Chapter Five

Missing Elizabeth

“Daughter, marrying into the army, you will be poor always; but I count it infinitely preferable to riches with inferior society.”

Judge Bacon to Elizabeth Custer – 1866

George Custer raced his stallion, Jack, at full speed over the limitless Alkali grass covered plateau miles away from the main entrance of Fort Riley, Kansas. The foam-flecked animal was inches behind Elizabeth and her fast horse, Custis Lee. Both riders urged their horses on to even greater speed; the cold wind biting at their smiling faces.

George steered his ride along the foot of a high hill. Abruptly reaching a steep decline, he brought his horse to a quick halt. Elizabeth, dressed in a black riding skirt, uniform jacket, and an Excelsior hat, and riding sidesaddle pulled further ahead of her husband. Quickly looking around, George turned Jack in the direction of a narrow trail through a flinty apron of rocks. He followed the crude path as it wound around the hill then suddenly dropped back down and came out the other side of the steep decline in front of Elizabeth. She waved playfully at him. The horses found their rhythm and broke into a smooth gallop. Elizabeth glanced over at George and giggled like a little girl. The two rode on towards a distant, tumbled pile of thunderheads, sooty black at their base and pure white as whipped cream where they towered against the dome of the sky.

They slowed their horses and stopped next to a cluster of rocks. George dismounted and helped Elizabeth down from her ride. Draping their arms around one another they stood quietly staring at the land stretched out before them. “The prairie was worth looking over,” Elizabeth noted in her memoirs, “because it changed like the sea.” “People thought of the deep-grass as brown, but in the spring it could look almost anything else,” she added, “purple, or gold, or red, or any kind of blue. ₁ Often when cloud shadows crossed the long swells, the whole prairie stirred, and seemed to mold and flow, as if it breathed.” In late January 1867, the terrain the Custers admired was winter-defeated, lightless and without color.

George loosened the hold he had on Elizabeth and she noticed his expression changed subtly. As post commander he needed to return to his duties. The responsibilities of coordinating and training more than 960 enlisted men was daunting, but the 27 year old was committed to the task. The occasional outing with Elizabeth gave him incentive to carry on and her a chance to explore the countryside, blissfully unaware of anything other than her husband. “It was delightful ground to ride over Fort Riley,” she remembered years later. “Ah! What happy days they were, for at that time I had not the slightest realization of what Indian warfare was, and consequently no dread.” ₂

George removed a bugle from his saddlebag and gave it a long blast. Several of his greyhound dogs responded to the sound and came running. They eagerly danced around waiting for their master to lead the way. Elizabeth and George rode slowly back to the post. After an hour the sight of a United States’ flag waving over the barracks came into view. Over time the persistent wind had torn the colors into ribbons. By the time George and Elizabeth arrived at the camp a gleam of lemon-yellow light, that had stained the sky above the western horizon, was matched by the glow of the rising moon. ₃

A great swarming of men and horses made their way from one end of the post to the other and back again. Some were on duty and others were in route to the trader’s store for a drink. Alcohol was never in short supply and the soldiers were prone to over indulge, particularly on payday. ₄ Boredom, fear, and loneliness were the chief reasons for drunkenness and drinking wasn’t relegated to a particular rank. George struggled with alcohol until he married Elizabeth. His conversion to Christianity and his wife influenced him to stay sober. Remembering how it made him physically ill made a difference as well. He preached temperance to his troops. Elizabeth noted in her memoirs that George’s attempts to keep his men from drinking were difficult. “His own greatest battles were not fought in the tented field,” she recalled, “his most glorious combats were those waged in daily, hourly fights on a more hotly contested field than was ever known in common warfare.” ₅

While in his presence, George allowed alcohol among his staff, but in moderation. He and Elizabeth would yield to those who enjoyed a glass of wine with friends to toast a promotion or birth. The Custers, however, would not partake. Elizabeth worried that the officer’s appetite for alcoholic beverages might lead to impaired judgment if they came under attack by the Indians. George assured his wife that he had the utmost confidence in his staff and their ability to sober up quickly. “It was on the battlefield, when all faced death together, where the truest affection was formed among soldiers,” he told her. ₆

It was during a social occasion where alcohol was being served at the Custer’s quarters on January 30, 1867, that Frederick Benteen first reported to George. Benteen noted in his memories that the tension between the two men was “quite palpable.” George was surrounded by his loyal staff, among them was his brother Tom, Myles Moylan, George Yates, both of whom served with George during the Civil War, Algernon E. Smith, an old sailor, and Thomas Weir, a veteran of George’s staff in Texas. Benteen was reserved, but respectful. He saluted George and the commanding officer returned the address. The men reminisced briefly about their days with the Union Army. ₇

One of George’s men mentioned that Benteen was not a West Point graduate, nor was he an educated man, and outside of the military, he had no profession. Benteen was annoyed by the remarks, but maintained his composure. George then asked Elizabeth to bring him the scrapbook he had kept from his time in the Civil War and she complied. The veterans poured over the tome recalling various victories. George’s pride disgusted Benteen and he scowled at the young leader’s tales. The conversation grew heated when George produced a copy of the farewell address he gave his troops when the war ended. Benteen snapped back at George insisting that there were numerous generals much more skilled who offered better speeches; one such man was Brigadier General James Wilson. Benteen had fought beside Wilson during the Civil War. ₈

Elizabeth was a bit taken aback by the gruff, near hostile turn of the discussion. Lieutenant Thomas Weir reached out to steady her. Ever so perceptively she gently leaned into his supportive arms. Years after Benteen first saw Elizabeth and Thomas at the Custer’s home, he claimed the pair was more than just friends. The subtle exchange between Thomas and Elizabeth did not miss Benteen’s attention – it was the gesture that sparked his suspicions.

Through gritted teeth Benteen began reciting a portion of Wilson’s farewell address. Elizabeth interrupted the officer, and in an effort to defuse the tension, offered to give him a tour of their quarters. Benteen declined and asked to be dismissed to continue on with his duties. George granted his request and the men parted company with a salute. ₉

George was well aware everyone didn’t like him, but it had no bearing on the job he was assigned to do. The average recruit earned $13 a month and it was George’s job to make sure they were trained for combat. He expected a lot from his regiment and regularly drove the soldiers to their endurance and beyond. The soldiers participated in daily target practice with their Spencer repeat rifles and Colt Army revolvers, horseback riding drills, lessons in tactics and regimental discipline, and basic first aide. The work was tedious and exhausting. Disillusioned by the grueling pace of military life on the frontier, more than 80 enlisted men deserted before they served a full year at Fort Riley. ₁₀

Those men who chose not to desert, but refused to obey orders were sent to the guardhouse. The facility was located outside the garrison and could hold a number of inmates. Disobedient soldiers interned there were nervous that the stockade would be overtaken by hostile Native Americans and they would have no way to defend themselves. Some tried to escape before their fears could be realized. ₁₁ Elizabeth described a unique escape in her journal in the winter of 1867. “For several nights, at one time, strange sounds for such a place issued from the walls,” she wrote. “Religion in the noisiest form seemed to have taken up its permanent abode there, and for three hours at a time singing, shouting and loud praying went on. There was every appearance of a revival among those trespassers. The officer of the day, in making his rounds, had no comment to pass upon this remarkable transition from card playing and wrangling. He was doubtless relieved to hear the voice of the exhorters as he visited the guard, and indulged in the belief they were out of mischief.

On the contrary, this vehement attack of religion covered up the worst sort of roguery. Night after night they had been digging tunnels under the stone foundation – walls, removing boards and cutting beams in the floor, and to deaden the sound of the pounding and digging some of their numbers were told to sing, pray, and shout.

One morning the guard opened the doors of the rooms in which the prisoners had been confined, and they were empty! Even two that wore ball and chains for serious offenses had in some manner managed to knock them off, as all had swum the Smoky Hill River, and they were never again heard from.” ₁₂

George needed desertions minimized, the prisoners in the stockade back in line, and the 7^th Cavalry fully trained by spring 1867. General W.S. Hancock, commander of all the troops in the region had planned a full military campaign against the Cheyenne who were making trouble. “We’ll take a strong force of infantry, cavalry, and artillery out after them,” Hancock informed George. “We’ll try to scare them so they’ll make peace and settle down on the reservation which has been assigned to them. If they won’t, we’ll destroy them.” ₁₃ George had mixed feelings about the Indians. Their ruthless attacks on Army troopers traveling the plains prompted him to refer to the Native Americans as “blood-thirsty savages.” But he was also torn between a soldier’s hatred of an ‘enemy’ and an admiration for why that enemy was fighting him. “If I were an Indian, I often think that I would greatly prefer to cast my lot among those of my people who adhere to the free open plains, rather than submit to the confined limits of a reservation, there to be the recipient of the blessed benefits of civilization, with its vices thrown in without stint or measure.” ₁₄

While George worked steadily to train the soldiers at Fort Riley to be the best on the plains, Elizabeth lamented the fact that he would be leaving for potentially hazardous duty. She was frightened for him and sad that she couldn’t go with him. “My husband tried to keep my spirits up,” Elizabeth wrote in her memoirs, “by reminding me that the council to be held with the chiefs of the war-like tribes, when they reached that part of the country infested with the marauding Indians, was something he hoped might result in our speedy reunion.” ₁₅

The Custers sought relief from the stress of their pending separation by hosting social events for George’s staff and their families. Elizabeth held dinner parties and George invited his officers over to play poker. Benteen attended the soirees, but was highly critical of the couple’s behavior. He claimed that Elizabeth “presided with correctness over the army wives and had no scruples about favoring the wives of her husband’s allies and snubbing those of his enemies.” ₁₆ He also maintained that George was an “inveterate and inferior gambler” and that his habit was obvious. ₁₇

In Benteen’s letter to his friend, Theodore Goldin, written in late February 1867, he sited an example of George losing big at cards. Benteen joined George, Tom Custer, Lieutenant Myles Moylan, and Thomas Weir for an evening of five-hand poker with dime ante and table stakes. At one point in the game only three players remained, George, Thomas Weir, and Benteen. Believing he had a hand that would make up for the money he had lost early in the night, George suggested the stakes be raised to $2.50. Everyone agreed. George’s bad luck didn’t change. By the first morning light, Benteen had won a considerable amount. Thomas Weir lost more than a month’s salary ($150.00), and George’s debt was near double that amount. Neither had the money to cover their bets, but promised to pay Benteen as soon as they could. Benteen claimed he was never received what he was owed from either men. ₁₈

As the time neared for George and his troops to leave the past on their expedition with General Hancock, Elizabeth became more anxious. The Fetterman massacre of December 1866 was fresh on her mind. Eighty soldiers led by Captain William J. Fetterman, were ambushed and killed near Fort Phil Kerney when they left the post to go to the aid of a woodcutting party. More than 1900 Sioux, Cheyenne, and Apache warriors took part in the slaughter. ₁₉

Eight companies, consisting of infantry and artillery soldiers numbering more than 1400 men, would be accompanying George on the expedition, but Elizabeth believed it was too few. Other wives at the camp felt the same way. “No one can enumerate the terrors, imaginary and real, that filled the hearts of women on the border in those desperate days,” Elizabeth wrote in her memoir. “The buoyancy of my husband had only momentary effect in the last hours of his stay…such partings are a torture that is difficult even to refer to. My husband added another struggle to my lot by imploring me not to let him see the tears that he knew, for his sake, I could keep back until he was out of sight.” ₂₀

In late March 1867, General Hancock, George and eight companies of troops marched out of Fort Riley towards Fort Larned. A meeting between the Army officers and the Cheyenne Chiefs to negotiate the transfer of the Indians to the reservation was scheduled for April 10^th. The members of the 7^th Cavalry arrived at the post on April 7^th and helped get the camp ready to receive the Native American council. ₂₁ The day before the meeting was to take place a violent snowstorm blanketed the fort and plains around it. The Cheyenne leaders not only refused to meet at the designated date because of the frigid weather, but also sited their irritation in the army for sending such a large expedition in the first place. General Hancock explained that he and his troops had come only to promote peace, but the Indians didn’t believe him. ₂₂

George was not surprised that the Indians postponed the council. During his time on the frontier he had come to realize no Indian was in a hurry to adopt the white man’s manner of life. “In making this change,” George wrote in his journal, “the Indian has to sacrifice all that is dear to his heart; he abandons the only mode of life in which he can be a warrior and win triumphs and honors worthy to be sought after….” ₂₃

General Hancock twice rescheduled the meeting between the military leaders and Plains Indian Chiefs – each time the date was ignored. Henry Morton Stanley and Theodore R. Davis, two journalists traveling with the cavalry, reported on how frustrated the General was that the Indians repeatedly failed to show. Readers of Harper’s Weekly, the Missouri Democrat, and the New York Herald publications where Stanley and Davis were employed, were informed by George that the Indians were more frightened than belligerent. ₂₄ General Hancock didn’t agree. He viewed their behavior as a “commencement of war.” He ordered George to take his troops and track the fugitives down. ₂₅

Back at Fort Riley, Elizabeth attended church to pray for the safe return of her husband and the other members of the 7^th Cavalry. A small regiment of men had been left behind to guard the nearly deserted post. There were only two women at the camp besides Elizabeth. Each longed for God to protect their loved ones and lived in fear that petitions would not be answered. They ached for word from their husbands that all was well with them, but none came. ₂₆

In addition to her concern for George, a distant grass fire, sparked by lighting was spreading across the prairie, inching its way toward the fort. There was no time for the soldiers to fight the blaze by burning a section of ground between the camp and the approaching fire. “In an incredibly short time we were overshadowed with a dark cloud of smoke,” Elizabeth wrote in her memoirs. “There were no screams, nor cries, simply silent terror and shivering of horror, as we women huddled together to watch the remorseless friend advancing with what appeared to be inevitable annihilation of the only shelter we had. Every woman’s thoughts turned to her natural protector, now far away….”₂₇ Using blankets, gunnysacks and sheets, columns of stalwart soldiers beat the flames back. The fire danced around the post and continued on over the flat plains.

