Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Letter written by Benjamin S. Johnson to son
Letter to Samuel Joseph Johnson
The son of Benjamin Samuel and Susan Elvira Johnson. Born 17 March 1878 in Skootenpah, Kane County, Utah.
On March 18,1922, his father wrote him as follows:
My dear son Jodie:
Yesterday was your birthday. Just 44 years ago you came to us as a sunshine, but in a cold country and on a cold night. The wind was howling and the snow was drifting all over the floor, through the old shingles, cracks in the house, and around the windows and door.
I had sheets up around Mother’s bed and one over the top of it, but the snow and wind would find its way through onto Mother and you. The old house we were in had not been used for several years. The floor was mostly gone and it was a horrible old house for such a fine fellow as you to be born in. Your mother was sick with a bad cold and cough. When you came your eyes were swollen nearly out of your head.
You could not lay down as hot water seemed to fill your eyes and you would keep crying. I would have to take you up. We had a big fire place in the house, but the chimney was not high enough and the wind blew the smoke into the house, so I could only keep a little fire. I would sit there all alone with you on my knee trotting you all the time.
As soon as I quit trotting you, you would wake up and begin crying.
There I sat, half frozen to death and so cold and sleepy that I wished that I could go to sleep and die. I got so nervous jiggling you and keeping myself on the go, for so long a time and so steady, that I nearly had a nervous breakdown. I felt like throwing you out the window into the snow.
There was at this time a lot of sickness. One woman, Dorkis Clark, was cramping in her stomach and we could hear her screaming. The midwife was the only one that could do anything for the sick and she had three or four old shacks to keep going to, and that left me all alone to keep the snow off of Mother and to wait on and you to jiggle on my knee (teeter). The most horrible night I ever spent in my life was the night that you came to me as a sunshine, on a dark and stormy night. One night was not all. For over a week I held you and cared for poor old Ma, who had several setbacks and was out of her head.
The rest of the letter was lost.
[The place where I was born was an old vacated sawmill where a few of the old houses were still standing. A group of pregnant women gathered there where one midwife could take care of the bunch, as there were no hospitals or doctors in those parts. Sister Rachel Lee, the fifth wife of John D Lee rode on the running gears of an old wagon behind a yoke of oxen from Lees Ferry to Skootempah where I was born through the rain and snow. God bless her. She held the company three weeks awaiting for me. S.J. Johnson] (Grandpa was near 25 and Grandma, 21/22. Their first child, Bertha Elvira, lived two days.) [There are two slightly different versions of this letter.]
This took place in a deserted saw mill camp near Kanab, Utah. Some transient pregnant women had stopped off there in the old shacks to get the benefit of a midwife, Sister Lee. She had come in January, and had to wait until the 17th of March for Elvira Johnson's baby, so the others got in on the deal.
Rachel Lee, the fifth wife of John D. Lee, was worried about Elvira Johnson and against the wishes of her husband, had made the trip to Scootenpaugh.
John was anxious to leave Lee's Ferry and go to Blanding to get his land ploughed in time for the spring crop. Rachel had her son Ralph hitch the oxen to the running gears of a wagon and they took the 60? mile trip over the Buckskin Mountains through the cold and snow of January.
Samuel J. was blessed 12 June 1877 by his Uncle Sixtus E. Johnson. Baptized 25 November 1886 by Uncle Benjamin Farland Johnson and confirmed by him 26 November, in Nephi, Arizona. Ordained a deacon (in Nephi) 17 November 18 _, by Samuel Openshaw. Married to Cora May Allred 30 September 1896 by Grandpa Benjamin F. Johnson. Ordained an Elder 7 March 1897 by James L. Lisonbee. Endowed in St. George Temple. Married by David H. Cannon 20 September 1898. Ordained a High Priest by Bishop John Merrill 31 May 1905, San Pedro Ward
He was Sunday School Superintendent ten years or more. First Counselor to Bishop, Branch Counselor, Branch President twice. Filled a two-year mission, a long time Stake mission. Temple grounds guide. Long time Temple worker. Road, Wood & General Hauling Contractor and freighting of all kinds with teams. He turned a team of 16 horses and three wagons around in a Tombstone, Arizona street.
He was huge: 61/2 feet, 52 inch chest. Father of ten boys and two girls. A good farmer, blacksmith, carpenter, rock mason and foreman to lots of jobs.
Died 22 July 1963 in Phoenix, Arizona.
The son of Benjamin Samuel and Susan Elvira Johnson. Born 17 March 1878 in Skootenpah, Kane County, Utah.
On March 18,1922, his father wrote him as follows:
My dear son Jodie:
Yesterday was your birthday. Just 44 years ago you came to us as a sunshine, but in a cold country and on a cold night. The wind was howling and the snow was drifting all over the floor, through the old shingles, cracks in the house, and around the windows and door.
I had sheets up around Mother’s bed and one over the top of it, but the snow and wind would find its way through onto Mother and you. The old house we were in had not been used for several years. The floor was mostly gone and it was a horrible old house for such a fine fellow as you to be born in. Your mother was sick with a bad cold and cough. When you came your eyes were swollen nearly out of your head.
You could not lay down as hot water seemed to fill your eyes and you would keep crying. I would have to take you up. We had a big fire place in the house, but the chimney was not high enough and the wind blew the smoke into the house, so I could only keep a little fire. I would sit there all alone with you on my knee trotting you all the time.
As soon as I quit trotting you, you would wake up and begin crying.
There I sat, half frozen to death and so cold and sleepy that I wished that I could go to sleep and die. I got so nervous jiggling you and keeping myself on the go, for so long a time and so steady, that I nearly had a nervous breakdown. I felt like throwing you out the window into the snow.
There was at this time a lot of sickness. One woman, Dorkis Clark, was cramping in her stomach and we could hear her screaming. The midwife was the only one that could do anything for the sick and she had three or four old shacks to keep going to, and that left me all alone to keep the snow off of Mother and to wait on and you to jiggle on my knee (teeter). The most horrible night I ever spent in my life was the night that you came to me as a sunshine, on a dark and stormy night. One night was not all. For over a week I held you and cared for poor old Ma, who had several setbacks and was out of her head.
The rest of the letter was lost.
[The place where I was born was an old vacated sawmill where a few of the old houses were still standing. A group of pregnant women gathered there where one midwife could take care of the bunch, as there were no hospitals or doctors in those parts. Sister Rachel Lee, the fifth wife of John D Lee rode on the running gears of an old wagon behind a yoke of oxen from Lees Ferry to Skootempah where I was born through the rain and snow. God bless her. She held the company three weeks awaiting for me. S.J. Johnson] (Grandpa was near 25 and Grandma, 21/22. Their first child, Bertha Elvira, lived two days.) [There are two slightly different versions of this letter.]
This took place in a deserted saw mill camp near Kanab, Utah. Some transient pregnant women had stopped off there in the old shacks to get the benefit of a midwife, Sister Lee. She had come in January, and had to wait until the 17th of March for Elvira Johnson's baby, so the others got in on the deal.
Rachel Lee, the fifth wife of John D. Lee, was worried about Elvira Johnson and against the wishes of her husband, had made the trip to Scootenpaugh.
John was anxious to leave Lee's Ferry and go to Blanding to get his land ploughed in time for the spring crop. Rachel had her son Ralph hitch the oxen to the running gears of a wagon and they took the 60? mile trip over the Buckskin Mountains through the cold and snow of January.
