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Ghost Towns and History of
Montana Newsletter
From The Madisonian, Sept. 17, 1903
Death Pursued Broadwater in His Ride from
Bannack to Deer Lodge City in 1864
Accessed via: montananewspapers.org
From The Glacier County Chief Newspaper, Feb. 25, 1938
Carson Lake, reporter for the New York Press, in 1890, had the following
story as related to him about Charles A. Broadwater, uncle of Tom Marlow
of Helena, and one of Montana's early millionaires.
In the Gilsey House corridor a few days ago I met Col. C. A. Broadwater
about whom I had heard a most exciting pioneer incident when I was in
Montana last year. Colonel Broadwater is a pioneer Montanan and is
wealthy. He is president of a railroad, proprietor of a famous natatorium
near Helena and the owner of famous mines and cattle ranges. He is short
and stout. In his younger days he must have been very athletic.
Banished From Bannack
The story is about a happening in the early ’60’s. Bannack City, the first capital
had been overrun by a gang of desperadoes- A vigilance committee was
organized. It hanged some and banished others. Two of the banished were
Moore and Reeves. Broadwater and a young man named Pemberton
(Judge W.Y. Pemberton of later days) had gone into the Deer Lodge valley
where mining was going on, and had begun platting what is now Deer
Lodge.
One day Moore and Reeves arrived in the Deer Lodge locality and made
their camp beside the Deer Lodge river in a clump of willows. They had no
protection from the weather but their blankets. Their only food was beef
washed down by coffee. Moore took sick. He had mountain fever (mountain
fever was identified by its effect. If the patient recovered it was typhoid. If
he died it was mountain fever).
Broadwater, with the characteristic generosity of the old west, had Moore
removed to a cabin and supplied him with food and medicine. He recover׉	 7cassandra://T-iAYp2XumpQ23Q66J0TNCqpgogcrLG9d4jjBD7HazY+` dYHnrdYHnq(בCט   (u׉׉	 7cassandra://p7a6HAZomCmew7fnLvxW3FrVuRynUGngk9lldILxphY 5`׉	 7cassandra://Ip2Jjsnl5Zc-z_NYQKJFROHaHHfUZuVhRuCR0M3r8mY͋3`s׉	 7cassandra://yyKHfU2WwxhmY_xuaJtkd7FLWZ4Oh_yq8YEndjKtOaI&` ׉	 7cassandra://vRHyirWO_WbL1zt1PlgQkyM4sdyluR44_KIXBAO-8hI Gd͠]dYHnט  (u׉׉	 7cassandra://TpDeo_N7akcTgHjR7GWiHULmxmvKqBPq2-lf1tfxBMA j`׉	 7cassandra://fsPg-W3q1zrgrwUYOkv8m9aO12hyhKFUhG6Kk6EV5XE͔"`s׉	 7cassandra://NFunFG-Gxzush4LtT-Bmr0rOp9SKVJjiuH1gqaioEmU(9` ׉	 7cassandra://IDchjDNcD031kxe8q0ulUR3MQZabQjuuB71mrV802zY ߩ͠]dYHnנdYHn U*9׉H #https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/GׁׁrנdYHn Z9ׁH #https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/ׁׁЈ׉E
P a g e 2
G h o s t T o w n s a n d H i s t o r y o f
M o n t a n a N e w s l e t t e r
ed in time to learn that Bannack had just rescinded the edict of
banishment against himself and Reeves and that they were at
liberty to return. Moore’s horse had been stolen while he was
ill. Broadwater gave him another and promptly forgot all about
him.
Became Cattle Man
Broadwater went from real estate and mining into the cattle
industry. He bought beef in Deer Lodge and sold it in Bannack at a big profit. Payment was always in
gold dust. On one deal he made $6,000. He was about the leave Bannack with his sack of dust when
Moore suddenly turned up. He told Broadwater privately that there was a band of road agents at
Bannack, with Sheriff Plummer at their head, and that they were planning to waylay Broadwater and
rob and also possibly kill him. Moore, it seems, was a member of the road agent gang but this he kept
secret.
Photo by Jolene Ewert-Hintz
Photo by Jolene Ewert-Hintz
Moore further advised Broadwater to slip out of Bannack
quietly and not to tell even his most intimate friend the
hour of his leaving. Broadwater accepted the advice. He
started for Deer Lodge early in the evening and rode until
3 a.m. Then he laid down to rest. The horse was tied
to his wrist with a lariat. The horse awakened him with
its snorts about daybreak—in time for him to see an Indian
creeping toward him. He shot the Indian who, however,
was able to run away. He resumed his journey.