It would be weeks before news of the life threatening fire would reach George. Although Elizabeth wrote her husband daily the letters could not catch up with him as he pursued bands of Cheyenne, Arapaho, Kiowa, and Comanche Indians north. In mid-April 1867, George and his troops arrived at a stage stop called Lookout Station. The trail of Indians they had been following led them to the location 15 miles west of Fort Hays. At first the stop seemed to be deserted, but upon further inspection George discovered the

people who lived and worked at the depot had been brutally murdered. After they were slain their bodies were set on fire. The 7^th Cavalry searched for weeks for the Indian offenders and found only more burned down state stations and slaughtered homesteaders. General Hancock was furious. He ordered George to continue to track the Indians, to kill them when he found them, and in between incinerate any abandoned Indian village they came on. ₂₈

Before George and his men could go any further they needed to stock up on supplies. They held their position at Fort Hays awaiting fresh horses and feed for the animals and food for the field. George quickly sent for Elizabeth to join him at the post. On May 4, 1867, he wrote to tell her, “You will be delighted with the country.” “Bring a good supply of butter,” he added, “one hundred pounds or more; three or four cans of lard, vegetables – potatoes, onions, and carrots. You will need calico dresses, and a few white ones. Oh, we will be so, so happy.” ₂₉

Elizabeth and George were reunited only for a brief time before the cavalry was directed to make their way to Fort McPherson, Nebraska. George was to help lead the expedition, which involved a more extensive search for wanted Indians along the Platte River. ₃₀ The move infuriated Benteen who was already annoyed that Elizabeth was able to join George at the new command post. Not only did he feel he was infinitely more qualified to command the scouting party, but he longed to see his own wife, Kate, who was expecting their second child. The situation was made worse for Benteen when George didn’t consider him for the command position. He chose Thomas Weir instead, promoting him from 1^st Lieutenant to Captain in the process. ₃₁

George overlooked the grumbling and complaining from the soldier for the moment in order to focus on preparations for the long journey ahead. He kissed his wife goodbye on June 1, 1867, and with 350 men and 20 wagons in tow, headed south. While on the trail dissatisfaction among the ranks raised its ugly head. The troops were tired, sick of being on the move, and drinking was again on the rise. George was unable to persuade the men to abandon the habit. It wasn’t until a popular, well-liked officer with the 7^th Cavalry got drunk and then shot and killed himself, that the troops changed their ways. George wrote about the incident in his memoirs on June 8, 1867, “…But for intemperance Colonel Cooper would have been a useful and accomplished officer, a brilliant and most comparable gentlemen. He leaves a young wife, shortly to become a mother. I thank God my darling wife will never know anxiety through intemperance on my part. Would I could fly to her now…but wise providence decrees all.” ₃₂

The problem with drinking had subsided in the unit, but desertion was on the rise. Apprehensive about marching further into hostile territory, 35 soldiers decided to leave their post in a single day. George wrote Elizabeth and told her “severe and summary measures must be taken.” He directed his officers to shoot down the deserters as they fled the camp. A few men were killed and many other were wounded. George felt the extreme measures were necessary to show other troops such treasonous acts would result in harsh punishment. “The effect was all that could be desired,” he shared with Elizabeth. “There was not another desertion as long as I remained in command.” ₃₃

Elizabeth’s letters, sent along with every passing stage finally reached George on the outskirts of Fort McPherson. He barely had time to read them before being summoned to a rendezvous with Sioux Indian leaders on the Southern Plains. George’s meeting with the Indians at their request resulted in their agreeing to relocate to a reservation in the coming days. When William Tecumseh Sherman, Commander of the Division of Missouri from 1866 to 1868, arrived on the scene in Nebraska he was not convinced the Indians would follow through. Frustrated by the unsuccessful attempts to move various Plains Indian tribes onto reservations and under pressure from Washington to stop

the killing of pioneers, Sherman ordered George to “clean out the renegades.” ₃₄

Several weeks had past since George and Elizabeth had been together. Elizabeth kept herself busy with the demands of being an officer’s wife and maintaining the social obligations that would keep morale hopeful. During the tea parties and dinners she would host, she shared stories with the camp inhabitants about the emigrants she and George met en route to the fort. Heavy spirits were lighted by Elizabeth’s recollection of she George contemplating life on the frontier. “How well I remember the long wait we made on one of the staircases of the capitol at Washington, above which hung then the great picture by Leutze,” ‘Westward the Course of Empire Takes its Way,’ she noted. “We little thought then, hardly more than girl and boy as we were, that our lives would drift over the country which the admirable picture represents…. The picture made a great impression on us. How much deeper the impression, though, had we known that we were to live out the very scene depicted.” ₃₅

Even in the midst of organizing and implementing a search of the country around the fork of the Republican River, then pressing onward to Fort Sedgwick, Nebraska to receive additional orders, George had one thing on his mind, completing his assignment so he could get home to Elizabeth. His preoccupation with seeing her ultimately clouded his judgment. When the 7^th Cavalry was within 75 miles of Fort Sedgwick, George decided to change course and make for Fort Wallace in western Kansas. Fort Wallace wasn’t that far from Fort Hayes where Elizabeth was staying. Just before the troops arrived at the post George sent couriers out with messages. One was for the commander at Fort Sedgwick asking for further orders and the second was for his wife, George wanted her to join him. “If you get a chance to come to Wallace, I will send a squadron there to meet you,” George urged Elizabeth. “I am on a roving commission, going nowhere in particular.” ₃₆

The courier delivered the message to Elizabeth, but there was no time to respond. Heavy rains in he area and sudden flooding forced her and the civilians with her to higher ground at Fort Riley. ₃₇

Two weeks passed with no word from Elizabeth. An anonymous letter about Elizabeth did reach George, however. The correspondence warned George that he should “look after his wife more closely.” ₃₈ The letter suggested that she was emotionally attached to another man. Immediately following the shocking accusation came news that cholera had broken out at Fort Leavenworth and spread west to Fort Riley. Many people had died from the disease. George was frantic to know if his wife was among them. Rather than carry on with his superior’s orders, which were to “continue after the Cheyenne using Fort Wallace for a base,” George decided to deviate from them. ₃₉

On July 19, 1867, Elizabeth sat alone in her quarters at Fort Riley. Her eyes were bleary from crying over the letters she hadn’t received from George. None of the usual activities in which she regularly amused herself, sewing, reading, painting, etc., held little interest. Elizabeth’s despair ended when George arrived. “The door behind which I paced uneasily, opened, and with a flood of sunshine that poured in, came a vision far brighter than even the brilliant Kansas sun,” Elizabeth recalled in her memoirs. “There before me, blithe and buoyant, stood my husband! In an instant, every moment of the preceding moment was obliterated.” ₄₀

George would pay for his mad dash to see his wife. A discontented captain in his charge and the Colonel who granted him leave from duty, leveled charges against him. The Colonel told authorities that he was not fully awake when George asked him if he could travel to Fort Riley and denied giving him permission. The captain told military officials that he was excessively cruel to the men in his command and sited George’s order to shoot deserters as an example. “I knew my orders,” George admitted to the army’s disciplinary board. “But I made my own decision and acted on it. I think I was right and I’d do the same thing again if I had to. I’ll answer for what I did before the court and take the consequences, whatever they are.” ₄₁

Elizabeth, along with a number of George’s friends and comrades in arms, considered the court martial proceedings, which began in August 1867, to be “nothing but an outbreak of the smoldering enmity and envy” towards him. Among the men who testified on George’s behalf and praised him for his courage and leadership ability were Tom Custer and Thomas Weir. Thomas was close beside Elizabeth during the trail. She sat at rigid attention throughout most of the unpleasant event. There were times while listening to the harsh criticism of her husband she seemed to weaken. Thomas would gently drape his arm around Elizabeth’s shoulder and comfort her. George’s eye seldom left the review board; his posture was straight as a steel ramrod. ₄₂

Benteen watched the scene unfold from the back row of the courtroom. He believed George to be an “over confident braggart” and had failed to make a “meaningful effort” to handle the recent events according to military regulations. Benteen and several other members of the cavalry anticipated that the judge in the trial would find George guilty and that his career in the army would be over. From Benteen’s perspective more than George’s career was in jeopardy. He observed the interaction between Elizabeth and Thomas. It appeared Thomas couldn’t keep his eyes off her and Elizabeth seemed to relish the attention. George seemed wholly unaware, his face set determinedly on the courtroom proceedings. ₄₃

Chapter 5

1. Custer, Elizabeth Tenting on the Plains pg. 213, 380-385

2. Ibid., pg. 241, Frost, Lawrence General Custer’s Libbie pg. 158, Monaghan, Jay Custer: The Life of General George Armstrong Custer pg. 281-283

3. Custer, Elizabeth Mrs. Custer at Fort Riley pg. 4, Fickert, Steve Mrs. Custer on the Plains pg. 2-4

4. Leckie, Shirley Elizabeth Bacon Custer and the Making of a Myth pg. 90-92

5. Custer, Elizabeth Tenting on the Plains pg. 397, Frost, Lawrence General Custer’s Libbie pg. 159-160

6. Ibid.

7. Utley, Robert M. Cavalier in Buckskins: George Armstrong Custer & the Western Military Frontier pg. 47, Ladenheim, J.C. Custer’s Thorn: The Life of Frederick Benteen pg. 68-71

8. Ibid.

9. Carroll, John M. A Graphologist Looks at Custer and Some of His Friends pg. 7

10. Frost, Lawrence General Custer’s Libbie pg. 158

11. Custer, Elizabeth Tenting on the Plains pg. 453-455

12. Ibid.

13. Leighton, Margaret The Story of General Custer

pg. 122

14. Custer, George My Life on the Plains pg. 39-47

15. Custer, Elizabeth Tenting on the Plains pg. 484

16. Ladenheim, J.C. Custer’s Thorn: The Life of Frederick Benteen pg. 71

17. Barnett, Louise Touched by Fire: The Life, Death, & Mythic After Life of George Custer pg. 197, Benteen, Frederick Benteen and Goldin Letters pg. 247

18. Ibid., Ladenheim, J.C. Custer’s Thorn: The Life of Frederick Benteen pg. 71

19. Bowman, John S. The American West Year by Year pg. 94

20. Custer, Elizabeth Tenting on the Plains pg. 485

21. Leighton, Margaret The Story of General Custer

pg. 124

22. Ibid.

23. Custer, George My Life on the Plains pg. 17

24. Monaghan, Jay Custer: The Life of General Armstrong Custer pg. 284

25. Utley, Robert M. Cavalier in Buckskins: George Armstrong Custer & the Western Military Frontier pg. 49

26. Custer, Elizabeth Tenting on the Plains pg. 490

27. Ibid., pg 491

28. Custer, George My Life on the Plains pg. 270, Katz, Mark D. Custer in Photographs pg. 149

29. Merington, Marguerite The Custer Story pg. 201

30. Monaghan, Jay Custer: The Life of General George Armstrong Custer pg. 291

31. Ladenheim, J.C. Custer’s Thorn pg. 73

32. Merington, Marguerite The Custer Story pg. 205, Katz, Mark D. Custer in Photographs pg. 149

33. Ibid., pg. 206

34. Monaghan, Jay Custer: The Life of General George Armstrong Custer pg. 292

35. Custer, Elizabeth Tenting on the Plains pg. 596

36. Merington, Marguerite The Custer Story pg. 166

37. Frost, Lawrence General Custer’s Libbie pg. 166-168

38. Ladenheim, J.C. Custer’s Thorn: The Life of Frederick Benteen pg. 70-74, Carroll, John Custer from the Civil War pg. 7, Leckie, Shirley Elizabeth Bacon Custer and the Making of a Myth pg. 102

?

39. Utley, Robert M. Cavalier in Buckskin: George Armstrong Custer & the Western Military Frontier pg. 41

40. Custer, Elizabeth Tenting on the Plains pg. 699, Custer, George My Life on the Plains pg. 77-79

41. Frost, Lawrence The Court Martial of General George Custer pg. 41-42, Daubenmier, Judy Empty Saddles: Desertion from the Dashing U.S. Cavalry Montana: The Magazine of the Western History October 1, 2004 pg. 2-4

42. Frost, Lawrence General Custer’s Libbie pg. 171

43. Leighton, Margaret The Story of General Custer pg. 134, Ladenheim, J.C. Custer’s Thorn: The Life of Frederick Benteen pg. 103

Introduction
“If he isn’t a pet with the women he ought to be.”
Female newspaper reporter, J.M.W. observation in an article entitled “Colonel Cody Talks” – 1894

Dear North Carolina Troller, Consider buying the book instead of spending hours everyday on my site reading about Cody.