Samuel J. was blessed 12 June 1877 by his Uncle Sixtus E. Johnson. Baptized 25 November 1886 by Uncle Benjamin Farland Johnson and confirmed by him 26 November, in Nephi, Arizona. Ordained a deacon (in Nephi) 17 November 18 _, by Samuel Openshaw. Married to Cora May Allred 30 September 1896 by Grandpa Benjamin F. Johnson. Ordained an Elder 7 March 1897 by James L. Lisonbee. Endowed in St. George Temple. Married by David H. Cannon 20 September 1898. Ordained a High Priest by Bishop John Merrill 31 May 1905, San Pedro Ward
He was Sunday School Superintendent ten years or more. First Counselor to Bishop, Branch Counselor, Branch President twice. Filled a two-year mission, a long time Stake mission. Temple grounds guide. Long time Temple worker. Road, Wood & General Hauling Contractor and freighting of all kinds with teams. He turned a team of 16 horses and three wagons around in a Tombstone, Arizona street.
He was huge: 61/2 feet, 52 inch chest. Father of ten boys and two girls. A good farmer, blacksmith, carpenter, rock mason and foreman to lots of jobs.
Died 22 July 1963 in Phoenix, Arizona.
Autobioghraphy of son Samuel Joseph Johnson
Samuel Joseph Johnson
Autobiography
I was born at Skootempah, Kane County, Utah, under very humble circumstances. The snow drifted in and covered Mother's bed. Grandmother Lee, as I always called her (she was the wife of John D. Lee), had a dream. She saw mother in trouble, so she got up in the middle of the night, took an ox team and drove 60 miles through the rain and mud on the hind running gears of a wagon to get to Mother. After I came, they moved to Johnson for a while, then started to Arizona. On the way coming off the Buckskin Mountains, father and I were thrown out of the wagon as the team ran down the mountains. We were dragged along some distance, but not hurt bad, just badly scared and bruised.
While crossing the House Ranch Valley, two cowboys came to the wagons and asked mother to let them take me for a ride. They said they would ride on to the ranch that was not far away. They reached the ranch early in the afternoon. One of the boys went out and roped a wild cow and milked her and fed me. Then they spread a blanket on the floor and gave me their spurs and pistols to play with. I was having a good time when Mother arrived on the scene worried and scared.
Within the next day or two they reached Lee's Ferry. They took me over in a small boat first, then ferried the rest over. We traveled on to Tuba City then on through the Painted Desert to Holbrook, then through the Petrified Forest, to Snowflake, Taylor, and on to the Lone Pine vicinity where we lived until I was four years old.
The Indians broke out and killed Brother Robinson. While they were off sinking him in the river, Father and I passed by and saw their horses tied in the cedars and covered with sweat. I remember being run out of Forest Dale by the Indians. They ransacked the house and shot the pigs. I saw the body of Nathan Robinson with three bullet holes in it. We moved to Taylor. While playing in the street one day, I saw Brother Plumb coming as hard as he could ride. The Indians had been chasing him and had wounded his horse, which was all covered with blood, he had barely escaped. Father then moved to Amity on the Little Colorado River. There we lived neighbors to Jacob Hamlin, the great Indian Missionary. I have listened to his wonderful experiences among the Indians.
Father hauled logs to the saw mill and I went with him. One day as I was chucking a rock under the log, the cant hook slipped out and let the log back on my finger and mashed it as flat as a pancake, but that didn't stop me going with him. I would hide under his bedding and after hours of travel would crawl out and surprise him.
From Water Canyon we went to Eager and built a home there. I was six years old then and when my sister Bessie was born, Father sent me with a team after Sister Little. She was a midwife. I made the trip and got back in time all okay. Later we moved to St. Johns. While there, Father hauled freight from Holbrook a distance of 80 or 90 miles. I always went along. The freighters were often attacked by the Indians, men killed, horses and provisions taken, and wagons burned. One night, we camped on the bank of the Little Colorado River. We were warned by the stage driver to look out as the Indians had attacked some freighters just ahead and were coming our way. Nothing happened that night except the loss of sleep. At daylight, the wagons moved on. I went to the river to get me a drink and filled some empty cartridges with water and fit them together by twos. As I passed the coals where our fire had been, I threw the cartridges in and walked on; just then the Buckboard stage came up out of the river and as they got on top, the wild mules got scared of something, left the road, and ran over the camp fire. The shells began exploding and blew coals and ashes over the mules and away they went across the prairies of sage brush. The drivers were yelling "The Indians! ", and the men all stopped to see what had happened. They thought the Indians had shot up the place. I explained what I did, and what a laugh they had on the stage drivers. On his way back he stopped and asked how we came out with Indians that morning.
After living in St. Johns for some time, Father moved the family to the sawmill in the mountains southwest of St. Johns, where he worked for several months. While at the sawmill, I had several experiences. One day mother took James, Willmirth, and I and went down three miles to visit a family. On our way home through the timber we heard shooting. The bullets were humming through the trees knocking off limbs over our heads. Mother said, "Let's kneel and pray." Just as we dropped to our knees, a bullet hit the tree where we stood. Father took the family one day in a large cave in the mountain. We had to crawl on our hands and knees for a long ways, then it opened up into rooms. As we went along with our torches, I came to a small round hole in the side of the cave. I saw a fire with a lot of pots and kettles hanging over it and two old men with long shaggy hair, and long beards. They were smoking their pipes and talking. I saw their guns leaning against the wall and a large dog lay nearby. Meat was hanging on the wall and they were sitting on bear hides. Meat was roasting on the coals. The folks had gone on and I was alone in this room of the cave. I hurried on and soon saw their lights in the distance. After stumbling down a number of times in the darkness, I caught up with them, all excited over what I had seen. After hours of wandering around the cave and finding many arrowheads, beads and pottery ware, we wound our way out. Another time, I visited the cave and heard shooting going on in it.
The mill hands put up a swing on a big pine limb 40 feet high. I use to swing there by the hour. One Sunday morning I went out to swing and father came by and said I shouldn't swing on Sunday as I might get hurt. Soon a boy came along and wanted to swing. I told him that Pa said that we would get hurt and I was afraid, but he insisted on standing up to swing so we did. We soon were going so high that we could see over the limb each time we went up. All at once the board slipped out and down the boy went. I held on to the swing till it jerked me loose, and out I went like a whipped cracker through the air and I lit about 40 feet away in the treetops. I broke my left wrist and skinned my face. Daddy whittled out some splints and I went to Sunday school that morning. I never swung again on sundays.
Father hauled lumber from the mill to St. Johns that winter and I went with him a lot. We lived with Orville Bates on a ranch near the sawmill. During the winter a big skunk moved in with us. He lived under the floor during the days and up with us at night. He would skim the milk at night and boy did he get fat! One night daddy caught and killed him. He dressed him in fine shape and mother put him in a big dripper and baked about two quarts of oil out of him. Skunk oil is good for the croup. Mother sent me out to dump out the skunk. It was so crisp and it smelled so good that L. L. Bates, his sister, my sister and myself decided to taste it. We thought that if the oil was good, the skunk was too. So we salted him and ate him up.
