection of names and dates agreed in most cases with evidence obtained later from other sources. In his enfeebled condition, however, Wolff was so weakened by the telling of his story that the interview had perforce to be cut short and certain questions left unanswered. A few questions Wolff declined to answer with the statement that there were features of the affair he would like to forget if he could, and there were others he had never told anyone and never would. What he had told other men, he said, he would tell us.

Concerning himself Mr. Wolff stated that he was 76 years old and a German by blood and birth, having been born in 1854 in Luxembourg. He received an education along medical lines in the old country. When still a very young man, only 16, he emigrated to America, where he served for some years in the United States Army in the Far West, part of the time as a volunteer doctor. His first visit to the Jackson Hole region was in 1872 when he came to Teton Basin (Pierre’s Hole) for a brief period. In 1878 while serving under Lieutenant Hall, he came into Jackson Hole, his detachment being sent to carry food to Lieutenant Doane’s outfit, which had lost its supplies in the Snake River while engaged in a geological survey of the Jackson Hole area[6].

In 1886, Wolff stated, he came to the region to stay, settling first in Teton Basin. It was in this year that the Deadman’s Bar incident took place. The account of this affair which follows is pieced together from the facts given by Wolff; no information gained from other sources has been introduced, and there have been no changes made in the story other than the rearrangement of its details into historical order. The account as set forth has been verified by both Colonel Ericsson and Mr. Owen, who were present at its telling.

In the spring of 1886 four strangers came into Jackson Hole to take up placer mining along Snake River, whose gravels were reputed to be rich in gold. The new outfit had been organized in Montana, and originally had consisted of three partners, Henry Welter, (T. H.) Tiggerman, and (August) Kellenberger—“the Germans” as they came to be called. Henry Welter, who had previously been a brewer in Montana, proved to be an old friend and schoolmate of Emil Wolff’s from Luxembourg. Tiggerman was a gigantic fellow who had served on the King’s Guard in Germany, he seemed to be something of a leader in the project, claiming—apparently on insecure grounds—that he knew where placer gold was to be obtained. August Kellenberger, also a brewer by trade, was a small man who had two fingers missing from his right hand. The trio of prospective miners had added a fourth man to the outfit, one John Tonnar by name, also a German, under promise of grub and a split in the cleanup.

The miners located near the center of Jackson Hole on the north bank of the Snake River where that river flows west for a short distance. They erected no cabins, according to Wolff, but lived in tents pitched in a clearing among the trees on the bar, within a few hundred yards or so of the river. Occasional visits to the few ranchers then in this portion of the Territory brought them afew acquaintances. Once they ran out of grub and crossed Teton Pass to Wolff’s place to get supplies. Wolff recalled that they paid for their purchases with a $20 gold piece. They wanted a saw, and Wolff directed them to a neighbor who had one; this they borrowed, leaving $10 as security.

PHOTO BY LEIGH ORTENBURGERDeadman’s Bar, at lower left, marks the location of “the German’s” camp, where they lived in tents pitched in a clearing among the trees.

On the occasion of this visit they spoke of building a raft to use in crossing the Snake at their workings, and Wolff tried to dissuade them from the project, assuring them that they did not appreciate how dangerous the Snake could be when on the rise; but they laughed off his warnings with the statement that they had built and handled rafts before, and knew their business.

Wolff learned little, until later, concerning the mutual relations of the 4 men on the bar, nor concerning what success, if any, they had in finding gold.

Late that summer when haying time was at hand in Teton Basin, Wolff was surprised to see a man approaching his cabin on foot. “Seeing any man, and especially one afoot, was a rare sight in those days,” commented Wolff. It proved to be the miner, Tonnar, and he asked to be given work. Curious as to what was up between Tonnar and his partners, Wolff quizzed him but received only the rather unsatisfactory statement that Tonnar had left the 3 miners while they were making plans to raft the Snake in order to fetch a supply of meat for the camp.

With hay ready for cutting, Wolff was glad to hire Tonnar for work in the fields. For a month the two men slept together, and during this time Wolff noticed that Tonnar invariably wore his gun or had it within reach, but while he suspectedthat all was not right he made no further investigation. Wolff retained a mental picture of Tonnar as being a small, dark-complexioned man of rather untrustworthy appearance and manner.

Once Tonnar instructed Wolff to investigate a certain hiding place in the cabin, and he would find some valuables which he asked him to take care of. Wolff did so and claims that he found a silver watch and a purse containing $28.

Then one day late in August a sheriff and posse came to the cabin and asked Wolff if he could furnish information concerning the whereabouts of the miner, Jack Tonnar (at the time Tonnar was absent, working in the fields.) Briefly the posse explained that Tonnar’s 3 partners had been found dead, that Tonnar was believed guilty of their murder, and that the posse was commissioned to take him. Horrified to think that for a month he had sheltered and slept with such a desperate character, Wolff could only reply, “My God! Grab him while you can!” Tonnar was found on a haystack and captured before he could bring his gun into play.