FOREWORD

Dodge City, Kansas, founded in 1872 when the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad reached a point located five miles west of Fort Dodge, was a wide open, raucous, frontier town that catered first to the Buffalo hunters from 1872 through 1875. Following the demise of the Buffalo trade, the City Fathers went South to entice the Texas ranchers to bring their longhorn cattle to Dodge City where they would receive top prices for their beef. It was during this period, from 1875 until 1885, that Dodge City enjoyed the dubious distinction as the “Queen of the Cowtowns.”

During this reign, Dodge City, also known as the “wickedest little city in America,” was the scene of many famous and some infamous incidents, that would forever pique the interest of writers and create lasting legends of some of the real people who resided here. The year 1878 provided all of the right stuff that would put Dodge City on the map as a wild and wooly cowtown and helped establish its permanent place in the annals of those bygone days.

It was during that year, four young and fearless men in their 20’s and early 30’s, Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, Bill Tilghman and Charlie Basset among others, were hired to uphold the law; James “Dog” Kelley was elected Mayor; Marshal Ed Masterson, Bat’s Brother, was shot and killed in the line of duty by an unruly cowboy; J. H. “Doc” Holiday, dentist, office in room 24 of the Dodge House, offered his services with “money refunded if not satisfied, ” his ad promised; Assistant U. S. Deputy Marshal Henry T. McCarty was shot and killed in the Long Branch Saloon; Dull Knife and his band of 340 Cheyenne jumped the reservation at Fort Reno and fled north through western Kansas to their North Dakota homeland; Colonel William H. Lewis, commander at Fort Dodge, was killed in a battle while pursuing the Cheyenne in northwestern Kansas; and a beautiful singer/entertainer, Dora Hand was foully murdered by a young cattle baron who was smitten by her charms.

This book, Thunder Over the Plains, by Howard Kazanjian and Chris Enss, is a masterful job relating the murder of Dora Hand and the subsequent action taken by these four young lawmen to pursue and capture her killer. The authors have done an excellent job in presenting these men as real people who were very good at doing their job not just the mythical icons of the “Old West” that they would later become.

A local historian, Fredric R. Young, in his book, Dodge City Up Through A Century in Story and Pictures, states, “ Much nonsense has been written about Dodge City’s Queen of the Fairy Belles, Dora Hand, but her romantic and novel history is yet to be fully unraveled.”

It is my humble opinion that one hundred and forty years after her death, this gripping and suspenseful book is a beautiful unraveling of her romantic and novel history.

Jim Sherer, Director (Retired)

Kansas Heritage Center & Former Mayor of Dodge City, Kansas

Bethenia Owens-Adair

The Student Teacher

“Nothing was permitted to come between me and this, (getting an education) the greatest opportunity of my life.”

Bethenia Owens-Adair – 1906

Tears streamed down twelve year old Bethenia Owens face as she watched her teacher pack his belongings into a faded, leather saddlebag and slip his coat on over his shoulder. She was heartbroken that the gracious man who introduced her to the alphabet and arithmetic would be leaving to teach school at a far off location. Bethenia’s brothers and sisters gathered around him, hugging his legs, and hanging onto his hands. Mr. Beaufort had boarded with the Owens family during the three month summer school term in 1852 and everyone had grown quite attached to him, especially Bethenia.

Mr. Beaufort smiled sweetly at Bethenia as she wiped her face dry with the back of her dirty hand. Streaks of grim lined her thin features and continued on into her hair- line. Her long, brown locks protruded haphazardly out of the pigtails behind each ear. The dainty ribbons that once held her hair in place were untied and dangling down the back of her soiled, well-worn gingham dress.

The teacher stretched out his hand to Thomas Owens, Bethenia’s father, and then gave her mother, Sarah a squeeze around the neck. He thanked them for their hospitality and then turned his attention to their nine children. He snatched the youngest child off of the floor, tossed her up, and gave the giggling infant a kiss. Mr. Beaufort said goodbye to everyone, but left his farewell to Bethenia for the last. “I guess I’ll take this one with me,” he told her mother. “All right,” Sarah replied playfully. “She is such a tomboy I can never make a girl of her anyway.”

Bethenia blinked away more tears. Mr. Beaufort took her hand in his and led her out the door. The two walked down the dusty roadway to the gate and continued on for a bit without saying a word. Finally, Mr. Beaufort stopped and bent down next to the faithful student. “Now little one,” he kindly said, “you must go back. You are a nice little girl, and some day you will make a fine woman, but you must remember and study your book hard, and when you get to be a woman everybody will love you, and don’t forget your first teacher, will you?” Mr. Beaufort scooped Bethenia into his arms, kissed her cheek, sat her down in the direction of her home, and went on his way. Bethenia hurried back to the house where she found a quiet spot to cry over the loss of the teacher she so worshipped.

“Of course they all laughed at me,” she remembered in her journal years later, “and often times afterward when I was especially rebellious and wayward, which was not infrequently, I would be confronted with, “I wish the teacher had taken you with him,” to which I never failed to answer promptly and fervently, “I wish he had too!”

Bethenia Angelina Owens was born on February 7, 1840 in Van Buren County, Missouri. She was the second to the oldest child born to a cattle family that emigrated to Clatsop County, Oregon in 1843. She was an athletic child who roughhoused with her brothers constantly, challenging them to various feats of strength. She did chores around the homestead that were ordinarily reserved for members of the opposite sex and took great pride in the fact that her father referred to her at times as his “boy.”

Bethenia was a great help to her mother. Although she was rambunctious and could hold her own against the boys, she was more than capable of looking after her younger siblings while her mother and older sister, Diana helped work the ranch. According to Bethenia’s journal, the job kept her busy. She often had one of her brothers and sisters in her arms and more clinging to her. “Where there is a baby every two years,” she wrote, “there is always no end of nursing to be done; especially when mother’s time is occupied, as it was then, every minute,

from early morning till late at night, with much outdoor as well as indoor work. She (Bethenia’s mother) seldom found time to devote to the baby, except to give it the breast.”

By her own account, Bethenia’s childhood was mostly idyllic. When the weather was agreeable she spent most of her time outdoors entertaining the little ones she cared for and running and playing with her favorite brother, Flem. She was fond of hunting hen’s nests and gathering eggs laid in the most unusual places. She also enjoyed visiting with a neighbor lady who taught her how to cook and sew and told her fairytales during the lessons. Bethenia did not realize her education was lacking until her parents suggested that the Owens children attend school, but she was excited about the prospect.

Children over the age of four were the first to be enrolled at the school in Clatsop County. Older boys and girls, 14 or 15 years old, came to class once their chores were completed and took them up again once they were dismissed for the day. School books were in short supply and many of the pupils had to share the limited copies of the readers and spellers with one another. The Owens clan took turns studying from the solitary book they borrowed from a family in a neighboring county.

Mr. Beaufort proved to be an exceptional educator for the young in the small Oregon community. Bethenia was smitten with him from their first meeting. “The new teacher was a find, handsome young man,” she wrote in her memoirs, “who held himself aloof from the young people of his age, and kept his person so clean, neat and trim that the country men disliked him.” He interacted with his students, not only during class time, but a recess as well. He played games with the children and gave them the individual attention needed to learn the daily lessons in reading and writing. He had a particular fondness for Bethenia. Not only did he help her with her school work, but he taught her a great deal about horses. She loved to ride and Mr. Beaufort coached her on the best way to lasso a horse and spring onto its’ back.

The innocent infatuation Bethenia had for her teacher knew no bounds. Her older sister and mother would periodically admonish her for “always tagging him around.” Bethenia wrote that her mother would scold her saying “You ought to know that he must get tired of you and the children sometimes.” Nothing could persuade her from following after Mr. Beaufort every chance she got, however. She would walk two miles to school with him each morning and late in the afternoon she would haul her siblings to the spot where the teacher would be grading papers.

It took Bethenia a long time to recover after Mr. Beaufort left the Owens’ homestead. Several years would pass before she would be able to attend school again. But the fire for learning had been ignited and would ultimately be the key to Bethenia’s success.

Although she would have much preferred to marry a man like Mr. Beaufort, two years after meeting her beloved teacher Bethenia found herself betrothed to one of her father’s ranch hands. She was barely fourteen when she made the acquaintance of Legrand Hill. He had been living in the Rogue River Valley for a year working his parent’s land. He was a handsome man, broad-shouldered and tall. When she looked into her eyes, she saw the promise of a long and happy life. Her parents had selected this man to be her husband and she trusted their decision. On their recommendation she eagerly placed her future in Legrand’s hands.

On May 4, 1854, the petite teenager, dressed in a sky-blue wedding dress, stood next to her groom and promised to be a faithful wife. After the ceremony the pair retired to their home in the middle of 320 acres of farmland Legrand had purchased on credit. The newlyweds lived four miles from Bethenia’s parents and in the beginning, all was right with the world.

Family and friends visited often, helping Legrand work the property and assisting Bethenia as she made repairs to their small log cabin.

Legrand was an avid hunter, and in between planting and tending to the livestock, he spent days in the forest bagging grouse and deer. Before long, Legrand’s hunting trips became an obsession. More often than not, he put off doing chores to track wild game. He idled away so much time Bethenia’s father was forced to complete the job of putting up a good winter house to protect his daughter from the elements. A mere nine months after the wedding, Bethenia had fully recognized in Legrand a “lack of industry and perseverance.”

Legrand was opposed to doing an honest day’s work and because of that, he was unable to pay the $150 mortgage on the farm. The Hills were forced to sell the land and move to Jackson County, Oregon, to live with Legrand’s Aunt Kelly.

Less than a year after the Hills were married, Bethenia gave birth to a boy. The proud couple named the child George. Legrand’s slothful ways, however, did not change with the advent of fatherhood. He continued to fritter away his time, leaving the responsibility of earning an income to Bethenia.

Her parents paid the young mother a visit and were appalled by the “hand to mouth” living situation in which they found their daughter and grandchild. Thomas managed to persuade his son-in-law to return to Clatsop County. He lured the less than ambitious Legrand back with an offer to give him an acre of land and material to build a house.

Legrand’s attitude toward work remained the same in Clatsop County. Against the advice of his father-in-law, he agreed to partner in a brick-making business. He turned what little money he and Bethenia had over to his two partners and then spent all of his time overseeing the venture. He decided against building a home for his wife and child and chose instead to move his family into a tent. A sustained torrential downpour halted the making of the bricks and eventually put an end to the business altogether.

In late November, Bethenia contracted typhoid fever. She was much too sick to care for her baby or work to keep food on the Hill table. Her parents stepped in and moved Bethenia and George out of the damp tent and into their dry home.

Thomas pleaded with Legrand to start construction on a house for his family, but he refused to do so until the deed to the land was turned over to him. When Thomas refused to give in to his request, Legrand became furious and decided to build a house in town instead.

He proved to be a poor carpenter and after four months the home was still not complete. Wife and child were moved in anyway.

Bethenia continued to struggle with her health. The fever had left her weak and unable to do everything she once did. George was sickly too, but was nonetheless a big eater. Legrand had little or no patience with his three-year-old son’s ailments. He spanked him quite frequently for whimpering, and in many instances, was generally abusive toward the toddler. “Early one morning in March,” Bethenia recalled in 1906, “after a tempestuous scene of this sort, Mr. Hill threw the baby on the bed, and rushed downtown. As soon as he was out of sight, I put on my hat and shawl, and gathering a few necessaries together for the baby, I flew over to my father’s house.”

Sarah Owens applauded her daughter’s courage in leaving Legrand. “Any man that could not make a living with the good starts and help he has had, never will make one,” she told Bethenia. “And with his temper, he is liable to kill you at any time.” Bethenia remained at her parent’s home even though Legrand made numerous appeals to win her back. “I told him many times,” she later wrote in her journal, “that if we ever did separate, I would never go back and I never will.”

After four years of living in a difficult marriage, Bethenia filed for divorce. Many Clatsop County residents were shocked by her actions, and her sister advised Bethenia to “go back and beg him on your knees to received you.” The forlorn mother refused. “I was never born to be struck by moral man,” she insisted.

It was difficult at first, but Bethenia and George’s life away from Legrand and his tyrannical behavior proved to be best for mother and son. George thrived under his grandparent’s roof, basking in the constant attention he received from his many aunts and uncles. Bethenia used the time and the renewal of her health to attend school in the nearby town of Roseburg. She could barely read or write and believed the only way to improve her condition in life was to get a full education. At the age of 18 she enrolled in school and shared a third grade class with children who were ten and eleven years younger than her.

She eventually moved out of her parent’s home, and in addition to continuing on with school, focused on a way to support herself and her son. “I sought work in all honorable directions, even accepting washing,” Bethenia noted in her journal, “which was one of the most profitable occupations among the few considered “proper” for women in those days.”

Bethenia’s parents objected to her living on her own. They wanted their daughter to stay home and let them care for her and her baby, but she refused. She did accept the sewing machine her parent’s gave her and after teaching herself how to use it, added mending to her list of services for hire.

In the fall of 1860, Bethenia traveled to Oysterville, Washington to visit a friend and decided to stay in the area awhile and attend school. Well-meaning family members urged her to return to Oregon, but she wouldn’t agree to do so until after she completed the basic primary grades. “I now know that I can support and educate myself and my boy, and am resolved to do it,” she noted in her journal. “And furthermore, I do not intend to do it over a washtub either.”

