Tune in.

Writer Rod Miller goes live on “Dusty Trails and Tall Tales” Thursday, July 23, at 5:00 p.m. Mountain Time. Tune in on YouTube Livestream or FacebookLivestream for a discussion about the infamous Massacre at Bear River. See you there.

In the news:

The paperback and eBook editions of This Thy Brother have just been released. The stories follow the Pate and Lewis families introduced in Father unto Many Sons, and while reading that one first may enhance enjoyment of This Thy Brother, each novel stands on its own as well. From expeditions to kidnap and enslave Navajos, to the Texas invasion of New Mexico, to building trade and ranching empires, the book covers a lot of country. Online booksellers and eBook outlets feature the new release. These links will take you there:

This Thy Brother paperback on sale now
v  Amazon US
v  Barnes & Noble

 This Thy Brother eBook on sale now 
v  Amazon US
v  Apple Books
v  Barnes & Noble
v  Google Play
v  Kobo Books 

As Flame to Smoke, meant to be released a few weeks ago, suffered a printing error so has been delayed. For unknown reasons, the printers put out the fire in the title on the book’s cover, and rather than bright yellow and orange flames it looks like black and gray ashes. The publisher tells me they are working on a fix, but have not informed me of a completion date. Amazon does say they have the book in stock, but they do not show a cover image so I don’t know if it’s the defective one or the correct one. 

 

Fire up your computer (or phone or wherever you watch podcasts) on July 23 at 5:00 p.m. Mountain Time and log onto “Dusty Trails and Tall Tales.” I will be talking with host Matthew Pizzolotto about the Massacre at Bear River, and it should be an interesting discussion. The United States Army killed more Indians (Shoshoni in this case) than at any other engagement in the history of the West, yet the 1863 massacre is largely forgotten to history. In this interview, we hope to shed a little more light on the tragedy and give it a measure of the attention it deserves.

That’s the news for now.

Drovers

Friend and fellow poet Linda Kirkpatrick of the great state of Texas sent the above picture to me a while back. It looks, does it not, like a typical old-time photo of a band of cowboys.

But it’s not. The photo is of men from her part of Texas who were “Hog Drovers.”

Well, having had some experience with pigs in my youth (Utah State Junior Livestock Show Fitting and Showmanship Champion in the pig division, 1970) it piqued my curiosity. It makes perfect sense, but it had not occupied much of my mind, that in days gone by, before railroads and trucking came along, hogs—like cattle (and sheep, goats, ducks, geese, turkeys, horses, and mules)—had to be driven to market.

Tennessee and Kentucky were big pig-raising states, and the fattened animals would be driven through the mountains to eastern markets. In 1847 alone, 51,753 hogs passed through a single tollgate in North Carolina. As many as 100,000 hogs were driven from Kentucky to Richmond, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and other points east in any given year. Hog drives were common throughout the country.

Porkers could move along on their trotters about ten miles a day, led by a horseback drover and herded by other drovers, about one for every 100 hogs in the herd. Herd sizes ranged from a few hundred to a thousand pigs. “Wagon stands” along the way would corral, feed, and water the hogs overnight. 

There’s a better than even chance that the photo Linda sent may inspire a future novel featuring the adventures and antics of our friend Rawhide Robinson. We’ll see if that pig can fly.

History repeats itself.

Not long ago, while visiting the Long Barracks Museum at the Alamo in San Antonio, Texas, we came across this statue. It’s not a big statue, only 18 inches high or so, and displayed in a clear plastic box. There are other statues of a similar size throughout the short tour of the Long Barracks. This one depicts a padre—a priest or clergyman of some sort (we didn’t get his name) from the long-ago days before the Alamo became the Alamo and was known as the Mission San Antonio de Valero.

What intrigues me about the statue is that it proves beyond doubt that history repeats itself; that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Because what the statue clearly depicts is a padre with his handheld digital device. And he is doing, way back then, the same kind of thing you see happening everywhere, all the time, today.

Maybe he is engaged in a phone call on speaker. Perhaps he is sending (or reading) a text message. It could be that he is using the camera function to take a photograph—maybe even a selfie.

Could he have gotten an alert on one of his social media platforms? Is he responding to something on Facebook or Instagram or TikTok or the wreck formerly known as Twitter?