From the posse Wolff learned that a party boating from Yellowstone Park down the Lewis and Snake Rivers, under the leadership of one Frye (Free), had stopped at the workings of the miners but had found them unoccupied. Just below the encampment, at the foot of a bluff where the Snake had cut into a gravel bank, they had come upon 3 bodies lying in the edge of the water, weighted down with stones. They had reported the gruesome find, and the arrest of Tonnar on Wolff’s place resulted.

Wolff, Dr. W. A. Hocker (a surgeon from Evanston), and a couple of Wolff’s neighbors from Teton Basin hurried to the scene of the killings, a place which has ever since been known as Deadman’s Bar. They readily identified the bodies, Tiggerman by his size, and Kellenberger from the absence of two fingers on his right hand. They found that Kellenberger had been shot twice in the back, that Welter had an axe cut in the head, and that Tiggerman’s head was crushed, presumably also with an axe. Wolff gave it as their conclusion that the 3 men must have been killed while asleep; and that their bodies had been hauled up onto the “rim” and rolled down the gravel bluff into the river, where they had lodged in shallow water and subsequently been covered with rocks. Probably the water had fallen, more fully exposing the bodies so that they had been discovered by Frye’s men.

Wolff and Hocker removed the heads of Welter and Tiggerman and cleaned the skulls, preserving them as evidence. Wolff denied that they buried the bodies, but claimed that they threw them back in the edge of the water and covered them again with rocks.

Tonnar pleaded not guilty and was taken to Evanston, the county seat of Unita County (which then embraced the westernmost strip of Wyoming Territory), and here he was tried the following spring before Judge Samuel Corn. Wolff was called to testify at the trial, mentioning, among other things, the incident of the watch and the purse, both of which he was positive Tonnar had stolen from his murdered partners.

To the general surprise of Wolff, Judge Corn, and others present at the trial, Tonnar was acquitted by the jury, despite the certainty of his guilt. What subsequently became of him is not clear. Wolff was questioned on this point, and at first declined to speak, later, however, expressing the belief that Tonnar probably went back to the old country for fear that friends of Welter, Tiggerman and Kellenberger might take the law into their own hands since the jury had failed to convict him.

Concerning the question of motive for the killing, Wolff stated that he knew Tonnar and the 3 men quarreled. The original partners planned to turn Tonnar loose when his services were no longer needed in sluice digging, etc., minus his share in the cleanup. To discourage his persisting with their outfit they had beaten him up badly a few days prior to the murders; but instead of leaving Tonnar had stayed at camp, nursing his bruises and plans for revenge, finally carrying out the latter to the consummation already described. Wolff did not believe that robbery was a factor of much importance in instigating the crime.

* * * * * * * *

From parties who heard the trial it appears that there were no eye witnesses to the tragedy, save the defendant. Therefore the prosecution was compelled to rely solely on circumstantial evidence. The theory of the attorneys for the defendant was that the 3 deceased persons were prospectors, without funds, and that they represented to the defendant that they had discovered a valuable mining claim and induced him to put up considerable money to grubstake and furnish necessary funds to work the claim; that soon after these men were on their way to the Jackson Hole Country they began to pick quarrels with the defendant; that on the day of the shooting one of the prospectors remained in camp with the defendant, and the other 2 went away to do some prospecting; that the one who remained in camp picked a quarrel with the defendant and the defendant was compelled to kill him in self-defense. It was recalled that after the verdict was rendered the defendant got out of town in a hurry, taking the first freight train; that Attorney Blake was the principal trial attorney for the defendant, and that he afterwards stated he never got a cent for saving the neck of the defendant, who had promised to send him some money as soon as he could earn it, and that he had never heard from him.

Note:

Dr. Fryxell and Colonel Ericsson, immediately following their interview with Mr. Wolff on August 9, 1928, investigated the site of “Deadman’s Bar.” They found unmistakable traces of the diggings, the camp, and the road constructed 42 years before by the 4 prospectors.

Dr. Fryxell’s study of the site cleared up any uncertainty as to the exact location of this historic spot, which was placed on the north side of the Snake in the SW¼ of Sec. 23, T44N, R115W.

The sluice ditch of the miners, though overgrown with brush and partially filled with gravel, was easily located. It tapped a beaver dam located just above the bar, and followed along the base of the terrace, discharging into the Snake about a half-mile from its source.

Numerous prospect pits were found on the bar. Some of them appeared more recent than those dug by Tonnar and the other “Germans,” thus were probably the work of later prospectors.

Dr. Fryxell states: “All of the workings (1928) now observable speak graphically of the expenditure of much hard labor from which returns were never forthcoming.”