Bethenia worked her way through primary school by doing laundry for ranch hands. Through books and diligent studying she overcame the hardships associated with a failed marriage and single parenthood. In 1874, she wrote, “Thus passed one of the pleasantest and most profitable winters of my life, while, whetted by what it fed on, my desire for knowledge grew stronger.”

An urgent plea from her sister ultimately persuaded her to leave Oysterville and move back to Clatsop County. Bethenia agreed to help her ailing sister in exchange for the chance to attend and teach school in Astoria.

“Don’t you think I could teach a little summer school here on the plains?” she asked Diana. “I can rise at four, and help with the milking, and get all the other work done by 8 a.m., and I can do washing mornings and evenings, and on Saturdays.” Diana encouraged her to try and Bethenia quickly hopped on her horse and made the rounds to the various neighbor’s homes looking for students.

According to Bethenia’s recollections, “I succeeded in getting the promise of sixteen pupils for which I was to receive $2 for three months. This was my first attempt to instruct others. I taught my school in the old Presbyterian church – the first Presbyterian church building ever erected in Oregon. Of my sixteen pupils, there were three who were more advanced than myself, but I took their books home with me nights, and, with the help of my brother-in-law, I managed to prepare the lessons beforehand, and they never suspected my incompetence. From this school I received my first little fortune of $25; and I added to this by picking wild black berries at odd times, which found a ready sale at fifty cents a gallon.” By 1861, Bethenia had earned enough money to purchase her own plot of land in Astoria and build a house.

No amount of hard work could deter Bethenia from achieving her goal of getting an education. She passed from one class to another, moving on to more advanced courses along the way. She admitted that she made it through not because she was the most cleaver, but because she was determined and perseverant. “At 4 a.m. my lamp was always burning,” she wrote in her memoirs, “and I was poring over my books – never allowing myself more than eight hours sleep.”

Bethenia’s thirst for knowledge did not subside after she graduated from high school. The fondness she had as a youngster for nursing and caring for sick friends and family, sparked a desire to study medicine. Her superior talent in hat design and dressmaking helped her to raise the necessary funds to attend medical school. She became truly committed to the calling after witnessing an elderly doctor’s inability to care properly for a small child. “The old physician in my presence,” she wrote years later, “attempted to use an instrument for the relief of the little sufferer, and, in his long, bungling, and unsuccessful attempt he severely lacerated the tender flesh of the poor little girl. At last, he laid down the instrument, to wipe his glasses. I picked it up saying, “Let me try, Doctor,” and passed it instantly, with perfect ease, bringing immediate relief to the tortured child.”

That momentous event set in motion the course of Bethenia’s new profession.

Words of encouragement for Bethenia’s new aim were few and far between, however. In fact, once she made her career plans known, only two people supported her. One was a trusted physician, who loaned her his medical books; the other was a judge, who applauded her ambition and assured her that she “would win.” Most of Bethenia’s family and friends were opposed to her becoming a doctor. They sneered and laughed and told her it was a disgrace for a woman to enter into such work. Bethenia disregarded their warnings and criticism, and pressed on toward her objective.

Bethenia began her studies at the Philadelphia Eclectic School of Medicine in 1870. Students at the college learned ways to treat the sick using herbs, mineral bathes, and natural medicines. Upon graduation she opened a practice in the Portland area. Several patients sought out her unorthodox method of dealing with sickness and pain, and in no time, her business was making a profit. Bethenia could then afford to send nineteen-year old George to the UC Berkley Medical School. He graduated in 1874.

Although Doctor Owens’s eclectic medical practice was prosperous, she was not satisfied. She pined for more knowledge in her chosen field.

On September 1, 1878, she left Portland for Philadelphia to seek counsel from a professor at her former college. She was advised to attend the University of Michigan, and she left at once to enroll. Her daily schedule was filled with lectures, clinics, laboratory work, and examinations. Bethenia was so engrossed in her studies that she did not hear the bell ring between classes. She never tired of the learning process and she never suffered with a day of sickness.

In June of 1880, Doctor Owens received her second degree. After graduation she traveled with one of her classmates to do field work in hospitals and clinics in Chicago. In the fall of that same year, she returned to the University of Michigan, accompanied by her son. Together, the mother and son doctors attended advanced lectures in obstetrics and homeopathic remedies. At the conclusion of the lectures she and George took a trip through Europe. Afterwards, she settled briefly in San Francisco. It was there she met her second husband.

Before she met Colonel John Adair, Bethenia maintained that she was fully committed to her profession and not interested in marriage. A brief courtship with the handsome Civil War veteran changed her mind. The two were married on July 24, 1884, in Portland, Oregon.

Three years after the wedding, the Adairs were expecting their first child. Bethenia boasted in her journal that she was happier than she had ever been before. Her elation would not last long. “At the age of forty-seven,” she wrote, “I gave birth to a little daughter; and now my joy knew no limit, my cup of bliss was full to overflowing. A son I had, and a daughter was what I most desired…For three days only, was she left with us, and then my treasure was taken from me, to join the immortal hosts beyond all earthly pain and sorrow.”

Bethenia found solace from the grief of her daughter’s death in caring for the sick in her Portland practice. No matter what the weather conditions were, and knowing that there was no other doctor within a 200-mile radius, she never refused a call from a patient. She attended to all those in need, at times traveling through dense undergrowth and swollen rivers.

Never content with being solely a physician, Bethenia became a student again in 1889 and enrolled in a Chicago medical school, seeking a post-graduate degree. After she completed her studies, she returned home to her husband and the teenage son they had adopted. Her practice continued to grow, and before long she found she could not keep up with her professional work and maintain a home for her family.

She chose the practice over her marriage and sent John away to a farm they owned in Astoria. The Adairs’ marriage ended in 1903.

At the age of sixty-five, Bethenia retired from her practice. Her focus shifted from day-to-day medical treatment to research. In addition to her research, she worked as a lobbyist for the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. She remained a staunch social and political activist until 1926, when she died of natural causes at the age of eighty-six.

The impact Mr. Beaufort had on Bethenia’s early years lasted a lifetime. According to her memoirs, he instilled in her a love for learning and was the example of the kind of educator she herself eventually became.

Frances Allen Noyes

Miner on Candle Creek

“If I can’t be in the hills, I would sooner be dead.”

France Noyes – 1928

A cluster of tents dotted a strip of frozen earth at the base of a massive glacier in Skagway, Alaska. Beyond the solid layer of ice was a thick forest that followed the contours of a mountain. The numerous trees that covered the ridge were like deep-pile carpet and the grassy scruff under the timbers were red and yellow with the coming of autumn. A clear, cold stream flowed swiftly from the white peaks, spilling over the layers of compacted snow. Pieces of the iceberg broke off and fell into the freezing water.

Frances Noyes, a pretty, determined woman dressed in a heavy wool coat, thick-soled, knee-high boots, and wool gloves traveled along a gravel trail running parallel to the stream. She stopped momentarily to plunge a gold mining pan into the rocky creek bed and sift through the pebbles. Like hundreds of other miners that rushed to Alaska in 1898 looking for gold, Frances was confident she would discover a fortune. The biting wind and snow flurries that cut across her path did not deter her from her work. She glanced around at the setting and smiled.

She was invigorated by her surroundings. “If there ever was a woman prospector, it was Frances,” Frances nephew William Simonds recalled of his aunt. “She was never as content in her life as she was mining in the Alaskan wilderness.”

Frances and her husband, Thomas C. Noyes, searched for gold along Otter Creek near Skagway from September 1899 to February 1900. She was one of a handful of women miners who dared to brave the sub-zero temperatures of the isolated Klondike. The intrepid female pioneer actually chose mining as her second career. Her first job was as a stage actress. Beautiful and talented, she spent years entertaining audiences in boomtowns across the Old West. One audience member was Thomas Noyes, a man she fell in love with and wanted to marry in spite of his family’s objections. Had he not stood up to his parents she might not have accompanied him on his mining expedition and might never realized her true calling.

“I shall conduct no training school for actresses,” Montana mining tycoon John Noyes declared. He sent his son Tom a withering glare. The boy had obviously been taken in by a pretty face. Mrs. Allen was not the type of woman he had in mind as a wife for his son. She’d been married and divorced, and that scandal had hardly quieted when a new one had erupted.

 

The full weight of his father’s displeasure only strengthened Tom’s resolve. “You have $2,500 in a trust fund that you are holding for me, have you not, Father?”

“Yes.”

“Well, give me that. I will start out for myself, and you can cut me off without a cent.” Tom had loved Frances Allen ever since he first saw her in a theatrical production. His father thought Tom was too young to marry and Frances too infamous to be his bride, but Tom intended to marry her, and soon. Frances clearly was in danger, however, as another would-be suitor from New Orleans was stalking her from state to state and might soon appear in Butte.

Tom did not change his mind, though his father continually dredged up the infamy of Frances’s past, starting with her divorce from Samuel Allen earlier in 1897. The newspapers had reported every titillating development. According to one account Samuel Allen had told his friends that his ex-wife “is a good woman, but has a passion for money, a siren who uses her charms to infatuate men to the point where they lavish their wealth upon her, but she never strays from the straight and narrow path.”

 

 

A report in Spokane’s Spokesman entitled “She’s An Actress, Ex-Prosecuting Attorney Objects to the Life,” claimed, “ The wreck of this family commenced about the time of the society circus at Natatorium Park in 1895, when Mrs. Allen rode two horses bareback. Mr. Allen did not enjoy this exhibition, and the family was never a happy one.”

Tom suspected his father had seen that article. He was certain the electrifying accounts had convinced his father to forbid him to marry the woman he loved. The newspapers, in Tom’s opinion, wrongly made Frances sound like a beautiful but heartless, money-hungry tease. Tom’s father certainly believed this and reminded his son that no respectable woman would flaunt herself on stage unless she was out to snare a rich husband. Tom knew Frances did not care about money. She would marry him with his small trust fund and no prospects of inheriting his father’s huge fortune.

What worried Tom was the threat hanging over Frances’s life. A would-be suitor, Alfred Hildreth, was stalking Frances, and his actions had steadily become more dangerous. At the Leland Hotel in Chicago, Hildreth had lain in wait for five days. The Southerner confronted Frances in the lobby, and witnesses said Frances agreed to dine with him at a downtown restaurant, only to have the impassion man

 

brandish a carving knife while declaring he would do something desperate if she wouldn’t have him. He had followed Frances through several states, and his ardor increased every time he caught up with her. Tom knew Alfred could show up at any time.

Newspapers in Chicago and New York recorded the tales of Hildreth’s obsession. The Chicago Chronicle carried one story that made Tom’s blood boil. “Alfred J. Hildreth loves Mrs. Frances Allen with such true and ardent affection that he has followed her 5,000 miles to prove it. Even though Mr. Allen secured a divorce from his wife because she rode bareback at a charity circus in Spokane, Wash., attired in the reddest of red silken tights, Hildreth says she is dear to him. Mrs. Allen, however, does not return the feeling of young Hildreth, and she has spent many weary hours moving from one city to another to escape the devoted lover.”

The tights had been pink, but Tom didn’t bother to correct the story. Frances Allen belonged to him, and neither Alfred Hildreth nor Tom’s own father was going to stand in the way of a wedding, Tom decided.

Arabella Frances Patchen Allen did not care that Tom’s father disapproved of her life on the stage. She intended to marry his son.

 

Of all the men who had pursued her since she had left Spokane after the fateful circus ride, Tommy was the one she truly loved. Her first marriage had been troubled from the start. On the day of her wedding to Samuel Allen in 1892, when she was barely eighteen, the groom had disappeared. His drunken companions had held a “special session” and voted to continue the wedding anyway, with a different groom. After several good-natured votes were taken among the unmarried men, each of whom had voted for himself, Samuel had finally reappeared, and the vows were spoken.

For a few years she had enjoyed the social life that was part of being married to a prominent lawyer. Samuel had even given his consent for her participation in the charity circus at Natatorium Park, since half the money would go to the family of a boy who had broken his back in a barrel slide. Her husband had stalked out in a rage when he discovered his beautiful young wife in form-fitting tights and short blue skirt, riveting the attention of every person in the place.

Samuel’s outrage had resulted in a huge quarrel, and she’d left his fine home for good that August. By April of the following year, she had succeeded on the stage. If she hadn’t ridden in the society circus, she might still be married to Samuel and living well, she knew, but by leaving

 

Spokane and taking parts in productions in Bradford, Pennsylvania, she’d achieved some success of her own. And her acting career had allowed her to meet Tom Noyes, whom she had fallen in love with and was prepared to marry.

The 1897 wedding of Tom Noyes and Frances Allen did not compare in any way to Tom’s sister’s wedding, which linked two prosperous mining families and was celebrated as the most brilliant wedding ever held in Montana. Tom and Frances were married in a small, quiet ceremony. By the time Tom’s sister, Ruth Noyes, married Arthur Heinz, Tom and Frances were already mining together in Skagway, Alaska, at the foot of a glacier on Otter Creek.

Tom knew he was a lucky man. Not many women would have smiled through the bitter cold and long darkness of an Alaskan winter. Unlike the California Gold Rush, few women had hurried to the rush in the frozen northland. But his petite, flirtatious Frances was one of a handful of women truly interested in mining. She loved the open country and the freedom from the society that had scorned her.

