Speelman Wagon Train Journey
This account was written by Michael R. Speelman, son of Nelson Speelman and Elizabeth Creighbaum Speelman. Michael was born in 1849 in Lee County, Iowa and never married. He was 13 when he crossed the plains. He died May 24, 1936 and is buried in the Wingville Cemetery.
Our thanks to Doug Romaine and Garret Romaine for providing the Speelman Family Journey. Doug is the grandson of Elizabeth Creighbaum Speelman. Garret is the author of Gem Trails of Washington
Our party consisted of my father, mother, and family, three families of Gardners, A.J. Worley and family, Josiah Creighbaum and family and Grandmother and Grandfather Creighbaum. We left Lee County, Iowa, on April 14, 1862, destined for the state of Oregon. The mode of conveyance was by prairie schooners and ox teams, mainly, with a few horses.
Ten Wagons in
the Train
At the start, our train consisted of about 10 wagons and teams, my
father having two teams of oxen of six yoke in each team. My job
from the beginning to the end of our journey was to drive and herd
the loose stock, of which our party possessed quite a number, and
for this task I was furnished saddle horses by the different members
of our wagon train, and I also received a small sum of money for my
services.
From Lee County, Iowa, we proceeded across the open prairies on the
northerly branch of the Oregon Trail, to Council Bluffs, western
Iowa, at that time being sparsely settled. At Council Bluffs our
train was increased until we had some 15 wagons, others having
joined our party en route.
In 1862 there were no railroads in the Iowa country and to the
westward, and the habitations of the whites were few and far
between. Council Bluffs at that time was a small trading post and
was immediately across the Missouri River from Omaha, to which place
we crossed the river. There was a small town of about 1000 people.
Here we replenished our stock of provisions and necessities for the
long journey across the plains and beyond the Rockies. From Omaha we
proceeded westward, crossing the Loupe Fork of the Platte and from
thence for many days were on the plains proper. On reaching Loupe
Fork we saw numbers of Indians of the Pawnee Tribe; the first
Indians any of our party had ever seen, who had not severed their
tribal relations. They were at peace with their white brethren at
the time and were great beggars.
Crossed Great Plains
I now began to realize that we had left our old home town in Iowa
and were going into the vast western wilderness. Traveling about
three days from Loupe Fork we reached Freemont, Nebraska, a small
place built mostly of sod houses. This was the last settlement we
saw until we reached Fort Laramie, Wyoming, although we passed sod
houses at intervals along the tail sheltering a few soldiers whose
duty it was to protect the telegraph lines. I have no remembrances
of passing Fort Kearney, that being the junction of the two trails,
the one from Iowa and the main Oregon Trail, traveled by our party
and by thousands who had gone before us. From Fort Laramie we
followed the North Platte to the Sweetwater River in Wyoming, a
region known at that time as the “Sand Hill” country, the first
hills encountered.
At a distance these hills appeared in the form of clouds by reason
of a mirage, a strange but common sight on the plains and deserts.
Here we were in the country of the Sioux and Cheyenne tribes of
Indians, fine-looking stalwart people, who were on good terms with
the whites, peaceable and friendly.
There were no buffalo in sight in this region, although it was noted
as the great buffalo country, but antelope were there by the
thousands, feeding on the grass-covered hills as far as the eye
could reach. Following up the Sweetwater we approached South Pass,
and somewhere along the river the first tragic episode of our
journey was enacted.
Murderer Tried; Executed
Just ahead of our train were two partners from Denver, Colorado,
traveling by wagon, Scott and Young being their names. It seems that
they had a quarrel on the road and Scott hitched up the team one
morning and forbade Young from joining or following him, under
threat of death, and left Young alone on the plains. Young had a
saddle horse and a rifle and he followed Scott, overtook him, and
shot him dead. Scott fell off the wagon seat onto the double trees.
At this juncture came a train of some 300 wagons bound for the
Grande Ronde Valley, Oregon, under the leadership of a man named
Kennedy. Kennedy’s party took the body up and gave it a proper
burial, and then Kennedy arrested Young.
There was a small military party near the scene, at the crossing of
the Sweetwater, and it was deemed advisable to deliver Young to the
military authorities, but they refused to intervene in any way.