In the spring of 1885, Father moved to the Meadows, a small farming district 18 miles north of St. Johns. We made the trip on my seventh birthday. When we camped for dinner, I had to take the animals for water which was about a mile away. I got on one of Brother Bates's mares, with a pair of spurs. She was from race stock, and when I touched her with spurs she gave me the ride of my life. The faster she went, the tighter I clung on with the spurs. That was some fast ride.
Each fall after the grain was cut, the women would take the children and go gleaning on the fields. They gathered the long wheat straws and braided them into hats. The heads were picked up separately and thrashed. I learned to braid the straws and Mother braided my hats.
Father took a contract building a fence in Greer Valley, along the Little Colorado, 18 miles northwest of the Meadows, on the Old Howe's Ranch, and he moved the family there. It was a beautiful valley. There I spent some of the happiest hours of my life, riding the Little Colorado and Zuni Creek to see if there were any cattle in the bog. If I found any, I would report to the ranch foreman and he would go pull them out. I was to get 15 dollars a month and I had to make the ride daily. There was about seven miles to ride on each river. My first outfit was a dandy. I found an old army curb bit with long shanks on it and Father took some canvas strings and braided me a headstall and a pair of reins. An old mule was brought up for me to ride. He was 30 years old and grey headed. Father put a doubled blanket on his back, I was boosted on him, and then father took a rope and made loops for stirrups. The wild cattle were bad to fight and I was afraid to get off and drink so I got me a bottle and tied a long string to it. In this way I could ride out in a stream and let my bottle down to fill. Once I lost my hat and I had to wait till the cattle went to the hills to get it. After that mother tied it on my head. This mule was so old and stiff he couldn't even lope.
One evening as I was coming home around the mountains, singing some song, I came upon a band of Zuni Indians on their way back to the reservation. They carried guns and I thought they were on the warpath. I left the trail and took off across the flat, whipping and kicking the old mule as hard as I could, but he only seemed to trot slower. The Indians began yelling and laughing and that scared me all the more. When I arrived at the ranch, no one was there. I went to the spring and found that the Indians had gotten into the milk and drank all they wanted. Their tracks were all around the house and I decided they had looted the place, so I rode on home. When I told Mother that I had seen the Indians, and what had happened, she laughed and said, "Those Indians were just putting meal and cobs into the spring to make it rain." Later on I was given a real cow pony, saddle, bridle, reata, and spurs. I learned to ride the range, rope calves, and ride in races. Joe McKinney practiced me up for the fall roundup. After the fall roundup, the calves were branded, and all cattle turned loose, and the boys had a three or four rodeo with lots of gambling at nights. Joe had a white saddle horse called Whiteman. I rode him for Joe in a race and won three hundred dollars for him in the free-for-all cow pony race. I also won 25 dollars for him by catching a calf the first throw. He had practiced me on that for two months.
One day I rode to the ranch and found Ed Hale very sick. He had cramps and would draw up in a knot. He had come to the house very hot and had gone to the milk house and had drunk a lot of cold milk. It was cramping him to death. Joe couldn't leave him so he saddled up one of his best horses, and with Mother's consent, sent me to St. Johns which was 35 miles away. He told me to bring back a syringe. Joe directed me up the Little Colorado River, over a trail, through the mountains, and into St. Johns. I had never been that way before, but I knew the general direction. I made the trip, brought back the syringe and had lots of fun. As I was riding up the river, I saw two bulls fighting. The big bull pushed the smaller one over the bank into deep water and he had to swim a long way to get out. I didn't like to see this so I ran at the big bull and crowded him off the bank and he had to swim too.
Father had permission to milk all the cows he wanted that summer. As I rode about my work every day, I would watch for fresh cows and whenever I saw one that looked good, I would drive her home and put the calf in the pen. When daddy came home, he would milk and if she gave plenty of milk he would keep her, and if not he would turn her and the calf out. I drove one home and had a lot of trouble because she got on the fight. She looked like she would be a dandy. Daddy roped her and as soon as the rope hit her head, she came right after us. We just did get over the bars. We finally milked her and I went in the calf pen to turn out the calf and it fought like a tiger. Daddy came and it fought him, but he finally conquered it. The cow was so mean that we had to turn her loose. Several days later I was out on the flat and met the cow and calf on the trial. The calf remembered me and rubbed its head on me.
One evening Willmirth and I went after the cows. We saw an old skunk with a dozen little ones following her, so I got rocks and killed five or six and tied them on the saddle and went on home. When I rode up to the house daddy said, "Say, why didn't you get more skunks." I said that I didn't have any more strings on my saddle or I would have.
Every year in June the Zuni Indians would have a snake dance and ceremonies for rain. They would come down to the lake near our home and hunt snakes of all kinds, especially rattlers. I have ridden in the hills and watched them catch them alive. They carried a forked staff which they put over the snake’s head, then they would slip his head under their belt. When they filled their belt, they would go to the lake and put them in the snake den and then go hunt some more. Some Indians carried wood until they got great stacks of it. On a certain day in June, they began their dance at night. The whole surroundings would be lit up by their bon fires. We could see them throwing the live snakes into the fire as they milled round and round in great numbers. For days before the ceremony they would ride to all the springs and running streams in their part of the country, and sprinkle corn meal and put corn cobs in the spring water. Then it would rain.
One summer day, father and I went fishing and swimming in the Little Colorado River. We found a nice deep hole and had a nice swim. We then caught a lot of grasshoppers and began to fish. We caught all we could carry home. Father put a small pole on his shoulder and hung the strings of fish on the pole. I had all I could carry so we started home. I was barefooted, so I took the trail. On the way we found a young bull laying in the trail. He had been branded from his ears to his tail and was as poor as a crow. I decided to make him give me the trail. Father told me to let him alone as he might hook me, but I went and gave him a kick. Up he came and away he and I went down the trial, losing my fish as I went. Father saw that he was going to catch me so he dropped his fish off the pole and took after the bull. We were all lined out down the trail and on the home stretch with me in the lead. Father began punching the bull with his long pole. All at once the bull turned on father so quick that the bull and father went down in a heap, with daddy on top. Daddy had the first laugh on me, but I had the last laugh on him. As they both jumped up, Daddy got the bull by the tail and threw him down so hard that he didn't get up. We then went on our way after gathering up the scattered fish.
A few weeks later, Father sent me across the valley to the Greer Ranch with a horse. I rode up to the gate and went in. As I was about half way to the house, a dog came bounding around the corner of the house. He bit me as he passed, hit the gate, and came back by and snapped at me again. Old nigger Jeff came running out and took me in the kitchen and poured turpentine on the wounds. He then went out to get the dog. She had gone in the kennel and had bitten one of her pups, so he locked her up. He shot her later and kept the pup, but it went mad and was killed later. I escaped the rabies (going mad) and my wounds soon healed.
One day I went to St. Johns with Mother to get provisions. It was a long days drive with a team, a distance of 18 miles. We went up one day and came home the next. There were many roads leading in different directions, so we watched the landmarks on the way up. We saw a large tree which the buzzards used for their roost. The limbs were all white. On our way home it got dark long before we reached the timbered hills. We traveled on until finally it was so dark we couldn't see the road so we stopped and waited for the moon to come up. While we were waiting we heard mumbling sound in the distance. We kept still and listened. It got closer and closer until we could recognize the chant of Indians on their way to the reservation. They had been out to devilment of some kind and were going home. It was so dark that they never saw us as they took the trail that led down the canyon to the Zuni Village. Soon, the moon came up bright and full and we could see we were near the old buzzard roost so we knew we were on the right road. We met Father on the road coming to hunt us.