Frances was as eager as Tom to move on when Otter Creek didn’t provide the wealth they were seeking. They headed for wide-open, lawless Nome, located at the edge of the Seward Peninsula on the Bering Sea.

 

Gold had been discovered at Anvil Creek, and by the spring of 1900, somewhere between twenty and thirty thousand “stampeders” had come to Nome.

Camped above the tide line with thousand of others, Frances, who stood approximately 2 inches shorter than 5 feet tall, helped shovel sand into the portable rockers used to sift out the fine gold. Many people believed that the ocean was depositing gold at high tide. Tents and rockers stretched for miles along the beach.

Tom was appointed to a four-year term as a U.S. Commissioner for the Fairhaven District of Alaska, and soon Frances and Tom were again moving in the upper circles of society, albeit a much more flamboyant elite than the stuffy and conventional social strata they’d left behind. Tom’s knowledge of mining and his impeccable character, dubbed “pure gold” by one of the men he worked with on several claims, earned report in lawless Nome.

Tom wanted to find the Alaska mother lode, and Frances always followed where he led. He learned from one of the native people in the area that gold was easier to get on Candle Creek. Frances put away her silks and lace and followed Tom hundreds of miles north to Candle Creek, where they staked several claims.

 

Frances experienced “mushing” by dogsled and began to learn more and more about prospecting.

Alaskan newspapers covered some of the adventures of the prospecting newlyweds, reporting that they endured “perilous trips, lost trails, climbs over glacier fields, where steps had to be cut with an ax.” More than once Frances was credited with saving her husband’s life. Their claims paid off, and Tom became known as “King of the Candle.” He started a band and built a home for himself and Frances, where anyone was welcome.

In 1902 Tom’s father died, and Tom inherited an interest in a hotel in Seattle. Success piled on success, and Frances and Tom began to alternate between harsh conditions and adventures in Alaska and society teas and balls in Seattle and Butte.

In 1905 Tom and Frances adopted a half-Eskimo girl, Bonnie who was approximately five years old. During the winter she attended school in Butte; in the summer she often returned to Alaska with her parents.

As their success in Candle grew, Tom conceived of a plan to bring water to the rich placer diggings. In the autumn of 1907, he left for New York to obtain $200,000 to finance the completion of the Bear Creek ditch. Frances stayed at Candle to manage their interests.

 

He’d barely arrived in New York when a financial panic hit, jeopardizing the nation’s economy. No bank would loan him money for a project in Alaska, and funds were so tight Tom had to pawn his watch and jewelry to pay his hotel bills. Tom’s bank in Candle and the bank in Nome were threatened with a run by frightened customers eager to get their money into their own hands.

In an unprecedented feat of courage and strength, Frances once again came to her husband’s rescue, only this time she saved his financial life. Pawning her jewelry to raise ten thousand dollars, Frances mushed across the frozen Artic tundra in the dead of winter. The story was printed in the Seattle Times and many other newspapers. “With only a driver for her team of malamutes, she started out across the hundreds of miles of ice and snow, the thermometer so low it almost faded from view. Through the short days and into the nights this brave woman trudged on through the snow. Many days were needed for the journey, but the news that the money was coming had spread a better feeling in Nome and the bank was able to weather the storm until relief should arrive. The journey made by Mrs. Noyes was one of the most heroic ever attempted by a woman on her own initiative in the far North, and when she reached Nome she was accorded a welcome that was commensurate with her feat.

The bank was saved, and a woman had been the agent.”

Unfortunately, two years later Tom’s bank failed, and his claims at Candle were lost. Tom had made a critical mistake – failing to use his official bank title when he signed checks – that left him personally liable when the bank failed. Tom and Frances retreated to Tongass Island near Ketchikan. In 1913 Tom ventured out to try his luck during a stampeded to the Shushana gold strike. Shortly afterward, Frances joined him. There the harsh conditions of the Alaskan goldfields took their final toll.

Although they met with some success, one of the prospecting trips they took resulted in disaster. Days on the trail in temperatures as low as fifty degrees below zero with little shelter and poor food left Tom a “physical wreck.”

On December 15, 1915, Tom was hospitalized in Port Simpson General Hospital in British Columbia. Frances slept on a cot in his room, watching over and caring for him. Later, with Frances and his mother at his side, he was taken to a hospital in St. Louis, but he died of pneumonia on February 2, 1916.

Stunned and heartbroken, their fortune gone, Frances returned alone to Tongass Island. She received a letter that spring from one of their former partners who recalled Tom and Frances’s early days at Otter Creek.

“Nearly 17 years ago you said goodbye to me on the platform at Seattle and you knew that you were saying farewell to a friend who would have done anything for you. I have not altered. I am just the same William you knew at Otter Creek and in our little camp at the foot of the glacier.”

The letter goes on to remember Tom.

“I shall never realize that Tommy is dead. Since I left you I have been in many places and had dealings with many men, but I have never come across another Tommy, he was just pure gold. I was trying to think last night if I could remember him being out of temper or cross, but I could not, and we had some trying times. It is a great thing to have had a partner in life who you can look forward to meeting, to whom you can hold your hand out to and look straight in the eye and say “Tommy, I am glad to see you.”

Perhaps there may be another Klondike for us beyond the clouds; if there is I could ask for nothing better than my two dear friends of the glacier should be my partners again.”

The writer advised Frances not to return to Alaska, but the woman who had married at eighteen, divorced at twenty-three, and married again that same year to a man she cherished despite the scorn and anger of her father-in-law, returned to the northern land she loved.

She kept body and soul together by managing the Nakat Inlet cannery store, but her love of the Alaskan wilderness eventually lured her away from civilization. She went back to prospecting, where everything she’d learned from her beloved Tommy allowed her to prosper.

Frances married again at the age of forty-five, to William Muncaster, who was 15 years younger. Despite the age difference, Bill had been smitten for years with Frances. He’d sent her love letters and stopped in to visit her between trips to survey Alaska for the Coast and Geodetic Survey. Bonnie accompanied Frances and her new stepfather on their honeymoon trip to Alaska’s goldfields.

Frances and William lived in a cabin on Wellesley Lake. They prospected and often went on fishing and hunting trips even when the temperature dipped to fifty below zero. Tom’s memory, however, never faded from Frances. Visiting a place she and Tom had stayed during the Shushana gold strike, she wrote in her diary, “Everything looks different. Everything is different.”

One that never changed was Frances’s love of prospecting. She and William visited their claims until 1946, when Frances was seventy-two years old and living in Haines, a small town in southeastern Alaska.

 

The woman who scandalized Spokane with her daring ride in pink tights, the actress who caused a mining tycoon to shun his heir, the woman who saved her husband’s bank with a grueling trek across the frozen northland, the unlikely prospector who loved Alaska so much she spent fifty-four years there, died on October 28, 1952. William Muncaster provided the press with clippings and stories about her life in Alaska. He wrote a final letter for the local newspaper.

Dear Sir,

Please publish this letter, for I wish to thank with all my heart all the people, young and old alike, in the town of Haines, Alaska, and the adjoining vicinities North, South, East and West for the unbelievable 100 percent respect shown by them as Mrs. Frances Mucaster’s final rites. I thank you.

William Muncaster

Frances Allen Noyes

Miner on Candle Creek

“If I can’t be in the hills, I would sooner be dead.”

France Noyes – 1928

A cluster of tents dotted a strip of frozen earth at the base of a massive glacier in Skagway, Alaska. Beyond the solid layer of ice was a thick forest that followed the contours of a mountain. The numerous trees that covered the ridge were like deep-pile carpet and the grassy scruff under the timbers were red and yellow with the coming of autumn. A clear, cold stream flowed swiftly from the white peaks, spilling over the layers of compacted snow. Pieces of the iceberg broke off and fell into the freezing water.

Frances Noyes, a pretty, determined woman dressed in a heavy wool coat, thick-soled, knee-high boots, and wool gloves traveled along a gravel trail running parallel to the stream. She stopped momentarily to plunge a gold mining pan into the rocky creek bed and sift through the pebbles. Like hundreds of other miners that rushed to Alaska in 1898 looking for gold, Frances was confident she would discover a fortune. The biting wind and snow flurries that cut across her path did not deter her from her work. She glanced around at the setting and smiled.

She was invigorated by her surroundings. “If there ever was a woman prospector, it was Frances,” Frances nephew William Simonds recalled of his aunt. “She was never as content in her life as she was mining in the Alaskan wilderness.”

Frances and her husband, Thomas C. Noyes, searched for gold along Otter Creek near Skagway from September 1899 to February 1900. She was one of a handful of women miners who dared to brave the sub-zero temperatures of the isolated Klondike. The intrepid female pioneer actually chose mining as her second career. Her first job was as a stage actress. Beautiful and talented, she spent years entertaining audiences in boomtowns across the Old West. One audience member was Thomas Noyes, a man she fell in love with and wanted to marry in spite of his family’s objections. Had he not stood up to his parents she might not have accompanied him on his mining expedition and might never realized her true calling.

“I shall conduct no training school for actresses,” Montana mining tycoon John Noyes declared. He sent his son Tom a withering glare. The boy had obviously been taken in by a pretty face. Mrs. Allen was not the type of woman he had in mind as a wife for his son. She’d been married and divorced, and that scandal had hardly quieted when a new one had erupted.

 

The full weight of his father’s displeasure only strengthened Tom’s resolve. “You have $2,500 in a trust fund that you are holding for me, have you not, Father?”

“Yes.”

“Well, give me that. I will start out for myself, and you can cut me off without a cent.” Tom had loved Frances Allen ever since he first saw her in a theatrical production. His father thought Tom was too young to marry and Frances too infamous to be his bride, but Tom intended to marry her, and soon. Frances clearly was in danger, however, as another would-be suitor from New Orleans was stalking her from state to state and might soon appear in Butte.

Tom did not change his mind, though his father continually dredged up the infamy of Frances’s past, starting with her divorce from Samuel Allen earlier in 1897. The newspapers had reported every titillating development. According to one account Samuel Allen had told his friends that his ex-wife “is a good woman, but has a passion for money, a siren who uses her charms to infatuate men to the point where they lavish their wealth upon her, but she never strays from the straight and narrow path.”

 

 

A report in Spokane’s Spokesman entitled “She’s An Actress, Ex-Prosecuting Attorney Objects to the Life,” claimed, “ The wreck of this family commenced about the time of the society circus at Natatorium Park in 1895, when Mrs. Allen rode two horses bareback. Mr. Allen did not enjoy this exhibition, and the family was never a happy one.”

Tom suspected his father had seen that article. He was certain the electrifying accounts had convinced his father to forbid him to marry the woman he loved. The newspapers, in Tom’s opinion, wrongly made Frances sound like a beautiful but heartless, money-hungry tease. Tom’s father certainly believed this and reminded his son that no respectable woman would flaunt herself on stage unless she was out to snare a rich husband. Tom knew Frances did not care about money. She would marry him with his small trust fund and no prospects of inheriting his father’s huge fortune.

What worried Tom was the threat hanging over Frances’s life. A would-be suitor, Alfred Hildreth, was stalking Frances, and his actions had steadily become more dangerous. At the Leland Hotel in Chicago, Hildreth had lain in wait for five days. The Southerner confronted Frances in the lobby, and witnesses said Frances agreed to dine with him at a downtown restaurant, only to have the impassion man

 

brandish a carving knife while declaring he would do something desperate if she wouldn’t have him. He had followed Frances through several states, and his ardor increased every time he caught up with her. Tom knew Alfred could show up at any time.

Newspapers in Chicago and New York recorded the tales of Hildreth’s obsession. The Chicago Chronicle carried one story that made Tom’s blood boil. “Alfred J. Hildreth loves Mrs. Frances Allen with such true and ardent affection that he has followed her 5,000 miles to prove it. Even though Mr. Allen secured a divorce from his wife because she rode bareback at a charity circus in Spokane, Wash., attired in the reddest of red silken tights, Hildreth says she is dear to him. Mrs. Allen, however, does not return the feeling of young Hildreth, and she has spent many weary hours moving from one city to another to escape the devoted lover.”

The tights had been pink, but Tom didn’t bother to correct the story. Frances Allen belonged to him, and neither Alfred Hildreth nor Tom’s own father was going to stand in the way of a wedding, Tom decided.

Arabella Frances Patchen Allen did not care that Tom’s father disapproved of her life on the stage. She intended to marry his son.

 

Of all the men who had pursued her since she had left Spokane after the fateful circus ride, Tommy was the one she truly loved. Her first marriage had been troubled from the start. On the day of her wedding to Samuel Allen in 1892, when she was barely eighteen, the groom had disappeared. His drunken companions had held a “special session” and voted to continue the wedding anyway, with a different groom. After several good-natured votes were taken among the unmarried men, each of whom had voted for himself, Samuel had finally reappeared, and the vows were spoken.

For a few years she had enjoyed the social life that was part of being married to a prominent lawyer. Samuel had even given his consent for her participation in the charity circus at Natatorium Park, since half the money would go to the family of a boy who had broken his back in a barrel slide. Her husband had stalked out in a rage when he discovered his beautiful young wife in form-fitting tights and short blue skirt, riveting the attention of every person in the place.