Kennedy thereupon took the law into his own hands and empanelled a
jury and gave Young a fair trial; the jury finding him guilty of
murder in the first degree. Young was then sentenced to death by
either hanging or shooting; he being given the choice of which
alternative he would prefer, and he chose the alternative of being
shot.
Young’s execution took place early the next morning on the banks of
the Sweetwater, 12 men having been chosen to perform the execution
of Young. I was present and observed everything that occurred. A
grave was excavated and Young was driven out alongside his own
grave; he was blindfolded, and was asked whether or not he had
anything to say why the execution should not be carried out. He
declined to make any statement. Kennedy gave the order to fire, and
rifles rang out, and Young fell dead and was buried on the banks of
the Sweetwater.
Kennedy Stirs Resentment
After this episode there arose, among the members of Kennedy’s
train, a great indignation against him that could not be quieted.
With the result that this large train of 300 wagons broke up into
small parties and they all fell far behind in the race to the
Pacific states.
At a distance from South Pass we had our first glimpse of the Great
Smoky Mts. and of numerous snow-covered peaks. We couldn’t be
convinced at first that we were looking at snow, it being the month
of July and the weather very warm, and none of us had ever seen snow
at that time of year – all of us having lived on the prairies.
In my occupation of driving and herding the loose stock, I could
travel much faster than the wagon train and frequently I would drive
ahead or take a cut-off across the hills and allow the stock to
graze. On one occasion, in the South Pass country, I drove the stock
ahead of the train and off the trail some distance where I found a
small basin in the hills, with fine grass. There I let the herd
scatter and feed, and I got off my saddle horse to let him graze on
the fine bunch grass.
Presently my horse got scared and gave a snort, and looking up I
saw, to my horror, a party of Cheyenne Indians mounted on horses and
gaudily bedecked in war paint and feathers, bearing down on me. I
thought my time had surely come, but summing up all my courage I got
on my horse and rode out to meet them. They saluted me with the
usual Indian salutation “How.” Trembling and excited, I managed to
question them as to where they were going.
They said, through their spokesman, who could speak a little
English, that they were going on their way north to fight the Crow
tribe of Indians. This information greatly relieved my mind, and
reassured, I told them that the Crows were not good, but that the
Cheyenne were heap good Indians, which seemed to please them
greatly.
Gave Indian His Cap
The Civil War was on at this time and all the boys whose folks were
Union sympathizers wore soldier’s caps. I had one at the time I met
these Indians, and one young buck made signs to me that he would
very much appreciate it if I would give him my cap. It is needless
to say he got it without further parley. I returned to camp
bareheaded and once in awhile I would rub my hand over the top of my
head to see if I had my hair left.
The latter part of July we reached South pass in the Rocky Mountains
and a few days later crossed over the divide near the head of Sandy
River, and from there we took the Landers cut-off, the most
northerly route, and the shortest route to the northwest. Besides,
we had heard of the placer gold strike in the Salmon River country,
and had some idea of going into that territory. We shortly arrived
at Green River; the waters that year being extremely high, and not
fordable.
There was no ferry there, and we found hundreds of people and wagons
on the banks of the river, all attempting to devise some means of
getting across with their wagons and property. We were fortunate to
have with our party some good boatmen, and they set about to caulk
and tar our wagon beds, making of the wagon beds serviceable boats
with which we ferried ourselves and goods over Green River, and the
livestock across by swimming.
From Green River, we came along the trail to the Wind River
Mountains, and in that vicinity we camped on a creek, which we
called Stampede Creek, by reason of the fact that for some cause
which we were unable to discover, all of our stock stampeded and
scattered throughout the mountains. It was three days before we
gathered them all up. Luck was with us, for we did not lose a head
of our stock. Inhabiting the wild recesses of the Wind River
Mountains were numerous renegade bands of Paiute, Bannock, and
Shoshone Indians, bent on murder and plunder, and here we had to
maintain a close lookout at all times so as not to be taken by
surprise by these renegades. Near the edge of the timber in the Wind
River Mountains we came upon the scene of a recent massacre by some
of these bands of renegade Indians.