In the spring of 1886, I was riding up Zuni River looking for cattle that were in the bog. As I neared the divide, I saw a band of wild horses leaving the river. They had been to the river to drink and were on their way back to the range. Another band of horses going down to drink met them. The stallions stopped their band, rounded them all in a huddle, then walked bravely toward each other with their necks curved and their tails straight out. When they met they made a dive at each other like two lions, biting and pawing and kicking with all their might. Both bands stood still and looked on and never moved. The two stallions fought through trees and over small ledges of rocks till they reached the bottom of the canyon. They were skinned and bruised all over and so tired that they both fell down. They got up and looked at each other, then nodded their heads. They drove their bands around each other and went on their way.
In 1886, in the last of September, we left for Tempe, Arizona, in the company with one of father's brothers, Uncle Ben Farland, and a brother-in-law, W. C. Parks. We passed through Concho, Heber, Camp Verde, Fort McDowell and on to Tempe. We reached there the last of October and my brother, Benjamin Franklin, was born the 4th of November. I was baptized in the Salt River where the railroad bridge now stands. I was baptized by Uncle Ben Farland, Jr. That was a hard winter. Here I saw for the first time fruit growing on trees. Mother was in bed with Bennie, my sister Willmirth was sick, and Father was down with a lingering fever, so it was up to me to help make our living. Arthur Openshaw, W. C. Parks, Tom Jensen, and others were hauling lumber from Maricopa, 35 miles south of the nearest railroad station to the Arizona Dam, now known as the Granite Reefe Dam. It is northeast of Mesa on the Salt River. I took Father's team and wagon and went with the men. I got a lot of experience that winter on the freight road. The men were all good to me and I got along fine.
My first schooling was in Tempe. I went to school with Senator Carl Hayden and his sister Sally, and Bert and Mary Winger, whose father was struck blind while trying to spy on Bishop Openshaw, and Ben H. Johnson, who were polygamists.
One day as I was playing in the street, some Indians rode up and began talking to me. Presently one of them reached down and got me and put me behind him and away they went as fast as they could go. I thought that I was a goner. I soon found out that the chief's son, Sandy, was just taking me for a ride.
In the spring of 1887, Father moved his family four miles east of Tempe and three miles west of Mesa, on some new land. There he began clearing the land and planting grain and alfalfa. The snakes and gila monsters were thick. One day while irrigating some new land which was just planted with grain, I turned some water in a hole and out came a gila monster. I put him over on a border. Later I saw a sidewinding rattler crawling out of a hole so I got him on my shovel and carried him to where I had left the gila monster. I wanted to see which one was the most poisonous of the two. I threw the snake on the monster. After tormenting them a little, they began to fight. The snake struck and bit the gila monster many times even fastening his fangs in his neck. Finally, the gila monster caught the snake in the back of his neck and the snake thrust his fangs into the gila monster's neck and wrapped himself around the monster and pulled himself loose. They were both sick and the snake crawled off. He swelled up, bursted and died. The gila monster was sick for a while, then crawled off and I found out which one was the most poisonous.
Father taught me to never kill snakes. He would always pick them up and carry them out away from camp or the house. I have seen him open the gila monster's mouth and look to see if they had fangs. Father said as Brigham did, "If you don't kill the snakes, they won't bite you." Just one incident that proved it to me. When I was in my teens, I was with father, as usual, out on the desert. One day as we were resting in the shade of some willows on the bank of the canal, father was reading with his hand on the back of his head and leaning back. I was sitting at this feet making whistles. Suddenly father raised up and looked around, then laid back. Again, he raised up and looked around and saw nothing so he laid back. The third time he got up I asked, "Father, what's the matter with you?" He said that he didn't know, but that he was just warned to move. Just then we saw in a deep track, all coiled up, a large rattler running out his tongue at us. Each time Father laid back his head he was right over the snake. We knew then why he was warned to move. Father picked up the snake and carried it out of the way. I have found them in my bed while camping, I have stepped on them and over them, and have carried them out of my camp many times.
I spent many happy days in the Salt River Valley. Many of the saints from Tempe moved up near us and some of Father's brothers. They also cleared land and planted crops and soon we had a small ward called Nephi.
At the age of 10 I could mow and rake hay. Father raised a big crop of wheat the first year and he got the Pima Indians to thrash it for him. They tramped it out with horses and cleaned it with the wind. I used to go hunting and swimming with the Indians so I learned to talk the Pima language. Many times I would eat with them around their camp fires. They would make cakes out of mesquite beans and cook them on the coals.
During the big flood in the Salt River in 1891, the water covered a large part of the Indian Reservation and forced hundreds of them to swim to safety. There was an old squaw who was 103 years old and blind. She was paddling around, but didn't know where to go. The Indians said to let her go as she was old, couldn't see, and was no good, but uncle Will LeBarron swam to her and brought her out. The church took a lot of them to the tithing office at Mesa and cared for them. I went down one day to see them and there sat that old squaw weaving on a basket. I asked her how old she was and she said that she didn't know, but that she could remember when the comets fell when she was a girl, and many other events that happened away back. White men had said that she was at least 103.
The year I was 12, the Extension Canal was taken out and I drove a scraper team all winter. Mother lived in a tent and cooked over a camp fire for some of the men. This was in 1889. At that time, Mesa was a very small town with a post office, two stores, and a bakery which were all owned by Mormons. The Valley developed fast and soon there were binders, headers and thrashing machines going every direction. I first learned to tie grain in bundles or sheaves after Father as he did a lot of cradling of grain. Then came the first binders that missed lots of the bundles and I had to follow the binders and bind the loose bundles. Then came the header and the header wagons. I drove one of the first header wagons that came in the valley. Then I followed the thrashing machine and all the rest of the jobs from the strawbuck to the firing of the engine. One hot summer day my companion and I were feeding a large thrasher, raking the bundles on the draiper and feeder. The grain was smutty and we had a tail wind and we could hardly see each other. He caught his fork or hoedown, as they were called, on the slats of the draiper He stepped on the draiper to get his fork loose, but the draiper just moved on with him toward the knives that cut the bundles. When I looked up I didn't see him at first, but then I saw him riding into the separator. I jumped and with my fork handle I threw the belt and the machine stopped with him only six inches from those knives that would have riddled his body to pieces.
The next summer father and I were with the header on the desert cutting grain. The thermometer registered 128 in the shade. There were two headers going in the same field and there was a man that hauled water to us and the teams all day long. Men and teams gave out and some became overcome with heat all over the valley. We stood around the water barrels and drank and threw water on each other till morning. Several animals died that night and we were all in, down and out.
That winter there came a cold freak storm. It rained for a week and the wind blew. Then it turned cold and froze. Mother's chickens were roosting in the trees and they froze and fell out. One of our calves that was tied up froze and on the desert where there was no protection from the wind, 16 froze in one field without shelter, poor cows.