Since he is some kind of Catholic clergyman, it is probably a safe bet that he is not perusing a dating site or matchmaking service. I suppose he could be checking the weather forecast. Or he might be watching cute cat videos on YouTube.

By way of full disclosure, I don’t have any kind of handheld digital device myself, so this is only totally ignorant, wholly uninformed speculation on my part.

In the news.

A while back I was invited to write for Cowboy State Daily. It’s an online newspaper published in, as you may well guess, Wyoming.

My friend and longtime acquaintance Candy Moulton created a section for the publication called The American West. Several writers and historians including Candy, Jim Crutchfield, Terry Del Bene, and others contribute stories focused on some aspect of Western history. The stories are bite-size and readable in minutes, but provide much knowledge and enjoyment.

Of course there’s more to Cowboy State Daily than The American West, including news and opinion pieces. There’s even a column written by a man named Rod Miller, who is not me. So, to avoid confusion, my byline in the paper is R.B. Miller.

Give Cowboy State Daily a look. You’ll find The American West is waiting for you.

 

An Utter Tragedy.

We will soon be off on a trip along the Oregon Trail through southern Idaho and into western Oregon and Washington. There’s a lot of history along this nineteenth-century superhighway.

Stretched across more than a hundred miles of the road is the history of one of the saddest tales on the emigrant trails—a series of events known by various names, but most often as the Utter-Van Ornum Massacre. As with much of history, there is a lot of confusion surrounding what happened. But here’s the gist of it.

Shoshone Indians attacked an emigrant company of some 44 travelers somewhere west of the present location of Mountain Home, Idaho, and somewhere south of present-day Boise. Several pioneers were killed and after more fighting and needing water, four of the eight wagons were abandoned. The emigrants lost other people in attacks over the next few days as they traveled until the Shoshone departed. With little to eat, the travelers left the remaining wagons and walked to the Owhyhee River, near the deserted Fort Boise. Indians there traded salmon for the remainder of the emigrants’ belongings and guns, then severe hunger set in.

The senior Van Ornum, along with a few surviving members of the Utter family, left the hunger camp and moved on. The move did not save them, but it may have kept them—at least the children—from being eaten. Four dead children were consumed in the camp and there was talk of killing another for food. Instead, the body of a man dead ten days was exhumed, but before he was eaten help arrived and 12 survivors were rescued.

Meanwhile, Indians had attacked and killed the Van Ornum party, except for three girls and a boy who were taken captive. It’s fairly certain the girls were soon killed, and perhaps the boy—but his fate remains a mystery. There were claims and stories of a white boy living with Indians at various places.

Responding to one such story, the boy’s uncle came from Oregon and convinced army troops from Camp Douglas in Utah to rescue the boy from a Shoshone band in Cache Valley. After some shooting, some negotiating, and some double dealing, the boy was taken. Although he had light hair and eyes, his identity was and is suspect. He was about the right age to be the Van Ornum boy, but spoke no English and was Shoshone in all his ways, and fought his “rescuers” to no avail. The Shoshone said he was the son of a French mountain man and a sister of Chief Washakie. A photo memorializes the capture, with the boy in the bottom row, flanked by the army officer who led the expedition and his uncle.

The uncle took him to Oregon, and to California soon after. Then history loses track of the boy, and his fate is unknown.

 

My Favorite Book, Part 30.

Certain things from the Old West are so firmly embedded in history—both scholarly and popular—that they are ever-present. You don’t have to look far to find a book, magazine article, movie, documentary, or debate about the gunfight at the OK Corral, Wild Bill Hickok, the battle at the Little Big Horn, Buffalo Bill Cody, the siege at the Alamo, Crazy Horse, the Mountain Meadows Massacre, George Armstrong Custer, Sitting Bull . . .

And, as popular a subject as any of the above, Billy the Kid.

I recently re-read a book on that subject I had enjoyed before: To Hell on a Fast Horse – Billy the Kid, Pat Garrett and the Epic Chase to Justice in the Old West by Mark Lee Gardner. The book traces the histories of William Bonney and Pat Garrett, both as individuals and their shared history. While widely researched and carefully documented, the book—unlike so many nonfiction books—is not a dense parade of names and dates and facts.