Samuel’s outrage had resulted in a huge quarrel, and she’d left his fine home for good that August. By April of the following year, she had succeeded on the stage. If she hadn’t ridden in the society circus, she might still be married to Samuel and living well, she knew, but by leaving

 

Spokane and taking parts in productions in Bradford, Pennsylvania, she’d achieved some success of her own. And her acting career had allowed her to meet Tom Noyes, whom she had fallen in love with and was prepared to marry.

The 1897 wedding of Tom Noyes and Frances Allen did not compare in any way to Tom’s sister’s wedding, which linked two prosperous mining families and was celebrated as the most brilliant wedding ever held in Montana. Tom and Frances were married in a small, quiet ceremony. By the time Tom’s sister, Ruth Noyes, married Arthur Heinz, Tom and Frances were already mining together in Skagway, Alaska, at the foot of a glacier on Otter Creek.

Tom knew he was a lucky man. Not many women would have smiled through the bitter cold and long darkness of an Alaskan winter. Unlike the California Gold Rush, few women had hurried to the rush in the frozen northland. But his petite, flirtatious Frances was one of a handful of women truly interested in mining. She loved the open country and the freedom from the society that had scorned her.

Frances was as eager as Tom to move on when Otter Creek didn’t provide the wealth they were seeking. They headed for wide-open, lawless Nome, located at the edge of the Seward Peninsula on the Bering Sea.

 

Gold had been discovered at Anvil Creek, and by the spring of 1900, somewhere between twenty and thirty thousand “stampeders” had come to Nome.

Camped above the tide line with thousand of others, Frances, who stood approximately 2 inches shorter than 5 feet tall, helped shovel sand into the portable rockers used to sift out the fine gold. Many people believed that the ocean was depositing gold at high tide. Tents and rockers stretched for miles along the beach.

Tom was appointed to a four-year term as a U.S. Commissioner for the Fairhaven District of Alaska, and soon Frances and Tom were again moving in the upper circles of society, albeit a much more flamboyant elite than the stuffy and conventional social strata they’d left behind. Tom’s knowledge of mining and his impeccable character, dubbed “pure gold” by one of the men he worked with on several claims, earned report in lawless Nome.

Tom wanted to find the Alaska mother lode, and Frances always followed where he led. He learned from one of the native people in the area that gold was easier to get on Candle Creek. Frances put away her silks and lace and followed Tom hundreds of miles north to Candle Creek, where they staked several claims.

 

Frances experienced “mushing” by dogsled and began to learn more and more about prospecting.

Alaskan newspapers covered some of the adventures of the prospecting newlyweds, reporting that they endured “perilous trips, lost trails, climbs over glacier fields, where steps had to be cut with an ax.” More than once Frances was credited with saving her husband’s life. Their claims paid off, and Tom became known as “King of the Candle.” He started a band and built a home for himself and Frances, where anyone was welcome.

In 1902 Tom’s father died, and Tom inherited an interest in a hotel in Seattle. Success piled on success, and Frances and Tom began to alternate between harsh conditions and adventures in Alaska and society teas and balls in Seattle and Butte.

In 1905 Tom and Frances adopted a half-Eskimo girl, Bonnie who was approximately five years old. During the winter she attended school in Butte; in the summer she often returned to Alaska with her parents.

As their success in Candle grew, Tom conceived of a plan to bring water to the rich placer diggings. In the autumn of 1907, he left for New York to obtain $200,000 to finance the completion of the Bear Creek ditch. Frances stayed at Candle to manage their interests.

 

He’d barely arrived in New York when a financial panic hit, jeopardizing the nation’s economy. No bank would loan him money for a project in Alaska, and funds were so tight Tom had to pawn his watch and jewelry to pay his hotel bills. Tom’s bank in Candle and the bank in Nome were threatened with a run by frightened customers eager to get their money into their own hands.

In an unprecedented feat of courage and strength, Frances once again came to her husband’s rescue, only this time she saved his financial life. Pawning her jewelry to raise ten thousand dollars, Frances mushed across the frozen Artic tundra in the dead of winter. The story was printed in the Seattle Times and many other newspapers. “With only a driver for her team of malamutes, she started out across the hundreds of miles of ice and snow, the thermometer so low it almost faded from view. Through the short days and into the nights this brave woman trudged on through the snow. Many days were needed for the journey, but the news that the money was coming had spread a better feeling in Nome and the bank was able to weather the storm until relief should arrive. The journey made by Mrs. Noyes was one of the most heroic ever attempted by a woman on her own initiative in the far North, and when she reached Nome she was accorded a welcome that was commensurate with her feat.

The bank was saved, and a woman had been the agent.”

Unfortunately, two years later Tom’s bank failed, and his claims at Candle were lost. Tom had made a critical mistake – failing to use his official bank title when he signed checks – that left him personally liable when the bank failed. Tom and Frances retreated to Tongass Island near Ketchikan. In 1913 Tom ventured out to try his luck during a stampeded to the Shushana gold strike. Shortly afterward, Frances joined him. There the harsh conditions of the Alaskan goldfields took their final toll.

Although they met with some success, one of the prospecting trips they took resulted in disaster. Days on the trail in temperatures as low as fifty degrees below zero with little shelter and poor food left Tom a “physical wreck.”

On December 15, 1915, Tom was hospitalized in Port Simpson General Hospital in British Columbia. Frances slept on a cot in his room, watching over and caring for him. Later, with Frances and his mother at his side, he was taken to a hospital in St. Louis, but he died of pneumonia on February 2, 1916.

Stunned and heartbroken, their fortune gone, Frances returned alone to Tongass Island. She received a letter that spring from one of their former partners who recalled Tom and Frances’s early days at Otter Creek.

“Nearly 17 years ago you said goodbye to me on the platform at Seattle and you knew that you were saying farewell to a friend who would have done anything for you. I have not altered. I am just the same William you knew at Otter Creek and in our little camp at the foot of the glacier.”

The letter goes on to remember Tom.

“I shall never realize that Tommy is dead. Since I left you I have been in many places and had dealings with many men, but I have never come across another Tommy, he was just pure gold. I was trying to think last night if I could remember him being out of temper or cross, but I could not, and we had some trying times. It is a great thing to have had a partner in life who you can look forward to meeting, to whom you can hold your hand out to and look straight in the eye and say “Tommy, I am glad to see you.”

Perhaps there may be another Klondike for us beyond the clouds; if there is I could ask for nothing better than my two dear friends of the glacier should be my partners again.”

The writer advised Frances not to return to Alaska, but the woman who had married at eighteen, divorced at twenty-three, and married again that same year to a man she cherished despite the scorn and anger of her father-in-law, returned to the northern land she loved.

She kept body and soul together by managing the Nakat Inlet cannery store, but her love of the Alaskan wilderness eventually lured her away from civilization. She went back to prospecting, where everything she’d learned from her beloved Tommy allowed her to prosper.

Frances married again at the age of forty-five, to William Muncaster, who was 15 years younger. Despite the age difference, Bill had been smitten for years with Frances. He’d sent her love letters and stopped in to visit her between trips to survey Alaska for the Coast and Geodetic Survey. Bonnie accompanied Frances and her new stepfather on their honeymoon trip to Alaska’s goldfields.

Frances and William lived in a cabin on Wellesley Lake. They prospected and often went on fishing and hunting trips even when the temperature dipped to fifty below zero. Tom’s memory, however, never faded from Frances. Visiting a place she and Tom had stayed during the Shushana gold strike, she wrote in her diary, “Everything looks different. Everything is different.”

One that never changed was Frances’s love of prospecting. She and William visited their claims until 1946, when Frances was seventy-two years old and living in Haines, a small town in southeastern Alaska.

 

The woman who scandalized Spokane with her daring ride in pink tights, the actress who caused a mining tycoon to shun his heir, the woman who saved her husband’s bank with a grueling trek across the frozen northland, the unlikely prospector who loved Alaska so much she spent fifty-four years there, died on October 28, 1952. William Muncaster provided the press with clippings and stories about her life in Alaska. He wrote a final letter for the local newspaper.

Dear Sir,

Please publish this letter, for I wish to thank with all my heart all the people, young and old alike, in the town of Haines, Alaska, and the adjoining vicinities North, South, East and West for the unbelievable 100 percent respect shown by them as Mrs. Frances Mucaster’s final rites. I thank you.

William Muncaster

Frances Allen Noyes

Miner on Candle Creek

“If I can’t be in the hills, I would sooner be dead.”

France Noyes – 1928

A cluster of tents dotted a strip of frozen earth at the base of a massive glacier in Skagway, Alaska. Beyond the solid layer of ice was a thick forest that followed the contours of a mountain. The numerous trees that covered the ridge were like deep-pile carpet and the grassy scruff under the timbers were red and yellow with the coming of autumn. A clear, cold stream flowed swiftly from the white peaks, spilling over the layers of compacted snow. Pieces of the iceberg broke off and fell into the freezing water.

Frances Noyes, a pretty, determined woman dressed in a heavy wool coat, thick-soled, knee-high boots, and wool gloves traveled along a gravel trail running parallel to the stream. She stopped momentarily to plunge a gold mining pan into the rocky creek bed and sift through the pebbles. Like hundreds of other miners that rushed to Alaska in 1898 looking for gold, Frances was confident she would discover a fortune. The biting wind and snow flurries that cut across her path did not deter her from her work. She glanced around at the setting and smiled.

She was invigorated by her surroundings. “If there ever was a woman prospector, it was Frances,” Frances nephew William Simonds recalled of his aunt. “She was never as content in her life as she was mining in the Alaskan wilderness.”

Frances and her husband, Thomas C. Noyes, searched for gold along Otter Creek near Skagway from September 1899 to February 1900. She was one of a handful of women miners who dared to brave the sub-zero temperatures of the isolated Klondike. The intrepid female pioneer actually chose mining as her second career. Her first job was as a stage actress. Beautiful and talented, she spent years entertaining audiences in boomtowns across the Old West. One audience member was Thomas Noyes, a man she fell in love with and wanted to marry in spite of his family’s objections. Had he not stood up to his parents she might not have accompanied him on his mining expedition and might never realized her true calling.

“I shall conduct no training school for actresses,” Montana mining tycoon John Noyes declared. He sent his son Tom a withering glare. The boy had obviously been taken in by a pretty face. Mrs. Allen was not the type of woman he had in mind as a wife for his son. She’d been married and divorced, and that scandal had hardly quieted when a new one had erupted.

 

The full weight of his father’s displeasure only strengthened Tom’s resolve. “You have $2,500 in a trust fund that you are holding for me, have you not, Father?”

“Yes.”

“Well, give me that. I will start out for myself, and you can cut me off without a cent.” Tom had loved Frances Allen ever since he first saw her in a theatrical production. His father thought Tom was too young to marry and Frances too infamous to be his bride, but Tom intended to marry her, and soon. Frances clearly was in danger, however, as another would-be suitor from New Orleans was stalking her from state to state and might soon appear in Butte.

Tom did not change his mind, though his father continually dredged up the infamy of Frances’s past, starting with her divorce from Samuel Allen earlier in 1897. The newspapers had reported every titillating development. According to one account Samuel Allen had told his friends that his ex-wife “is a good woman, but has a passion for money, a siren who uses her charms to infatuate men to the point where they lavish their wealth upon her, but she never strays from the straight and narrow path.”

 

 

A report in Spokane’s Spokesman entitled “She’s An Actress, Ex-Prosecuting Attorney Objects to the Life,” claimed, “ The wreck of this family commenced about the time of the society circus at Natatorium Park in 1895, when Mrs. Allen rode two horses bareback. Mr. Allen did not enjoy this exhibition, and the family was never a happy one.”

Tom suspected his father had seen that article. He was certain the electrifying accounts had convinced his father to forbid him to marry the woman he loved. The newspapers, in Tom’s opinion, wrongly made Frances sound like a beautiful but heartless, money-hungry tease. Tom’s father certainly believed this and reminded his son that no respectable woman would flaunt herself on stage unless she was out to snare a rich husband. Tom knew Frances did not care about money. She would marry him with his small trust fund and no prospects of inheriting his father’s huge fortune.

What worried Tom was the threat hanging over Frances’s life. A would-be suitor, Alfred Hildreth, was stalking Frances, and his actions had steadily become more dangerous. At the Leland Hotel in Chicago, Hildreth had lain in wait for five days. The Southerner confronted Frances in the lobby, and witnesses said Frances agreed to dine with him at a downtown restaurant, only to have the impassion man

 

brandish a carving knife while declaring he would do something desperate if she wouldn’t have him. He had followed Frances through several states, and his ardor increased every time he caught up with her. Tom knew Alfred could show up at any time.

Newspapers in Chicago and New York recorded the tales of Hildreth’s obsession. The Chicago Chronicle carried one story that made Tom’s blood boil. “Alfred J. Hildreth loves Mrs. Frances Allen with such true and ardent affection that he has followed her 5,000 miles to prove it. Even though Mr. Allen secured a divorce from his wife because she rode bareback at a charity circus in Spokane, Wash., attired in the reddest of red silken tights, Hildreth says she is dear to him. Mrs. Allen, however, does not return the feeling of young Hildreth, and she has spent many weary hours moving from one city to another to escape the devoted lover.”

The tights had been pink, but Tom didn’t bother to correct the story. Frances Allen belonged to him, and neither Alfred Hildreth nor Tom’s own father was going to stand in the way of a wedding, Tom decided.