This statement is significant, and is borne out by an old sign, crudely lettered, which was reportedly found later in the vicinity:

Payin gold will never be found hereNo matter how many men triesThere’s some enough to begile oneLike Tanglefoot paper does flies

Payin gold will never be found here

No matter how many men tries

There’s some enough to begile one

Like Tanglefoot paper does flies

Ranch house

Close against the Idaho-Wyoming border, at the headwaters of the Snake River, lies the high, mountain-girt valley of Jackson Hole. Fiercely beautiful in setting and richly historic in background, Jackson Hole and the raw, jagged peaks of the Teton mountains to the west have captured popular imagination as has no other region in the Rockies. Jackson Hole has become a fabled outpost of the vanished Western frontier, the legendary “last stand of the outlaws.” And of all the stories which have given rise to that picture, perhaps none is more starkly simple than one which has become known asThe Affair at Cunningham’s Ranch.

As in the case of other frontier communities, the story of the early settlers in Jackson Hole is one of isolation and hardship. When winter closed in and cut off the valley from the nearest settlements across the mountains, life was a struggle for survival against the bitter cold and drifting snow. Occupied with the task of making a home in the face of tremendous odds, the homesteaders were solid, law-abiding citizens with little time for lawlessness, and less for violence. On the rare occasions when gun-play broke out between men in the valley, it was of a nature that could hardly appear heroic except through the romantic eyes of a novelist. In the harsh light of reality, violence was brutal and ugly, and dispatched with a speed and finality grimly typical of the frontier.

The Cunningham Ranch affair broke with a suddenness that shocked the entire valley. It was as cold-blooded as it was simple. A posse came riding in from Montana in the spring of 1893, and at a little cabin near Spread Creek two men were cornered and shot for horse-stealing.

Little news of the Spread Creek incident ever leaked out of the valley in the early days, and when the first general flow of tourist travel into Jackson Hole began nearly 40 years later, the affair at Cunningham’s Ranch was still a widely known but reticently guarded story. By then most of the old-timers who had been members of the posse were dead, and those who were left still were not interested in discussing the matter. And so the story of the killing relies almost entirely on the memory and information of the one man who cared to talk about it, Pierce Cunningham.

A quiet, weather-beaten little man, Pierce Cunningham came into Jackson Hole with the first influx of settlers during the late 1880’s and early 1890’s. He homesteaded in the valley, and there, on Flat Creek, he worked his ranch and married and raised his family.

In the fall of 1892, while he was haying on Flat Creek, Cunningham was approached by a neighbor named White who introduced 2 strangers, stating that they wished to buy hay for a bunch of horses they had with them. One of the men, named George Spenser, was about 30 and had come originally from Illinois; the other was an Oregon boy named Mike Burnett, much younger than Spenser but already rated a first-class cattleman after having punched cattle for several years elsewhere in Wyoming. Cunningham sold them about 15 tons of hay and incidentally arranged to let the men winter in his cabin near Spread Creek, about 25 miles to the north. Since Cunningham himself intended to remain at Flat Creek, he also arranged for his partner, a burly Swede named Jackson, to stay with them.

Rumor began spreading during the winter that the 2 men on Cunningham’s place were fugitive horse thieves. Some of the rustlers’ horses, it was said, belonged to a cattleman in Montana; a valley rancher had worked for him and recognized some of the brands. Before the snow was gone Cunningham had taken it upon himself to snowshoe to Spread Creek, investigate conditions, and warn Jackson to be on guard. Once there his suspicions were confirmed. Cunningham spent several days with the men, went with them to search for their horses, and recognized certain stocks and changed brands that left no question in his mind as to their guilt. The die was cast, and although he could readily have warned the men of their danger, Cunningham returned home without doing so.

The next spring, however, he ordered Spenser and Burnett to leave, and they did; but unfortunately for them, they returned to look for some horses on the very day they should have been absent.

This was in April 1893. Across the mountains to the west a man from Montana was organizing a posse in the little Idaho settlement of Driggs. Somehow, possibly on a tip relayed from the Hole, he had got wind of the rustlers on Cunningham’s place and was coming to get them. One of the valley homesteaders saw the posse leader there with a group of 15 men on saddle horses, and a few days later they came riding over the pass from Teton Basin into Jackson Hole.

In the valley of ... the leader completed organization of the posse. Including him, there were 4 men from Montana, 2 from Idaho, and 10 or 12 recruited in Jackson Hole. Asked to join the outfit, Cunningham refused, and stayed at Flat Creek. The posse elected a spokesman, and then started up the valley to the Spread Creek cabin—a group of 16 men, all mounted and heavily armed.