Gardner does not paint Billy the Kid as a tortured, misunderstood, widely loved victim of circumstance. Neither does he portray him as totally uncaring, cold-blooded, ruthless, and imbued with evil. Garrett gets the same multi-faceted treatment, covering his heroics and relentless pursuit of justice, as well as his gambling, drinking, and economic shenanigans. We come to know both men as fully formed, complex human beings, driven by and responding to (as we all are) complicated and sometimes conflicting forces.

The violence of their lives is chronicled in vivid detail, as are the friendships and romantic relationships of the Kid and the sheriff. Throughout the pages of this engaging account, readers are left to form their own conclusions concerning the mysteries surrounding the lives and deaths of two of the Old West’s most compelling men, forever entwined in our history and imaginations.

On the air in Ireland.

This story starts a few years ago but got derailed when Covid shut the world off for a time. A radio producer from Ireland contacted me to say he lived and worked in County Kerry, homeland of Patrick Edward Connor. Connor was the army commander behind the Massacre at Bear River (promoted from colonel to brigadier general following the atrocity), the Father of Utah Mining, and was involved in other military and business pursuits here in the West.

The man from Radio Kerry, Jerry O’Sullivan, wanted to create a radio documentary about Connor, was coming to Utah, and wondered if he could interview me. Then came Covid.

But all things must pass, and early this summer he contacted me to say he was on his way. We spent some time at the remnants of Fort Douglas in Salt Lake City, including a spell at Connor’s gravesite in the cemetery there to record the interview. O’Sullivan interviewed other people here, then went back to Ireland to put the program together. It aired on Radio Kerry in early August, and “Glory Hunter” is now available on Spotify. (Just click on “Glory Hunter” and you’ll go there.)

O’Sullivan also wrote a commentary on Connor, the connections between Ireland and the USA, and the way we remember history. That article appeared recently in the Salt Lake Tribune. (Again, a click should get you there.)

Connor was an interesting man of many accomplishments—not all of them laudable. It will be worth your time to hear—and read—what Jerry O’Sullivan has to say about him.

Where I’ve been—out with the Pony Express.

Not long ago I wrote here of a desire to visit the Pony Express Station sites in Utah’s west desert. That’s one I can check off the list.

With the able guidance and expertise of Patrick Hearty, former president of the National Pony Express Association as well as the Utah Division, Utah Division Historian, and the author, with photography by Dr. Joseph Hatch, of The Pony Express Stations of Utah and The Pony Express in Utah, we drove the trail and stopped at all the Pony stations out to the Nevada border. The road was laid out by army engineer James H. Simpson, and served the Jackass Mail, the Overland Stage, freighters, the US Army, and emigrants as well as the Pony Express.

The desert out there is still an empty place, with few—most of the way, no—residents outside of wild horses and antelope for a hundred miles. But the isolation is beautiful in its way, with blue sky and mountains and plains that stretch as far as the eye can see and beyond. The view is not much changed from what the Pony riders saw as they raced through there in 1860 and 1861. All the stations are marked, some with interpretive information. Some still show ruins and fainter traces from the stations that once stood. The photograph above shows the station site at Simpson’s Springs, where you’ll find a monument erected by the Civilian Conservation Corps and a replica of a station building erected years ago by FFA students, as well as interpretive information posted by the Utah Division of the National Pony Express Association.

The original Willow Springs Station building still stands—barely—at the Willow Springs Ranch in Callao, and houses a number of artifacts and collections from the history of the Pony Express as well as local history. Besides a tour, the owners of the ranch offered help and assistance of another kind—but that’s a story for another day.

Where I’m Going—Part 7

 

One of the most famous high-speed roads in Western history passes a few miles from where I live: the Pony Express Trail.

The trail passed through the middle of Salt Lake Valley from roughly north to south, then headed west across the desert until reaching what is now Nevada, leaving a string of swing stations and home stations in its wake. Monuments mark most, if not all, their locations and there are traces of some still standing.

Sad to say, I have yet to venture out into the sagebrush, shadscale, and greasewood to visit them. Not that I haven’t wanted to. It’s just that I haven’t made a definite plan to do so and carried out that plan. Thank goodness the pony riders weren’t as remiss in their travels on that road.

Still, I am determined to do it. I will see what there is to see at places like Simpson’s Springs, Fish Springs, Boyd’s Station, Willow Springs, Deep Creek, and places in between and beyond. I will see sights and sites that are much the same as those seen by the brave boys of days gone by.