Arabella Frances Patchen Allen did not care that Tom’s father disapproved of her life on the stage. She intended to marry his son.

 

Of all the men who had pursued her since she had left Spokane after the fateful circus ride, Tommy was the one she truly loved. Her first marriage had been troubled from the start. On the day of her wedding to Samuel Allen in 1892, when she was barely eighteen, the groom had disappeared. His drunken companions had held a “special session” and voted to continue the wedding anyway, with a different groom. After several good-natured votes were taken among the unmarried men, each of whom had voted for himself, Samuel had finally reappeared, and the vows were spoken.

For a few years she had enjoyed the social life that was part of being married to a prominent lawyer. Samuel had even given his consent for her participation in the charity circus at Natatorium Park, since half the money would go to the family of a boy who had broken his back in a barrel slide. Her husband had stalked out in a rage when he discovered his beautiful young wife in form-fitting tights and short blue skirt, riveting the attention of every person in the place.

Samuel’s outrage had resulted in a huge quarrel, and she’d left his fine home for good that August. By April of the following year, she had succeeded on the stage. If she hadn’t ridden in the society circus, she might still be married to Samuel and living well, she knew, but by leaving

 

Spokane and taking parts in productions in Bradford, Pennsylvania, she’d achieved some success of her own. And her acting career had allowed her to meet Tom Noyes, whom she had fallen in love with and was prepared to marry.

The 1897 wedding of Tom Noyes and Frances Allen did not compare in any way to Tom’s sister’s wedding, which linked two prosperous mining families and was celebrated as the most brilliant wedding ever held in Montana. Tom and Frances were married in a small, quiet ceremony. By the time Tom’s sister, Ruth Noyes, married Arthur Heinz, Tom and Frances were already mining together in Skagway, Alaska, at the foot of a glacier on Otter Creek.

Tom knew he was a lucky man. Not many women would have smiled through the bitter cold and long darkness of an Alaskan winter. Unlike the California Gold Rush, few women had hurried to the rush in the frozen northland. But his petite, flirtatious Frances was one of a handful of women truly interested in mining. She loved the open country and the freedom from the society that had scorned her.

Frances was as eager as Tom to move on when Otter Creek didn’t provide the wealth they were seeking. They headed for wide-open, lawless Nome, located at the edge of the Seward Peninsula on the Bering Sea.

 

Gold had been discovered at Anvil Creek, and by the spring of 1900, somewhere between twenty and thirty thousand “stampeders” had come to Nome.

Camped above the tide line with thousand of others, Frances, who stood approximately 2 inches shorter than 5 feet tall, helped shovel sand into the portable rockers used to sift out the fine gold. Many people believed that the ocean was depositing gold at high tide. Tents and rockers stretched for miles along the beach.

Tom was appointed to a four-year term as a U.S. Commissioner for the Fairhaven District of Alaska, and soon Frances and Tom were again moving in the upper circles of society, albeit a much more flamboyant elite than the stuffy and conventional social strata they’d left behind. Tom’s knowledge of mining and his impeccable character, dubbed “pure gold” by one of the men he worked with on several claims, earned report in lawless Nome.

Tom wanted to find the Alaska mother lode, and Frances always followed where he led. He learned from one of the native people in the area that gold was easier to get on Candle Creek. Frances put away her silks and lace and followed Tom hundreds of miles north to Candle Creek, where they staked several claims.

 

Frances experienced “mushing” by dogsled and began to learn more and more about prospecting.

Alaskan newspapers covered some of the adventures of the prospecting newlyweds, reporting that they endured “perilous trips, lost trails, climbs over glacier fields, where steps had to be cut with an ax.” More than once Frances was credited with saving her husband’s life. Their claims paid off, and Tom became known as “King of the Candle.” He started a band and built a home for himself and Frances, where anyone was welcome.

In 1902 Tom’s father died, and Tom inherited an interest in a hotel in Seattle. Success piled on success, and Frances and Tom began to alternate between harsh conditions and adventures in Alaska and society teas and balls in Seattle and Butte.

In 1905 Tom and Frances adopted a half-Eskimo girl, Bonnie who was approximately five years old. During the winter she attended school in Butte; in the summer she often returned to Alaska with her parents.

As their success in Candle grew, Tom conceived of a plan to bring water to the rich placer diggings. In the autumn of 1907, he left for New York to obtain $200,000 to finance the completion of the Bear Creek ditch. Frances stayed at Candle to manage their interests.

 

He’d barely arrived in New York when a financial panic hit, jeopardizing the nation’s economy. No bank would loan him money for a project in Alaska, and funds were so tight Tom had to pawn his watch and jewelry to pay his hotel bills. Tom’s bank in Candle and the bank in Nome were threatened with a run by frightened customers eager to get their money into their own hands.

In an unprecedented feat of courage and strength, Frances once again came to her husband’s rescue, only this time she saved his financial life. Pawning her jewelry to raise ten thousand dollars, Frances mushed across the frozen Artic tundra in the dead of winter. The story was printed in the Seattle Times and many other newspapers. “With only a driver for her team of malamutes, she started out across the hundreds of miles of ice and snow, the thermometer so low it almost faded from view. Through the short days and into the nights this brave woman trudged on through the snow. Many days were needed for the journey, but the news that the money was coming had spread a better feeling in Nome and the bank was able to weather the storm until relief should arrive. The journey made by Mrs. Noyes was one of the most heroic ever attempted by a woman on her own initiative in the far North, and when she reached Nome she was accorded a welcome that was commensurate with her feat.

The bank was saved, and a woman had been the agent.”

Unfortunately, two years later Tom’s bank failed, and his claims at Candle were lost. Tom had made a critical mistake – failing to use his official bank title when he signed checks – that left him personally liable when the bank failed. Tom and Frances retreated to Tongass Island near Ketchikan. In 1913 Tom ventured out to try his luck during a stampeded to the Shushana gold strike. Shortly afterward, Frances joined him. There the harsh conditions of the Alaskan goldfields took their final toll.

Although they met with some success, one of the prospecting trips they took resulted in disaster. Days on the trail in temperatures as low as fifty degrees below zero with little shelter and poor food left Tom a “physical wreck.”

On December 15, 1915, Tom was hospitalized in Port Simpson General Hospital in British Columbia. Frances slept on a cot in his room, watching over and caring for him. Later, with Frances and his mother at his side, he was taken to a hospital in St. Louis, but he died of pneumonia on February 2, 1916.

Stunned and heartbroken, their fortune gone, Frances returned alone to Tongass Island. She received a letter that spring from one of their former partners who recalled Tom and Frances’s early days at Otter Creek.

“Nearly 17 years ago you said goodbye to me on the platform at Seattle and you knew that you were saying farewell to a friend who would have done anything for you. I have not altered. I am just the same William you knew at Otter Creek and in our little camp at the foot of the glacier.”

The letter goes on to remember Tom.

“I shall never realize that Tommy is dead. Since I left you I have been in many places and had dealings with many men, but I have never come across another Tommy, he was just pure gold. I was trying to think last night if I could remember him being out of temper or cross, but I could not, and we had some trying times. It is a great thing to have had a partner in life who you can look forward to meeting, to whom you can hold your hand out to and look straight in the eye and say “Tommy, I am glad to see you.”

Perhaps there may be another Klondike for us beyond the clouds; if there is I could ask for nothing better than my two dear friends of the glacier should be my partners again.”

The writer advised Frances not to return to Alaska, but the woman who had married at eighteen, divorced at twenty-three, and married again that same year to a man she cherished despite the scorn and anger of her father-in-law, returned to the northern land she loved.

She kept body and soul together by managing the Nakat Inlet cannery store, but her love of the Alaskan wilderness eventually lured her away from civilization. She went back to prospecting, where everything she’d learned from her beloved Tommy allowed her to prosper.

Frances married again at the age of forty-five, to William Muncaster, who was 15 years younger. Despite the age difference, Bill had been smitten for years with Frances. He’d sent her love letters and stopped in to visit her between trips to survey Alaska for the Coast and Geodetic Survey. Bonnie accompanied Frances and her new stepfather on their honeymoon trip to Alaska’s goldfields.

Frances and William lived in a cabin on Wellesley Lake. They prospected and often went on fishing and hunting trips even when the temperature dipped to fifty below zero. Tom’s memory, however, never faded from Frances. Visiting a place she and Tom had stayed during the Shushana gold strike, she wrote in her diary, “Everything looks different. Everything is different.”

One that never changed was Frances’s love of prospecting. She and William visited their claims until 1946, when Frances was seventy-two years old and living in Haines, a small town in southeastern Alaska.

 

The woman who scandalized Spokane with her daring ride in pink tights, the actress who caused a mining tycoon to shun his heir, the woman who saved her husband’s bank with a grueling trek across the frozen northland, the unlikely prospector who loved Alaska so much she spent fifty-four years there, died on October 28, 1952. William Muncaster provided the press with clippings and stories about her life in Alaska. He wrote a final letter for the local newspaper.

Dear Sir,

Please publish this letter, for I wish to thank with all my heart all the people, young and old alike, in the town of Haines, Alaska, and the adjoining vicinities North, South, East and West for the unbelievable 100 percent respect shown by them as Mrs. Frances Mucaster’s final rites. I thank you.

William Muncaster

Shy, thoughtful, overly generous, modest and compassionate – this doesn’t describe the John Wayne most people remember from the very public person he projected in the 1960s and 70s, when his body of work was filled with tough-talking, aggressive, out-for-justice characters. But articles and interviews done with him early in his career suggest John Wayne grew up as a not-so-confident, no-so-outspoken young man.

 

 

He rode into the motion picture realm in 1930 with a purposeful swagger and a hard, no-nonsense manner of speaking that epitomized the American cowboy. When the 23 year-old hard fisted, quick-shooting, daredevil accepted a summer job at Fox Films, three years prior to his first starring role in The Big Trail, he could not have foreseen the impact he would have on the film industry. After five decades in the business the gallant 6’2 actor would brand movie going audiences with an indelible image and would forever be recognized as a sagebrush hero.

Born on May 26, 1907, in Winterset, Iowa he was given the name Marion Michael Morrison. When he was seven his parents left the Midwest and moved to a ranch in the Mojave Desert in California.

 

 

Marion spent a great deal of time outdoors, hiking through the valley and teaching himself to ride one of the two plow horses his father owned. Just as the young boy was adjusting to life in the rural area his folks relocated to Glendale.

According to an interview Wayne did with Motion Picture Magazine in February 1931, his parents were an unhappy couple and had frequent and heated arguments. He avoided the disharmony by staying away from home. A busy young boy, he got a part time job delivering medicines and supplies for the pharmacy where his father worked and joined the Boy Scouts and YMCA.

A bit of a loner, he spent long hours exploring the neighborhood with his Airedale, Duke. The firefighters Marion befriended in the area referred to the boy as Big Duke and the Airedale as Little Duke. The nickname stuck, and his given name Marion, which he had always disliked, was replaced with one more fitting his independent personality.

Duke did extremely well in school and was involved in numerous extra-curricular activities. He was an exceptional football player, class president and a member of the drama club. In addition to his studies and athletic pursuits, Duke kept up with his various part time jobs. One of which was delivering handbills for the Palace Grand Movie Theatre.  When he wasn’t at school or work he was at the Palace.

 

 

Three or four times a week Duke would escape into the world of motion picture cowboys and Indians by watching films starring his idols, Tom Mix and Harry Carey. His appreciation for the actors and the art form grew until he was no longer content to simply enjoy the finished movie. Duke wanted to know how motion pictures were made and decided to venturing onto the lot of a silent-movie studio called the Kalem Motion Picture Company. Many well-known stars of the time like Douglas Fairbanks Jr. and Helen Holmes worked at the studio. Duke was enamored with the process – the actors, set directors, camera operators and stunt performers.

Although young Duke Morrison’s had a keen interest in filmmaking his life’s ambition was to serve in the military. He was bitterly disappointed when his application to the Naval Academy was denied in 1925. A football scholarship to the University of Southern California momentarily shifted his focus off his misfortune. He tackled this new direction with gusto and verve, extensively training for games with Trojan’s coach Howard Jones.

Off of the football field, Duke was a popular student who thrived on the camaraderie of his fellow class and teammates.

 

 

He was handsome, smart and easy to get along with and whether he was attending an event at the fraternity he belonged to, or working at one of the two jobs he had to help pay his living expenses, Duke was happy. The pleasing lifestyle he enjoyed at college was in stark contrast to the tense and distraught existence he had staying with his parents. Their relationship continued to be combative and after more than 20 years of marriage, the pair decided to go their separate ways.

In 1927, at the age of 20, he would be denied another career opportunity. A severe shoulder injury sidelined the college sophomore an eventually cost him a place on the USC team and his scholarship. Once again the tenacious Duke had to make a shift in his pursuit. It was time to see if he could make a living in the movie industry he admired.

During his freshman year in college, cowboy actor Tom Mix had offered Duke a part time job at Fox Films Corporations. He worked in prop department and was considered by many of the top directors at the time to be one of the best “prop boys” in the business. A prop boy’s job was to see to it that every item an actor is required to handle in a scene is available when the director wants it.

 

 

Duke was good at his job because he could anticipate what a director would need and if the item wasn’t available, he would nail, whittle or weld a reasonable facsimile before anyone found out.