In 1891, mother and I saw the river in the streets of Tempe. The railroad bridge went down. The dams went out and houses floated past Tempe. One had a candle in it that was burning. We saw the river dashing against the Tempe Butte and the water dashing 30 feet high. It was a sight to see. Water ran in the south part of Phoenix, and the ferry cable went down. C. T. Hayden of Tempe, offered $125 to anyone who would put the cable back across the river. Uncle Brigham Johnson had a fine team and buckboard, so he decided to get the $125. He tied a strong cord or tiny rope to the back of his buckboard, then tied that to a coil or rope, then tied the rope to the cable and drove his team into the river and swam across coming out down the river all right. They pulled the rope over, then the cable. He fastened the cable and boat together and put his outfit on the boat and ferried it back to town. He then went to C. T. Hayden's store and got the $125 reward. That took nerve. When the river went down, there came the job of putting back the dams of brush and rock and as my usual job, I took a team and went to work on the dam. I had many experiences, and saw some exciting times. One day I saw seven teams and wagons go over the dam and come out way below on a gravel bar. My team was sucked in against the dam and nearly drowned. They were pulled out by another team. There were men below the dam to rescue the teams and men above to rescue them from those suction holes through the dam.
I became well acquainted with some of the Pima Indians, especially Sally and Horace. One time the chief got a good joke on the foreman of the canal. We cut through a gravel point and came on a very large rock. It was too large for the teams to move and we had no powder to break it up. The boss didn't know just how to move it. We were driving around it day after day and one day the chief said, "Why don't you move that rock?" The boss said that he couldn't. The chief said that he would move it for $20 and the bargain was made. The old chief went out on the bank and blew a whistle and in a few minutes there were 20 Indians there. He told them to go and get some picks and shovels and in a little while they returned and they dug a hole and rolled the rock in it and covered it over. The chief went and hunted up the boss and said, "Rock gone, gimme money." When the boss saw that the rock was gone he gave the chief the money and asked where the rock was. The chief said that it was in a hole and with a smile the Indian walked away and the boss said, "Boys, don't say anything and I'll treat you all. I should have thought of that."
As a boy I was fond of horses. As I grew older, I acquired a great love for breaking and training them. I trained my saddle pony to do tricks. When I was 14, I owned one of the best teams in town. Horses and cows were my hobby. Swapping horses and matching teams was another. One time I traded Father two good mares for an old, balky mare, as he needed them. I also tried to trade for a mate to a mare I had. The first year I traded 36 times to get a mate for her. I have made trips on freight roads with a six horse team and have come home with only one of the original horses.
Father helped to start the first dairy or creamery and factory at Tempe, Arizona. He was a stock holder. He got cows and went to dairying and it was my job to see that the cows were milked and that the milk was sent to the dairy, a distance of six miles. James or Bennie took the milk to the dairy in a buggy.
At 14, I drove a header wagon and did a man's work in the harvest fields. At 16, I took a job on a thrasher that was run by horsepower. I pitched bundles to the feeder. Then came the thrashers run by traction engines. I worked on them and was very good at sewing sacks, on the hoedown, feeding the thrasher or running the big derrick fork. In those days the men got paid for what they could do, and not for what they knew, and many a day I drew two men's pay. At 17, I attended high school at Mesa, Arizona, in the old adobe school house. One winter I rode to school on horseback as that was the only way of traveling.
When I was 16, I met a widow's daughter and courted her for two long years. On September 30,1896, just 43 years ago today (September 30,1939), I was married to Cora May Allred. We were married at 2:00 p.m. on Thursday. On Friday morning I left for the desert on a canal job driving a team on a slip scraper. That is the way I spent my honeymoon, working for $1 a day for ten hours. Our first home was a tent which was boarded up the sides, with a fireplace in it. Our start in life was a team and a cow. Times were hard. I hired out just before Christmas to get some Christmas money. I got $1.50 per day for me and the team and I was plowing when the sun came up and when it went down. As time went on there came a son to stay with us and we named him Joseph Elbert. When Elbert was one year old, we decided that we would try to go to the Temple of the Lord. No one would undertake the trip alone so they would wait and go in groups. This year several were going in August, so we began to save our dimes. We saved $77.70, but we didn't have any wagon suitable to travel with. I had inquired of those who had made the trip and they said that $125 was the best that they could do on their trip, so I went to the Bishop and told him my troubles. After paying my tithing I would only have $70 left. I was afraid to start out on so little. The bishop told me to pay my tithing and to trust the Lord and I could go and have plenty of money. I did as I was told and in a few days a man came along with a wagon all fixed up with bows, cover, and a barrel on the side. He was looking for a horse and I had it so we traded. I was then ready to go. The money was stretched and we even helped the ferry bill for the other boys and bought them hay grain and groceries to get home with when they had more than twice as much money to start with. The bishop was right and the Lord surely did as he said.
Autobiography
I was born at Skootempah, Kane County, Utah, under very humble circumstances. The snow drifted in and covered Mother's bed. Grandmother Lee, as I always called her (she was the wife of John D. Lee), had a dream. She saw mother in trouble, so she got up in the middle of the night, took an ox team and drove 60 miles through the rain and mud on the hind running gears of a wagon to get to Mother. After I came, they moved to Johnson for a while, then started to Arizona. On the way coming off the Buckskin Mountains, father and I were thrown out of the wagon as the team ran down the mountains. We were dragged along some distance, but not hurt bad, just badly scared and bruised.
While crossing the House Ranch Valley, two cowboys came to the wagons and asked mother to let them take me for a ride. They said they would ride on to the ranch that was not far away. They reached the ranch early in the afternoon. One of the boys went out and roped a wild cow and milked her and fed me. Then they spread a blanket on the floor and gave me their spurs and pistols to play with. I was having a good time when Mother arrived on the scene worried and scared.
Within the next day or two they reached Lee's Ferry. They took me over in a small boat first, then ferried the rest over. We traveled on to Tuba City then on through the Painted Desert to Holbrook, then through the Petrified Forest, to Snowflake, Taylor, and on to the Lone Pine vicinity where we lived until I was four years old.
The Indians broke out and killed Brother Robinson. While they were off sinking him in the river, Father and I passed by and saw their horses tied in the cedars and covered with sweat. I remember being run out of Forest Dale by the Indians. They ransacked the house and shot the pigs. I saw the body of Nathan Robinson with three bullet holes in it. We moved to Taylor. While playing in the street one day, I saw Brother Plumb coming as hard as he could ride. The Indians had been chasing him and had wounded his horse, which was all covered with blood, he had barely escaped. Father then moved to Amity on the Little Colorado River. There we lived neighbors to Jacob Hamlin, the great Indian Missionary. I have listened to his wonderful experiences among the Indians.
Father hauled logs to the saw mill and I went with him. One day as I was chucking a rock under the log, the cant hook slipped out and let the log back on my finger and mashed it as flat as a pancake, but that didn't stop me going with him. I would hide under his bedding and after hours of travel would crawl out and surprise him.
From Water Canyon we went to Eager and built a home there. I was six years old then and when my sister Bessie was born, Father sent me with a team after Sister Little. She was a midwife. I made the trip and got back in time all okay. Later we moved to St. Johns. While there, Father hauled freight from Holbrook a distance of 80 or 90 miles. I always went along. The freighters were often attacked by the Indians, men killed, horses and provisions taken, and wagons burned. One night, we camped on the bank of the Little Colorado River. We were warned by the stage driver to look out as the Indians had attacked some freighters just ahead and were coming our way. Nothing happened that night except the loss of sleep. At daylight, the wagons moved on. I went to the river to get me a drink and filled some empty cartridges with water and fit them together by twos. As I passed the coals where our fire had been, I threw the cartridges in and walked on; just then the Buckboard stage came up out of the river and as they got on top, the wild mules got scared of something, left the road, and ran over the camp fire. The shells began exploding and blew coals and ashes over the mules and away they went across the prairies of sage brush. The drivers were yelling "The Indians! ", and the men all stopped to see what had happened. They thought the Indians had shot up the place. I explained what I did, and what a laugh they had on the stage drivers. On his way back he stopped and asked how we came out with Indians that morning.