One of these days. For certain sure. You can count on it.

A healthy obsession.

For several years now, I have been obsessed with the Massacre at Bear River. I can’t say for sure when this obsession took hold, but I do remember why.

The history of the American West has always been of interest to me, and that interest has always included our growing nation’s history of eliminating any competition for the land and its resources. In other words, the systematic exclusion and eradication of the native tribes that occupied the land.

At some point in my education, after years of study, I learned about the Massacre at Bear River where, on 29 January 1863, the United States Army launched a dawn attack on a Shoshoni village and killed some 250 to 350 men, women, children, and babies. Most of the dead were noncombatants. And the annihilation included rape and torture, as well as the destruction of food, clothing, lodges, and the theft of the horse herds on which the people relied. It was the deadliest massacre of American Indians by the Army in all of Western history.

I was astounded—dumbfounded—that such a pivotal event had largely escaped notice in American history. Little had been written about it, and most of what had been published was incomplete at best, and inaccurate at worst.

Thus began my obsession. The result, to date, is represented above. I have written a lot about the Massacre at Bear River. Most recently, a novel. Before that, in no particular order, a nonfiction book and shorter pieces of nonfiction included in a book and for a magazine. Short fiction for an anthology, and published in my own collection of short stories. Poems in an anthology and a chapbook. And a poem that became a song.

There may well be more to come, as the Massacre at Bear River continues to haunt me.

When January 29 rolls around again, as it will in a few weeks, I hope to be at the site of the Massacre at Bear River to once again join the Northwestern Band of the Shoshone Nation in honoring their departed ancestors, who have yet to claim their proper place in history.

Missing Will.

Not long ago, I was traveling far from home. Being away somewhat isolates you from what’s going on back home—but not altogether.

While away, we heard the tragic news of the death of Will Bagley. I counted Will among my friends, respected his research and writing, admired his wide-ranging intellect, marveled at the reaches of his memory, and listened to his infectious laughter. I will miss all that, and more.

Will had no reason to befriend me. He did not need to answer my questions, correct my misconceptions, or share his knowledge with me, whether in conversation or in the many writings—his own and those of others—he shared with me.

There will never be another historian like Will Bagley. Few will ever approach his many accomplishments. And no one will do so with his curmudgeonly good humor.

I will miss Will. Thank goodness I have a long line of his books on my shelves, and will hear his voice again whenever I open one of them.

January 29, 1863, is one of the darkest days in the history of the American West. That morning, United States Army troops slaughtered some 250 to 350 Shoshoni men, women, and children on the banks of the Bear River in what is now southeastern Idaho. No other encounter between the army and Indian tribes in the West approaches that massacre in terms of Indian blood spilled, brutal savagery, or body count.

Just released from Five Star Publishing is my latest book, And the River Ran Red—A Novel of the Massacre at Bear River.

Earlier, I wrote a nonfiction book about this tragic event, Massacre at Bear River: First, Worst, Forgotten. I have also written about it for magazines, short stories, in poems, and, with Western singer and songwriter Brenn Hill, song lyrics.

This short novel—as with the fictional stories, poetry, and song—allowed me to build upon the known facts and consider the thoughts, feelings, and words of those involved in all facets of the massacre. So, while the novel is fiction, it presents truths of a different kind as it both hews closely to the facts and expands upon the emotional color of the times.

I hope many will read And the River Ran Red for the sole reason that it may help spread knowledge of, and horror about, what may well be the greatest of all tragedies in the history of the American West, as well as an appreciation for the people of the Northwestern Band of the Shoshone Nation who press on with determination and triumph still today.

My Favorite Book, Part 27.

 

When President William McKinley was assassinated, a high-toned politician said, “Now look! That damn cowboy is President of the United States.” The “damn cowboy” in question was Theodore Roosevelt. And he remains, to this day—despite a few Texans and a make-believe movie actor—the only real cowboy to rise to that office.

Roosevelt’s cowboy career is chronicled in The Cowboy President: The American West and the Making of Theodore Roosevelt by Michael F. Blake.

Blake outlines the circumstances that sent Roosevelt, a patrician New Yorker, to the frontier West where he established cattle ranches in North Dakota. More than an owner, Roosevelt worked alongside his hired hands and became adept at handling horses, working cattle, riding the range, and surviving in a hard land.