Three of Party Killed
Of a small party consisting of five men from Denver, Colorado, three
had been killed and two escaped. Three bloody shirts were hanging on
a tree at the scene of this tragedy, to give warning to passersby on
the Old Oregon Trail. The dead men had been buried by some party
preceding us. The Indians had stolen the horses and mules and had
scattered the goods of the Denver party all over the ground.
I learned the particulars of this tragedy afterwards in Baker,
Oregon, from one of the survivors. He said his small party were
surprised and attacked by a small band of Indians, but he and one of
his partners managed to get into the thick brush and escape,
afterwards joining a wagon train bound for the Pacific Coast. The
murdered men had considerable money in twenty dollar gold pieces,
and it is a significant fact that in the Snake River country on
several occasions, Indians appeared in our camp and offered as high
as $20 for a small box of caps. They offered twenty dollar gold
pieces for percussions caps and ammunitions. Undoubtedly these were
some of the Indians guilty of having murdered the three men from
Denver, but at that time we were not acquainted with the details of
the massacre, and had no knowledge that the Indians had robbed the
dead men of their money.
We again came into the Old Oregon Trail at Fort Neuf, near where the
city of Pocatello now stands and this was also near Fort Hall. Here
the trail divided, the main trail crossing the Snake River and the
other and less traveled trail following the south side of the Snake
River, and not crossing the Snake at all. We chose the latter route
and followed the south and west side of the Snake River from Fort
Neuf to the present site of Huntington, Oregon. We then followed up
the Burnt River, part of the time along the river and part of the
time we had to take to the hills until we reached a point near
Weatherby. From here we left the canyon of the Burnt River, went up
into the hills for quite a distance and followed the contour of the
hills on the north side of Burnt River until we reached the Straw
Ranch on Alder Creek, an old stage station in the early days, and
now owned by John Troy, who has a fine farm on this old historic
site.
Crossed Virtue Flat
From the Straw Ranch the Oregon Trail crossed the low range of foot
hills to the northward into the vicinity now known as Virtue Flat,
and we camped at what was known as Mud Springs, a short distance
below what is now the Virtue Mine, little dreaming of the wealth of
gold lying almost at our feet.
In 1864 the Virtue Mine was discovered and located by an old
prospector named W. H. Rockefeller, and for many years it was a
great producer of gold. At this time we had heard of the Powder
River placer mines and of the town of Auburn, so our party headed in
that direction. The next morning after leaving Mud Springs we came
into the pass in the hills near the present Flagstaff Hill mine, and
had our first view of the luxuriant grass, and from Flagstaff Hill
presented at that early date as imposing a sight as it does at the
present time. Reaching the Powder River Valley, we left the Oregon
Trail and headed up the valley toward Auburn, camping on the east
side of the Powder River near the Campbell Street bridge. The rye
grass at this place was then as high as our covered wagons and
covered all of the present site of the tourist camp grounds.
It was then the 5th day of September, 1862, and our little caravan
had been on the road from Iowa to Oregon for nearly five months, a
journey that can now be made in comfort by railroads in about three
days, and by auto in not to exceed 10 days. Just across the Power
River on the west side, there as a small log shack built of
cottonwoods, presided over by a man who introduced himself as Coyote
Evans. He had his cabin well stocked with flour, bacon and most
important of all, booze. He did a flourishing business with the
pilgrims from the east as well as those from western Oregon and
Walla Walla. He was located at the crossing point on the Powder
River for all roads leading to the mining camp of Auburn.
All of our party remained in Oregon, and nearly all of them stayed
in the Power River valley. But of the pioneers of ’62, nearly all
have passed to the great beyond.
“They belonged to
the legion that never were listed.
They carried no banner nor crest.
But split in a thousand detachments
Were breaking the ground for the rest.”
My father went over to Washington Gulch with his family, including the writer, and here, on the 8th day of September, 1862, was born my brother, David Speelman, now residing in Haines, he being the first white child born in Baker County. Having now concluded to take up a farm and settle down in the vicinity of the placer mines, my father built a log house on the site of the present farm of S. B. Baisley near Salmon Creek.