After living in St. Johns for some time, Father moved the family to the sawmill in the mountains southwest of St. Johns, where he worked for several months. While at the sawmill, I had several experiences. One day mother took James, Willmirth, and I and went down three miles to visit a family. On our way home through the timber we heard shooting. The bullets were humming through the trees knocking off limbs over our heads. Mother said, "Let's kneel and pray." Just as we dropped to our knees, a bullet hit the tree where we stood. Father took the family one day in a large cave in the mountain. We had to crawl on our hands and knees for a long ways, then it opened up into rooms. As we went along with our torches, I came to a small round hole in the side of the cave. I saw a fire with a lot of pots and kettles hanging over it and two old men with long shaggy hair, and long beards. They were smoking their pipes and talking. I saw their guns leaning against the wall and a large dog lay nearby. Meat was hanging on the wall and they were sitting on bear hides. Meat was roasting on the coals. The folks had gone on and I was alone in this room of the cave. I hurried on and soon saw their lights in the distance. After stumbling down a number of times in the darkness, I caught up with them, all excited over what I had seen. After hours of wandering around the cave and finding many arrowheads, beads and pottery ware, we wound our way out. Another time, I visited the cave and heard shooting going on in it.
The mill hands put up a swing on a big pine limb 40 feet high. I use to swing there by the hour. One Sunday morning I went out to swing and father came by and said I shouldn't swing on Sunday as I might get hurt. Soon a boy came along and wanted to swing. I told him that Pa said that we would get hurt and I was afraid, but he insisted on standing up to swing so we did. We soon were going so high that we could see over the limb each time we went up. All at once the board slipped out and down the boy went. I held on to the swing till it jerked me loose, and out I went like a whipped cracker through the air and I lit about 40 feet away in the treetops. I broke my left wrist and skinned my face. Daddy whittled out some splints and I went to Sunday school that morning. I never swung again on sundays.
Father hauled lumber from the mill to St. Johns that winter and I went with him a lot. We lived with Orville Bates on a ranch near the sawmill. During the winter a big skunk moved in with us. He lived under the floor during the days and up with us at night. He would skim the milk at night and boy did he get fat! One night daddy caught and killed him. He dressed him in fine shape and mother put him in a big dripper and baked about two quarts of oil out of him. Skunk oil is good for the croup. Mother sent me out to dump out the skunk. It was so crisp and it smelled so good that L. L. Bates, his sister, my sister and myself decided to taste it. We thought that if the oil was good, the skunk was too. So we salted him and ate him up.
In the spring of 1885, Father moved to the Meadows, a small farming district 18 miles north of St. Johns. We made the trip on my seventh birthday. When we camped for dinner, I had to take the animals for water which was about a mile away. I got on one of Brother Bates's mares, with a pair of spurs. She was from race stock, and when I touched her with spurs she gave me the ride of my life. The faster she went, the tighter I clung on with the spurs. That was some fast ride.
Each fall after the grain was cut, the women would take the children and go gleaning on the fields. They gathered the long wheat straws and braided them into hats. The heads were picked up separately and thrashed. I learned to braid the straws and Mother braided my hats.
Father took a contract building a fence in Greer Valley, along the Little Colorado, 18 miles northwest of the Meadows, on the Old Howe's Ranch, and he moved the family there. It was a beautiful valley. There I spent some of the happiest hours of my life, riding the Little Colorado and Zuni Creek to see if there were any cattle in the bog. If I found any, I would report to the ranch foreman and he would go pull them out. I was to get 15 dollars a month and I had to make the ride daily. There was about seven miles to ride on each river. My first outfit was a dandy. I found an old army curb bit with long shanks on it and Father took some canvas strings and braided me a headstall and a pair of reins. An old mule was brought up for me to ride. He was 30 years old and grey headed. Father put a doubled blanket on his back, I was boosted on him, and then father took a rope and made loops for stirrups. The wild cattle were bad to fight and I was afraid to get off and drink so I got me a bottle and tied a long string to it. In this way I could ride out in a stream and let my bottle down to fill. Once I lost my hat and I had to wait till the cattle went to the hills to get it. After that mother tied it on my head. This mule was so old and stiff he couldn't even lope.
One evening as I was coming home around the mountains, singing some song, I came upon a band of Zuni Indians on their way back to the reservation. They carried guns and I thought they were on the warpath. I left the trail and took off across the flat, whipping and kicking the old mule as hard as I could, but he only seemed to trot slower. The Indians began yelling and laughing and that scared me all the more. When I arrived at the ranch, no one was there. I went to the spring and found that the Indians had gotten into the milk and drank all they wanted. Their tracks were all around the house and I decided they had looted the place, so I rode on home. When I told Mother that I had seen the Indians, and what had happened, she laughed and said, "Those Indians were just putting meal and cobs into the spring to make it rain." Later on I was given a real cow pony, saddle, bridle, reata, and spurs. I learned to ride the range, rope calves, and ride in races. Joe McKinney practiced me up for the fall roundup. After the fall roundup, the calves were branded, and all cattle turned loose, and the boys had a three or four rodeo with lots of gambling at nights. Joe had a white saddle horse called Whiteman. I rode him for Joe in a race and won three hundred dollars for him in the free-for-all cow pony race. I also won 25 dollars for him by catching a calf the first throw. He had practiced me on that for two months.
One day I rode to the ranch and found Ed Hale very sick. He had cramps and would draw up in a knot. He had come to the house very hot and had gone to the milk house and had drunk a lot of cold milk. It was cramping him to death. Joe couldn't leave him so he saddled up one of his best horses, and with Mother's consent, sent me to St. Johns which was 35 miles away. He told me to bring back a syringe. Joe directed me up the Little Colorado River, over a trail, through the mountains, and into St. Johns. I had never been that way before, but I knew the general direction. I made the trip, brought back the syringe and had lots of fun. As I was riding up the river, I saw two bulls fighting. The big bull pushed the smaller one over the bank into deep water and he had to swim a long way to get out. I didn't like to see this so I ran at the big bull and crowded him off the bank and he had to swim too.
Father had permission to milk all the cows he wanted that summer. As I rode about my work every day, I would watch for fresh cows and whenever I saw one that looked good, I would drive her home and put the calf in the pen. When daddy came home, he would milk and if she gave plenty of milk he would keep her, and if not he would turn her and the calf out. I drove one home and had a lot of trouble because she got on the fight. She looked like she would be a dandy. Daddy roped her and as soon as the rope hit her head, she came right after us. We just did get over the bars. We finally milked her and I went in the calf pen to turn out the calf and it fought like a tiger. Daddy came and it fought him, but he finally conquered it. The cow was so mean that we had to turn her loose. Several days later I was out on the flat and met the cow and calf on the trial. The calf remembered me and rubbed its head on me.
One evening Willmirth and I went after the cows. We saw an old skunk with a dozen little ones following her, so I got rocks and killed five or six and tied them on the saddle and went on home. When I rode up to the house daddy said, "Say, why didn't you get more skunks." I said that I didn't have any more strings on my saddle or I would have.