Based on detailed research, Blake relates Roosevelt’s cowboy career to his wider life, telling how the lessons he learned in the West colored his endeavors in government service, the military, politics, and family life. The result is a well-rounded picture of the cowboy president that’s interesting, intriguing, and informative.

You’ll close the book with new understanding of and appreciation for “That damn cowboy.”

For young readers of all ages.

What happens when you round up twenty members of Western Writers of America, assign a couple of editors to ride herd on them, have each of them cut out a true—but little known—story from the Wild West and tell it in a way that will engage teenage readers?

You get Why Cows Need Cowboys and Other Seldom-Told Tales from the American West.

Editors Nancy Plain and Rocky Gibbons have accomplished a first in the annals of Western writing with this anthology. WWA has created other anthologies and collections over the years covering a wide range, but never before, not since its establishment in 1953, has a herd of some of America’s most accomplished Western writers pointed their pens and pencils in the direction of our youth.

Well done.

But you don’t have to be an adolescent to read and enjoy and learn from this book. Even those who are well-read in Western history will find new and entertaining incidents and episodes, people and places in these pages.

You’ll even find out why it took Earl—one of the Bronc-Bustin’ Bascom Brothers—sixty-five years to get the All-Around Cowboy trophy buckle he won at a rodeo. I know, because I got to tell that story.

 

Where I’m going, Part 5.

 

    Over the years I have been to Fort Worth, Texas, a few times. But not enough. Other than a two-day stay for the big rodeo there, my forays into Fort Worth have been a couple of hours here and there while in the area on other business.
    And my last visit, whenever it was, was a long time ago. So I’m ready to go back.
    Fort Worth is a big city. But it’s a city—unlike many others I could name—that has never tried to outgrow its past as a cowtown. It takes pride in its past, and much of what I want to see and do there celebrates that past and Western heritage in general.
    I saw a lot of great Charlie Russell paintings at the Sid Richardson Museum and will make a return visit. Then there’s the Amon Carter Museum I have heard good things about. And the National Cowgirl Museum and Texas Cowboy Hall of Fame.
    And, of course, the Fort Worth Stockyards and all its attractions—even though it’s a bit touristy for my taste.
    There might even be time to find something good to eat.

 

History gone wrong: Forgetting Dominguez.

    The name “Escalante” graces many places on the map of Utah. There’s a town, a basin, a canyon, a desert, a mountain, a natural bridge, a river, a state park, and—in partnership with Grand Staircase—a national monument. Maybe more.
    If you’re unfamiliar with the history of my home state you may wonder why this is. And there are some of us familiar with that history who also wonder why.
    Our story begins in 1776, when folks Back East were quibbling with Great Britain. Out here in New Spain, later to be part of Mexico, and later still becoming much of the western United States, the Spaniards had already established missions and settlements, and were exploring trade routes and sites for other missions.
    Enter Fray Francisco Silvestre Vélez de Escalante. Or, as we in Utah’s schools call him, Father Escalante. The good Father was with an expedition seeking a route from Santa Fe to Monterey. Their path brought them into what is now Utah—through the Unita Basin and the Wasatch Mountains and Utah Valley, then deep into the southern part of our state.
    The way Escalante’s name got plastered all over the place, you’d think he was in charge of the whole thing. But that’s where history (the popular notion of history, that is) gets it wrong.
    In truth, Escalante, who kept the diary of the expedition, and Bernardo de Miera y Pacheco, the mapmaker (see his handiwork above), and the handful of other men in the party were under the command of Fray Francisco Atanasio Domínguez.
    Domínguez organized the journey. Domínguez led the way. Domínguez determined the route. Domínguez gave the orders. Domínguez made the tough decisions.
    His name does not appear on any prominent place or landmark on the maps of Utah.

Where I was on January 29.