Mix felt that Duke had a future in front of the camera as well as behind. “He had shoulders like the Golden Gate bridge and the kind of pale blue eyes you find in a long riding cowboy,” Mix told Fox executives. He had Duke cast as a bit player in a few of his films and on occasion hired him to work as a stuntman. Duke had a natural aptitude for the job and wasn’t afraid to take risks to achieve the effect the directors called for.

A supporting role seemed to fit Duke just fine. He didn’t deliberately strive to be an adored movie star, but if Duke was not pursuing stardom, others saw greater roles in his future.

John Ford was the first to appreciate Duke’s physical courage on the set. During the filming of “Men Without Women” Ford hired Duke to act in the movie and used him as a stunt double as well. The script called for several sailors, trapped in a doomed vessel, to escape their death by being shot out of the torpedo tubes.

 

 

Trained divers were on hand to rescue the actors once they made it to the surface, but still the men playing the sailors refused to take part in the stunt because the conditions of the water off the coast of Catalina were too dangerous. Ford disregarded their warning and prevailed upon Duke to do the stunt. Duke eagerly obliged.

Content to work in the prop department and with no thought of ever being a screen legend, Duke accepted offers to appear in a variety of low budget films. His passion for film acting and stunt work grew and although John Ford had assured Duke his first shot at a starring role, it was director Raoul Walsh who made that happen. Walsh was searching for a tough, good-looking lead for a Western he was making called The Big Trail. Duke had all the qualities necessary for the part, but before the studio would hire him on they insisted he change his name. Fox executives selected a handle they felt sounded rugged and captured the essence of an American cowboy. Duke Morrison, now known as John Wayne, galloped into theatres on October 2, 1930.

The Big Trail was not a huge money maker for the studio, but John Wayne’s performance did not go overlooked.

 

 

Fox Films signed him as a regular contract player and for nine years Wayne twirled six guns, tossed rope, busted broncos and foiled cattle rustlers in a series of low-budget, quickie westerns. During that time he honed his skills as a stuntman, training with one of Hollywood’s finest stuntmen, Yakima Canutt. Canutt was a rodeo champion turned actor who was known for his amazing leaps from and onto horses and wagons. Together the two created a technique that made on-screen fight scenes more realistic.

By the time John Ford offered Wayne the part of John Ringo in the movie Stagecoach, the Duke had made more than 80 films and was one of the top sagebrush heroes of the screen. Stagecoach was released in March 1939 and received glowing reviews. The critics singled out Wayne’s performance, praising him for his fine and memorable work. The film changed the course of Wayne’s career and did the same for westerns as a film genre.

After the success of Stagecoach, the battle-scarred veteran of the B-Western was given the opportunity to make other pictures outside that of horse operas. Instead of searching out a big-budget movie to boost his popularity, Wayne trusted his career to his mentor, John Ford.

 

 

In 1940, he again worked with Ford, this time he played a sailor on a tramp freighter who is drugged and shanghaied in Eugene O’Neill’s dreamy tragedy, The Long Voyage Home. Wayne’s strong performance proved that he had range as an actor and reassured filmmakers that he could handle new roles.

During this time Duke was paired with some of Hollywood’s most compelling leading ladies – Marlene Dietrich, Paulette Goddard and Clair Trevor were among his costars. The on-screen chemistry he shared with those starlets and his versatility made films like Reap the Wild Wind, Dark Command, and A Lady Takes a Chance classics.

From 1943 to 1945, Wayne alternated between appearing in westerns and war epics, forever solidifying his film persona as a stalwart soldier and a champion of the range. His portrayal of Sergeant Stryker in Sands of Iwo Jima earned him an Academy Award nomination and his work in She Wore A Yellow Ribbon was hailed by critics as “spectacular and noble.”

One of the most challenging cowboy roles Wayne ever took on was that of Thomas Dunson in Red River. After seeing the movie, Ford admitted that he had underestimated Duke’s capabilities. He told Daily Variety magazine, “I didn’t know the son-of-a-bitch could act.”

 

 

Ford rewarded Duke’s efforts in Red River with an offer to play the lead in another western. The movie promised to be a wide cut above the average cowboy film, depending on human relationships for its value as well as on the customary chase.

The complex part had the potential of further enhancing Wayne’s career. On the other hand, the near villainous role of Ethan Edwards in The Searchers could threaten his top box office status. Wayne took a chance that the film and his performance would be well received by moviegoers who saw him not only as an actor, but a larger than life hero.

 

The Young Duke: The Early Life of John Wayne is available at bookstores everywhere.

Becoming Duke

Kitty LeRoy

The Unfortunate Gambler

“Spirits of the good, the fair and beautiful, guard us through the dreamy hours. Kinder ones, but, perhaps less dutiful, keep the places that once were ours.”

Poetic editorial in memory of the slain Kitty LeRoy from the Black Hills Daily Times – 1883A grim-faced bartender led a pair of sheriff’s deputies up the stairs of Deadwood’s Lone Star Saloon to the two lifeless bodies sprawled on the floor. One of the deceased individuals was a gambler named Kitty LeRoy and the other was her estranged husband, Sam Curley.

The quiet expression on Kitty’s face gave no indication that her death had been a violent one. She was lying on her back with her eyes closed and if not for the bullet hole in her chest, would simply had looked as though she were sleeping. Sam’s dead form was a mass of blood and tissue. He was lying face first with pieces of his skull protruding from a self inflicted gunshot wound. In his right hand he still held the pistol that brought about the tragic scene.

For those townspeople who knew the flamboyant 28 year-old LeRoy, her furious demise did not come as a surprise.

She was voluptuous beauty who used her striking good looks to take advantage of infatuated men who believed her charm and talent surpassed any they’d ever known.

Nothing is known of her early years; where and when she was born, who her parents and siblings were and what she was like as a child. The earliest historical account of the entertainer, card player and sometime soiled dove, lists her as a dancer in Dallas, Texas in 1875. She was a regular performer at Johnny Thompson’s Variety Theatre. She had dark, striking features, brown curly hair and a trim, shapely figure. She dressed in elaborate gypsy-style garments and always wore a pair of spectacular diamond earrings.

Kitty’s nightly performances attracted many cowboys and trail hands. She received standing ovations after every jig and shouts from the audience for an encore. The one thing Kitty was better at than dancing was gambling. She was a savvy faro dealer and poker player. Men fought one another sometimes to death for a chance to sit opposite her and play a game or two.

In early 1876, after becoming romantically involved with a persistent saloon keeper, Kitty decided to leave Texas and travel with her lover to San Francisco.

Their stay in Northern California was brief. Kitty did not find the area to be as exciting as she had heard it had been during the Gold Rush. To earn the thousands she hoped as an entertainer and gambler she needed to be in a place where new gold was being pulled out of the streams and hills. California’s findings were old and nearly played out. Kitty boarded a stage alone and headed for a new gold boom town in the Black Hills of South Dakota.

Deadwood Gulch, South Dakota was teaming with more than six thousand eager prospectors, most of whom spent their hard earnings at the faro tables in saloons. Kitty hired on at the notorious Gem Theatre and danced her way to the same popularity she had experienced in Dallas. Enamored miners competed for her attention, but none seemed to hold her interest. It wasn’t until she met Sam Curley that the thought of spending an extended period of time with another man seemed appealing.

Thirty-five year-old Sam Curley was a cardsharp with a reputation as a peaceful man who felt more at home behind a poker table than anywhere else. Kitty and Sam had a lot in common and their mutual attraction blossomed into a proposal of marriage. On June 10, 1877, the pair exchanged vows at the Gem Theatre on the same stage where Kitty performed.

Unbeknownst to the cheering onlookers and the groom, however, Kitty was already married. Her first husband lived in Bay City, Michigan with her son who was born in 1872. Bored with the trappings of a traditional home life, Kitty abandoned the pair to travel the west.

When Sam learned that he was married to a bigamist he was upset and the pair quarreled. He was not only dissatisfied with his marital status, but he was fiercely unhappy with the law enforcement in the rough town. He didn’t like Sheriff Seth Bullock’s “strong arm tactics” and within six months after marrying Kitty he left Deadwood Gulch for Colorado.

Perhaps she was distraught over the abrupt departure of her current husband, but Kitty’s congenial personality suddenly turned cold and unfriendly. She was distrusting of patrons and began carrying six-shooters in her skirt pockets and a Bowie knife in the folds of the deep curls of her hair. She moved from Deadwood Gulch to Central City where she ran a saloon. Because she was always heavily armed she was able to keep the wild residents who frequented her establishment under control.

Restless and unable to get beyond Sam’s absence, Kitty returned to Deadwood and opened a combination brothel and gambling parlor.

She called her place The Mint and enticed many miners to her faro table where she quickly relieved them of their gold dust. On one particularly profitable evening she raked in more than 8 thousand dollars. A braggadocios, German industrialist had challenged her to a game and lost. The debate continues among historians as to whether Kitty cheated her way to the expensive win. Most believe she was a less-than-honest dealer.

Kitty’s profession and seductive manner of dress sparked rumors that she had had many lovers and had been married five times. Kitty never denied the rumors and even added to them by boasting that she had been courted by hundreds of eligible bachelors and “lost track of the numbers of times men had proposed” to her. Because she carried a variety of weapons on her at all times, rumors also abounded about she had shot or stabbed more than a dozens gamblers for cheating at cards. She never denied those tales either.

By the fall of 1877, the torch Kitty carried for Sam was temporarily extinguished by a former lover. The two spent many nights at the Lone Star Saloon and eventually moved in together.

News of Kitty’s romantic involvement reached a miserable Sam who had established a faro game at a posh saloon in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Sam was furious about being replaced and immediately purchased a ticket back to Deadwood. Hoping to catch Kitty alone with her lover, he disguised his looks and changed his name.

When Sam arrived in town on December 6, 1877, he couldn’t bring himself to face the pair in person. He sent a message to Kitty’s paramour to meet with him instead, but the man refused. In a fit of rage Sam told one of the Lone Star Saloon employees that he intended to kill his unfaithful wife and then himself.

Frustrated and desperate, Sam sent a note to Kitty pleading with her to meet him at the Lone Star Saloon. She reluctantly agreed. Not long after Kitty ascended the stairs of the tavern, patrons heard her scream followed by the sound of two gunshots.

A reporter for the Black Hills Daily Times visited the scene of the murder-suicide the morning after the event occurred. “The bodies were dressed and lying side by side in the room of death,” he later wrote in an article for the newspaper.

“Suspended upon the wall, a pretty picture of Kitty, taken when the bloom and vigor of youth gazed down upon the tenements of clay, as if to enable the visitor to contrast a happy past with a most wretched present. The pool of blood rested upon the floor; blood stains were upon the door and walls…. The cause of the tragedy may be summed up in a few words; aye, in one “jealousy.”

A simple funeral was held for the pair at the same location where they had met their end. Although they were placed in separate pine caskets they were buried in the same grave at the Ingleside Cemetery. According to the January 7, 1878 edition of the Black Hills Daily Times, Kitty had “drawn a holographic will in ink on the day prior to her death.” Her estate amounted to $650 dollars. A portion of the funds were used to pay for the service, burial and tombstone.

It seems that Kitty LeRoy and Sam Curley’s spirits would not rest after they were lowered into their shared grave. A month after the pair had departed from his world their ghosts were reportedly haunting the Lone Star Saloon. Patrons claim the phantoms appeared to “recline in a loving embraces and finally melt away in the shadows of the night.”

The editor of the Black Hills Daily Times pursued the story of the “disembodied spirits” and after investigating the disturbances, wrote an article on the subject that was printed on February 28, 1878.

“The Lone Star building gained its first notoriety from the suicide, by poisoning, of a woman of ill repute last spring. The house was subsequently rented by Hattie Donnelly, and for a time all went smoothly, with the exception of such little sounds and disturbances as are incident to such places. About the first of December the house was rented by Kitty LeRoy, a woman said to be well connected and possessed of intelligence far beyond her class. Kitty was a woman well known to the reporter, and whatever might have been her life here, it is not necessary to display her virtues or her vices, as we deal simply with information gleaned from hearsay and observation. With the above facts before the reader we simply give the following, as it appeared to us, and leave the reader to draw their own conclusions as to the phenomena witnessed by ourselves and many others. It is an oft repeated tale, but one which in this case is lent more than ordinary interest by the tragic events surrounding the actors.

To tell our tale briefly and simply, is to repeat a story old and well known – the reappearance, in spirit form, of departed humanity. In this case it is the shadow of a woman, comely, if not beautiful, and always following her footsteps, the tread and form of the man who was the cause of their double death. In the still watches of the night, the double phantoms are seen to tread the stairs where once they reclined in the flesh and linger o’er places where once they reclined in loving embrace, and finally to melt away in the shadows of the night as peacefully as their bodies’ souls seem to have done when the fatal bullets brought death and the grave to each.

Whatever may have been the vices and virtues of the ill-starred and ill-mated couple, we trust their spirits may find a happier camping ground than the hills and gulches of the Black Hills, and that tho’ infelicity reigned with them here happiness may blossom in a fairer climate.”

The bodies of Kitty LeRoy and Sam Curley were eventually moved to the mountain top cemetery of Mount Moriah in Deadwood and their burial spot left unidentified.