Every year in June the Zuni Indians would have a snake dance and ceremonies for rain. They would come down to the lake near our home and hunt snakes of all kinds, especially rattlers. I have ridden in the hills and watched them catch them alive. They carried a forked staff which they put over the snake’s head, then they would slip his head under their belt. When they filled their belt, they would go to the lake and put them in the snake den and then go hunt some more. Some Indians carried wood until they got great stacks of it. On a certain day in June, they began their dance at night. The whole surroundings would be lit up by their bon fires. We could see them throwing the live snakes into the fire as they milled round and round in great numbers. For days before the ceremony they would ride to all the springs and running streams in their part of the country, and sprinkle corn meal and put corn cobs in the spring water. Then it would rain.
One summer day, father and I went fishing and swimming in the Little Colorado River. We found a nice deep hole and had a nice swim. We then caught a lot of grasshoppers and began to fish. We caught all we could carry home. Father put a small pole on his shoulder and hung the strings of fish on the pole. I had all I could carry so we started home. I was barefooted, so I took the trail. On the way we found a young bull laying in the trail. He had been branded from his ears to his tail and was as poor as a crow. I decided to make him give me the trail. Father told me to let him alone as he might hook me, but I went and gave him a kick. Up he came and away he and I went down the trial, losing my fish as I went. Father saw that he was going to catch me so he dropped his fish off the pole and took after the bull. We were all lined out down the trail and on the home stretch with me in the lead. Father began punching the bull with his long pole. All at once the bull turned on father so quick that the bull and father went down in a heap, with daddy on top. Daddy had the first laugh on me, but I had the last laugh on him. As they both jumped up, Daddy got the bull by the tail and threw him down so hard that he didn't get up. We then went on our way after gathering up the scattered fish.
A few weeks later, Father sent me across the valley to the Greer Ranch with a horse. I rode up to the gate and went in. As I was about half way to the house, a dog came bounding around the corner of the house. He bit me as he passed, hit the gate, and came back by and snapped at me again. Old nigger Jeff came running out and took me in the kitchen and poured turpentine on the wounds. He then went out to get the dog. She had gone in the kennel and had bitten one of her pups, so he locked her up. He shot her later and kept the pup, but it went mad and was killed later. I escaped the rabies (going mad) and my wounds soon healed.
One day I went to St. Johns with Mother to get provisions. It was a long days drive with a team, a distance of 18 miles. We went up one day and came home the next. There were many roads leading in different directions, so we watched the landmarks on the way up. We saw a large tree which the buzzards used for their roost. The limbs were all white. On our way home it got dark long before we reached the timbered hills. We traveled on until finally it was so dark we couldn't see the road so we stopped and waited for the moon to come up. While we were waiting we heard mumbling sound in the distance. We kept still and listened. It got closer and closer until we could recognize the chant of Indians on their way to the reservation. They had been out to devilment of some kind and were going home. It was so dark that they never saw us as they took the trail that led down the canyon to the Zuni Village. Soon, the moon came up bright and full and we could see we were near the old buzzard roost so we knew we were on the right road. We met Father on the road coming to hunt us.
In the spring of 1886, I was riding up Zuni River looking for cattle that were in the bog. As I neared the divide, I saw a band of wild horses leaving the river. They had been to the river to drink and were on their way back to the range. Another band of horses going down to drink met them. The stallions stopped their band, rounded them all in a huddle, then walked bravely toward each other with their necks curved and their tails straight out. When they met they made a dive at each other like two lions, biting and pawing and kicking with all their might. Both bands stood still and looked on and never moved. The two stallions fought through trees and over small ledges of rocks till they reached the bottom of the canyon. They were skinned and bruised all over and so tired that they both fell down. They got up and looked at each other, then nodded their heads. They drove their bands around each other and went on their way.
In 1886, in the last of September, we left for Tempe, Arizona, in the company with one of father's brothers, Uncle Ben Farland, and a brother-in-law, W. C. Parks. We passed through Concho, Heber, Camp Verde, Fort McDowell and on to Tempe. We reached there the last of October and my brother, Benjamin Franklin, was born the 4th of November. I was baptized in the Salt River where the railroad bridge now stands. I was baptized by Uncle Ben Farland, Jr. That was a hard winter. Here I saw for the first time fruit growing on trees. Mother was in bed with Bennie, my sister Willmirth was sick, and Father was down with a lingering fever, so it was up to me to help make our living. Arthur Openshaw, W. C. Parks, Tom Jensen, and others were hauling lumber from Maricopa, 35 miles south of the nearest railroad station to the Arizona Dam, now known as the Granite Reefe Dam. It is northeast of Mesa on the Salt River. I took Father's team and wagon and went with the men. I got a lot of experience that winter on the freight road. The men were all good to me and I got along fine.
My first schooling was in Tempe. I went to school with Senator Carl Hayden and his sister Sally, and Bert and Mary Winger, whose father was struck blind while trying to spy on Bishop Openshaw, and Ben H. Johnson, who were polygamists.
One day as I was playing in the street, some Indians rode up and began talking to me. Presently one of them reached down and got me and put me behind him and away they went as fast as they could go. I thought that I was a goner. I soon found out that the chief's son, Sandy, was just taking me for a ride.
In the spring of 1887, Father moved his family four miles east of Tempe and three miles west of Mesa, on some new land. There he began clearing the land and planting grain and alfalfa. The snakes and gila monsters were thick. One day while irrigating some new land which was just planted with grain, I turned some water in a hole and out came a gila monster. I put him over on a border. Later I saw a sidewinding rattler crawling out of a hole so I got him on my shovel and carried him to where I had left the gila monster. I wanted to see which one was the most poisonous of the two. I threw the snake on the monster. After tormenting them a little, they began to fight. The snake struck and bit the gila monster many times even fastening his fangs in his neck. Finally, the gila monster caught the snake in the back of his neck and the snake thrust his fangs into the gila monster's neck and wrapped himself around the monster and pulled himself loose. They were both sick and the snake crawled off. He swelled up, bursted and died. The gila monster was sick for a while, then crawled off and I found out which one was the most poisonous.
Father taught me to never kill snakes. He would always pick them up and carry them out away from camp or the house. I have seen him open the gila monster's mouth and look to see if they had fangs. Father said as Brigham did, "If you don't kill the snakes, they won't bite you." Just one incident that proved it to me. When I was in my teens, I was with father, as usual, out on the desert. One day as we were resting in the shade of some willows on the bank of the canal, father was reading with his hand on the back of his head and leaning back. I was sitting at this feet making whistles. Suddenly father raised up and looked around, then laid back. Again, he raised up and looked around and saw nothing so he laid back. The third time he got up I asked, "Father, what's the matter with you?" He said that he didn't know, but that he was just warned to move. Just then we saw in a deep track, all coiled up, a large rattler running out his tongue at us. Each time Father laid back his head he was right over the snake. We knew then why he was warned to move. Father picked up the snake and carried it out of the way. I have found them in my bed while camping, I have stepped on them and over them, and have carried them out of my camp many times.
I spent many happy days in the Salt River Valley. Many of the saints from Tempe moved up near us and some of Father's brothers. They also cleared land and planted crops and soon we had a small ward called Nephi.