 

As regular readers know, January 29, 1863 is the date of the Massacre at Bear River, during which US Army soldiers slaughtered hundreds of Shoshoni Indians, many of them old people, women, and children. It was the deadliest massacre of Indians by the military in the history of the West.
    For many years, members of the Northwestern Band of the Shoshone Nation have met at the site to commemorate the lives and deaths of their ancestors, who were nearly wiped out in the massacre. The public is graciously hosted at the ceremonies.
    This year, 2021, things were different.
    Owing to the Covid pandemic, the affair was smaller in scale, with formal invitations extended only to members of the Band. Some interested parties, including yours truly, drove to the site to honor the day in whatever way was possible. We were welcomed.
    But, more important, for the first time the ceremonies were held in a new location—on bluffs above the river bottom on land owned—for the first time in 158 years—by the Band, and near where the Boa Ogoi Cultural Interpretive Center is taking shape. (Boa Ogoi means Big River in Shoshoni, and is the traditional name for the Bear River.)
    Pictured is the relatively small but caring crowd at the commemoration; former tribal chairman and main force behind the Interpretive Center, Darren Parry; and tribal elder Gwen Timbimboo Davis. Both Parry and Davis are descendants of Sagwitch Timbimboo, tribal leader who was wounded at but survived the Massacre, and held the remnants of the band together in the aftermath.
    Donations toward the development of the Boa Ogoi Cultural Interpretive Center are welcome, and certainly a worthwhile expenditure for lovers of Western History who recognize the importance of remembering even its darkest days.

A wedding celebration.

On May 10, America celebrates one of the greatest engineering achievements in human history—the completion of the (sort of) transcontinental railroad.

The historic 1869 event at Promontory Summit (often reported incorrectly as Promontory Point, an altogether different place) drew a crowd of somewhere between 500 and 3,000 people. The 150^th anniversary celebration at the windswept Golden Spike National Historic Park will likely draw many more. Museums and libraries and other places around greater northern Utah have been and will continue to offer exhibits and other commemorative activities.

Despite all the dire consequences associated with the building of the railroad—further displacement of native tribes, destruction of wildlife, abuse of workers, creation of a new class of robber barons, and the many financial improprieties involved—the driving of the golden spike marking the completion of the railroad hastened the settlement and economic development of the West and helped bind the sprawling nation together.

It’s a day worth remembering. So, celebrate the wedding of the rails—or mourn, if you must.

My Favorite Book, Part 19.

It would be nigh on impossible for me, or any other voracious reader, to identify a lone, single, sole book as the one and only all-time favorite. There are simply too many wonderful reads, and, depending on time and place and emotional state and who knows how many other contributing factors, books can mean something different to a reader with each re-read.

But if you backed me into a corner, one book that would certainly clamor for the place at the top of the pile is The Meadow by James Galvin.

There are many, many reasons I admire The Meadow. And, for just as many reasons, it’s a difficult book to put your finger on.

It is, in part, a memoir of sorts, recounting aspects of the author’s experiences. It is part natural history, providing much detail about landscape and seasons and wildlife. Some of it is history, painting a picture of people and places over the course of 100 years. It is a biography, in a way, focusing on the life of one character in great detail, and telling the life stories of a number of other characters. It is fiction to some degree, as Galvin writes dialogue and puts words in people’s mouths that, while they may reflect truth, he could not have heard. The publisher categorizes The Meadow simply as “literature.”

As simply as I can put it, the book tells a century-long story of a mountain meadow and the surrounding countryside in the high country along the Wyoming and Colorado border south of Laramie. But—and this is one characteristic that I particularly like—it does not tell the story chronologically. Nor does it do so using the normal format of chapters.

Rather, the story is told in short bursts, with some entries (for lack of a better word) only a few sentences long, and with none occupying more than a few pages. Interspersed are extracts from the actual diaries of a couple of characters. I sometimes describe the book as a series of “snapshots”; vivid images captured to illuminate people and places and events.

Then, it as if the author took his stack of snapshots and tossed them into the air, gathered them up at random, and used that arrangement in the book. You will read a page about something that happened last week, turn the page and find yourself immersed in something that happened fifty years ago, turn another page to witness events of a decade ago, read on the next page something from a century ago, or perhaps last month, or some other time.

As you page through the images, a bigger picture forms, tying all the people and places into one, big, fascinating story.

Finally, James Galvin is a poet. Which means he uses language beautifully. It’s a pleasure to read, and a reminder that writing—real writing—is more than storytelling.

I can’t say how many times I have read The Meadow. A dozen, perhaps. Maybe twenty.

I think I’ll pull it off the shelf and read it again.