Under cover of darkness, the posse approached the cabin, a low, sod-roofed log building in dark silhouette against the night sky. Silently they surrounded it; 6 men in the shed about 150 yards northwest of the cabin, 3 took cover behind the ridge about the same distance south of the cabin, and the rest presumably scattered at intermediate vantage points. And then they waited for dawn.

PHOTO BY FRITIOF FRYXELLThe Cunningham Cabin, where on an April morning in 1893 two men were cornered and shot for horse-stealing.

Inside the cabin the unsuspecting men were sleeping quietly: Spenser, the older man, sandy-haired and heavily built; Burnett, the cowpuncher, slender and dark; and of course Swede Jackson, Cunningham’s partner. The two rustlers intended to leave when it got light.

Early in the morning the dog which was in the cabin with the men began to bark shrilly, perhaps taking alarm at the scent of the posse. Spenser got up, dressed, buckled on his revolver, and went out to the corral.

The corral lay between the cabin and the shed, and after Spenser had entered it one of the posse called to him to “throw ’em up.” Instead Spenser drew with lightning speed and fired twice, one bullet passing between two logs and almost hitting the spokesman, the other nicking a log near by. The posse returned fire and Spenser fell to the ground, propping himself up on one elbow and continuing to shoot until he collapsed.

Meanwhile Burnett had got up, slipped on his overalls and boots, and fastened on his revolver. Then he picked up his rifle in his right hand and came out of the cabin. As he stepped forth, one of the men behind the ridge fired at him. The bullet struck the point of a log next to the door, just in front of Burnett’s eyes. Burnett swept the splinters from his face with his right hand as he reached for his revolver with his left, and fired lefthanded at the top of the gunman’s hat, just visible over the ridge. The shot was perfect; the bullet tore away the hat and creased the man’s scalp. He toppled over backwards.

Burnett then deliberately walked over to the corner of the cabin and stopped, with rifle in hand, in full view of the entire posse, taunting them to come out and show themselves. From inside the cabin Jackson pleaded with him to come in or he would get it too. Burnett finally turned, and as he did so one of the members of the posse shot him. The bullet killed Burnett instantly, and he pitched forward toward the cabin, discharging his rifle as he fell.

Now only Jackson was left in the cabin. A big, bumbling man with a knack for trouble, Jackson had once before been taken by mistake for a horsethief and been scared almost to death; when he was now ordered to come out and surrender with his hands in the air he did so immediately.

The work of the posse was done. Mike Burnett lay face down in the dirt at the corner of the cabin, the bullet from his last shot lodged in a log beside him; George Spenser, his six-shooter empty, was sprawled inside the corral with 4 charges of buckshot and 4 or 5 bullets in his body. They were buried in unmarked graves a few hundred yards southeast of the cabin, on the south side of a draw.

No investigation was ever made, no trial held, and the matter was hushed up. As years went by the subject of the killing at Spread Creek became a touchy one, and most of the men directly involved preferred not to talk about it. Swede Jackson, apparently thoroughly shaken by the incident, left the valley and did not return. The affair at Cunningham’s Ranch was a closed story.

What information the members of the posse did volunteer in later years was in justification of their actions. The posse leader was a Montana sheriff, they said, and he and his men had come from Evanston, Wyoming, with the “proper papers,” and deputized the Jackson Hole men. According to them there had been no intention of killing—the 2 victims had been given a chance to surrender, and after the affair one of the men in the posse had gone to Evanston to report it to the police.

Those in the valley who had not been in on the posse were not so sure of the legality of the shooting. Cunningham said he thought the leader was not an officer, and reiterated that the posse had been instructed not to arrest but to kill. He stated that 2 local men had previously been asked to dispose of the pair, but had refused. When asked who raised the posse and investigated the killing, Cunningham laughed and said he could tell but preferred not to; asked if he cared to state whether the move was local or not, he quickly said, “Oh no—it wasn’t only local.”

Cunningham himself was rumored to have warned the outlaws to be on guard, having returned from the Spread Creek ranch only a short time before the killing. The story easily gained credence, since Spenser had caught the posse completely by surprise when he armed himself and started directly for the corral and shed where the men were hidden. Cunningham denied “tipping them off,” and Jackson later said it was unusual for the dog to bark as it did that morning. Spenser probably sensed from the dog’s actions that something was amiss and so put on his gun before leaving the cabin, a precaution which Jackson said the men had never taken during the previous winter.

Cunningham seemed more favorably impressed by the behavior of the 2 horsethieves than by any heroism on the part of the posse, an attitude which was general in the valley. Members of the posse had little to say about it.

In 1928, several years before his death, Pierce Cunningham recounted the story of the killing at Spread Creek and ended by pointing out the spot where the rustlers were buried. With 2 timbers he marked the sage-covered plot, one corner of it crossed by the road then running past the cabin, where George Spenser and Mike Burnett had lain since their death in 1893.

Years later badgers threw out some of their bones into the sunlight.

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