At the age of 10 I could mow and rake hay. Father raised a big crop of wheat the first year and he got the Pima Indians to thrash it for him. They tramped it out with horses and cleaned it with the wind. I used to go hunting and swimming with the Indians so I learned to talk the Pima language. Many times I would eat with them around their camp fires. They would make cakes out of mesquite beans and cook them on the coals.
During the big flood in the Salt River in 1891, the water covered a large part of the Indian Reservation and forced hundreds of them to swim to safety. There was an old squaw who was 103 years old and blind. She was paddling around, but didn't know where to go. The Indians said to let her go as she was old, couldn't see, and was no good, but uncle Will LeBarron swam to her and brought her out. The church took a lot of them to the tithing office at Mesa and cared for them. I went down one day to see them and there sat that old squaw weaving on a basket. I asked her how old she was and she said that she didn't know, but that she could remember when the comets fell when she was a girl, and many other events that happened away back. White men had said that she was at least 103.
The year I was 12, the Extension Canal was taken out and I drove a scraper team all winter. Mother lived in a tent and cooked over a camp fire for some of the men. This was in 1889. At that time, Mesa was a very small town with a post office, two stores, and a bakery which were all owned by Mormons. The Valley developed fast and soon there were binders, headers and thrashing machines going every direction. I first learned to tie grain in bundles or sheaves after Father as he did a lot of cradling of grain. Then came the first binders that missed lots of the bundles and I had to follow the binders and bind the loose bundles. Then came the header and the header wagons. I drove one of the first header wagons that came in the valley. Then I followed the thrashing machine and all the rest of the jobs from the strawbuck to the firing of the engine. One hot summer day my companion and I were feeding a large thrasher, raking the bundles on the draiper and feeder. The grain was smutty and we had a tail wind and we could hardly see each other. He caught his fork or hoedown, as they were called, on the slats of the draiper He stepped on the draiper to get his fork loose, but the draiper just moved on with him toward the knives that cut the bundles. When I looked up I didn't see him at first, but then I saw him riding into the separator. I jumped and with my fork handle I threw the belt and the machine stopped with him only six inches from those knives that would have riddled his body to pieces.
The next summer father and I were with the header on the desert cutting grain. The thermometer registered 128 in the shade. There were two headers going in the same field and there was a man that hauled water to us and the teams all day long. Men and teams gave out and some became overcome with heat all over the valley. We stood around the water barrels and drank and threw water on each other till morning. Several animals died that night and we were all in, down and out.
That winter there came a cold freak storm. It rained for a week and the wind blew. Then it turned cold and froze. Mother's chickens were roosting in the trees and they froze and fell out. One of our calves that was tied up froze and on the desert where there was no protection from the wind, 16 froze in one field without shelter, poor cows.
In 1891, mother and I saw the river in the streets of Tempe. The railroad bridge went down. The dams went out and houses floated past Tempe. One had a candle in it that was burning. We saw the river dashing against the Tempe Butte and the water dashing 30 feet high. It was a sight to see. Water ran in the south part of Phoenix, and the ferry cable went down. C. T. Hayden of Tempe, offered $125 to anyone who would put the cable back across the river. Uncle Brigham Johnson had a fine team and buckboard, so he decided to get the $125. He tied a strong cord or tiny rope to the back of his buckboard, then tied that to a coil or rope, then tied the rope to the cable and drove his team into the river and swam across coming out down the river all right. They pulled the rope over, then the cable. He fastened the cable and boat together and put his outfit on the boat and ferried it back to town. He then went to C. T. Hayden's store and got the $125 reward. That took nerve. When the river went down, there came the job of putting back the dams of brush and rock and as my usual job, I took a team and went to work on the dam. I had many experiences, and saw some exciting times. One day I saw seven teams and wagons go over the dam and come out way below on a gravel bar. My team was sucked in against the dam and nearly drowned. They were pulled out by another team. There were men below the dam to rescue the teams and men above to rescue them from those suction holes through the dam.
I became well acquainted with some of the Pima Indians, especially Sally and Horace. One time the chief got a good joke on the foreman of the canal. We cut through a gravel point and came on a very large rock. It was too large for the teams to move and we had no powder to break it up. The boss didn't know just how to move it. We were driving around it day after day and one day the chief said, "Why don't you move that rock?" The boss said that he couldn't. The chief said that he would move it for $20 and the bargain was made. The old chief went out on the bank and blew a whistle and in a few minutes there were 20 Indians there. He told them to go and get some picks and shovels and in a little while they returned and they dug a hole and rolled the rock in it and covered it over. The chief went and hunted up the boss and said, "Rock gone, gimme money." When the boss saw that the rock was gone he gave the chief the money and asked where the rock was. The chief said that it was in a hole and with a smile the Indian walked away and the boss said, "Boys, don't say anything and I'll treat you all. I should have thought of that."
As a boy I was fond of horses. As I grew older, I acquired a great love for breaking and training them. I trained my saddle pony to do tricks. When I was 14, I owned one of the best teams in town. Horses and cows were my hobby. Swapping horses and matching teams was another. One time I traded Father two good mares for an old, balky mare, as he needed them. I also tried to trade for a mate to a mare I had. The first year I traded 36 times to get a mate for her. I have made trips on freight roads with a six horse team and have come home with only one of the original horses.
Father helped to start the first dairy or creamery and factory at Tempe, Arizona. He was a stock holder. He got cows and went to dairying and it was my job to see that the cows were milked and that the milk was sent to the dairy, a distance of six miles. James or Bennie took the milk to the dairy in a buggy.
At 14, I drove a header wagon and did a man's work in the harvest fields. At 16, I took a job on a thrasher that was run by horsepower. I pitched bundles to the feeder. Then came the thrashers run by traction engines. I worked on them and was very good at sewing sacks, on the hoedown, feeding the thrasher or running the big derrick fork. In those days the men got paid for what they could do, and not for what they knew, and many a day I drew two men's pay. At 17, I attended high school at Mesa, Arizona, in the old adobe school house. One winter I rode to school on horseback as that was the only way of traveling.
When I was 16, I met a widow's daughter and courted her for two long years. On September 30,1896, just 43 years ago today (September 30,1939), I was married to Cora May Allred. We were married at 2:00 p.m. on Thursday. On Friday morning I left for the desert on a canal job driving a team on a slip scraper. That is the way I spent my honeymoon, working for $1 a day for ten hours. Our first home was a tent which was boarded up the sides, with a fireplace in it. Our start in life was a team and a cow. Times were hard. I hired out just before Christmas to get some Christmas money. I got $1.50 per day for me and the team and I was plowing when the sun came up and when it went down. As time went on there came a son to stay with us and we named him Joseph Elbert. When Elbert was one year old, we decided that we would try to go to the Temple of the Lord. No one would undertake the trip alone so they would wait and go in groups. This year several were going in August, so we began to save our dimes. We saved $77.70, but we didn't have any wagon suitable to travel with. I had inquired of those who had made the trip and they said that $125 was the best that they could do on their trip, so I went to the Bishop and told him my troubles. After paying my tithing I would only have $70 left. I was afraid to start out on so little. The bishop told me to pay my tithing and to trust the Lord and I could go and have plenty of money. I did as I was told and in a few days a man came along with a wagon all fixed up with bows, cover, and a barrel on the side. He was looking for a horse and I had it so we traded. I was then ready to go. The money was stretched and we even helped the ferry bill for the other boys and bought them hay grain and groceries to get home with when they had more than twice as much money to start with. The bishop was right and the Lord surely did as he said.
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