Ives and Cooper
After traveling 20 miles he came upon two men seated by a campfire. They were George Ives and John
Cooper. Both were doomed to be hanged, later on, by the Vigilantes for their many crimes.
They were surprised to see him. Their behavior impressed him with the belief that they had been sent
out to waylay him but had not expected him so soon.
Their horses were grazing about two or three miles away from the fire along the foothills. They hailed
him and urged him to wait for them. There were road agents along the way, they said. It would be
better for the three to ride together. Broadwater pretended to consent. But, he said, since his horse
couldn’t keep up with theirs he had better keep on riding; they would have no trouble in overtaking
him. He further allayed their suspicions by dismounting within eye shot of them to lead his horse up a
little hill. But as soon as he was out of sight he rode “hell for leather” for the second crossing of the river
where the French squawman, Contway, was living with his Indian wife. It was the nearest
shelter. It was a race for life.
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G h o s t T o w n s a n d H i s t o r y o f
M o n t a n a N e w s l e t t e r
After 10 miles, Colonel Broadwater says, his horse began to tire. He looked behind him to see a cloud of
dust about three miles away that was being raised by Ives and Cooper in hot pursuit. With a tired horse
and 30 pounds of gold strapped to his waist he was under a terrible handicap. But he pounded onward.
He reached Contway’s doorway with Ives and Cooper only 50 yards behind him.
Ives pretended to Contway that he and Broadwater were having a race. Broadwater fell in with the pretense.
Ives and Cooper decided to stop all night at Contway’s. Broadwater was forced by circumstances to
do likewise. Broadwater took advantage of an opportunity to tell Contway the facts and to purchase one
of the Frenchman's fleet horses privately. Under the arrangement the Frenchman was to saddle the horse
–one of his fleetest—and Contway owned some fine horses, and bring it to the door on pretense that he,
himself, was going to hunt for cattle.
Broadwater was to notice the horse, admire it and mount it “to see how it behaved" with an eye to a possible
purchase. The program was carried out with Ives and Cooper looking idly on. Their mounts were
staked out on the prairie. When Broadwater found himself in the saddle he exclaimed: “I’ll keep him and
pay you for him later, Contway. I must be on my way."
“I have witnesses that you promised to pay.” the
Frenchman said, after pretending to make an attempt
to dissuade Broadwater from leaving until “the horse is
paid for.”
Ives and Cooper tried to persuade him to wait for
them. "It isn't fair to ride off and leave us." they urged.
But Broadwater said he had “business in Deer Lodge”
and dashed away. He rode 20 miles without stopping—from the Frenchman’s ranch to Deer Lodge. He
found on checking up that he had ridden 107 miles in 18 hours including stops—from Bannack to Deer
Lodge. -Accessed via: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/
Mary Fields. Also known as "Stagecoach Mary" or "Black Mary", Mary Fields was born into
slavery in 1832 in Tennessee. Gaining her freedom after the Civil war, she worked as a chambermaid
on the steamboat Robert E. Lee. In the 1870's, Mary began working at the Ursuline
Convent in Toledo, Ohio with Mother Mary Amadeus as acting superior. Amadeus traveled to
Montana to establish St. Peter's Mission west of what would become Cascade. When
Amadeus fell ill, Mary hurried to Montana to nurse her back to health. Even after Amadeus
was well again, Mary stayed on to work at the convent. She handled the stage, hauled and
protected goods, washed clothes and tended to the chickens. But, because of her routine habits
of drinking, swearing, fighting and gunplay, the bishop asked Mary to leave the convent in
1894. In 1895, Mary secured a contract to deliver mail between the convent and Cascade, a
fifteen mile journey. Because of her reliability and speed, she earned the nickname
"Stagecoach Mary". At 6 feet tall and 200 pounds, Mary was known as one of the toughest
women in Montana history. She passed away in Great Falls, Montana in 1914.
Photo by Jolene Ewert-Hintz
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GLEANINGS FROM A SENIOR’S DIARY
-This appeared in the Monmal (Dillon, MT), May 1, 1918
G h o s t T o w n s a n d H i s t o r y o f
M o n t a n a N e w s l e t t e r
At last we’re in the Highlands. Joy! what a day this has been. We started at five o ’clock this
morning with a team and light wagon loaded down with bedding
and eats, plus five healthy individuals and the “Family Skeleton.’’
Yes, it was a heavy load, but we had two saddle horses to assist.
We had a profound sympathy for the poor horses; consequently
we spent much of our time walking up mountains. We shall never
forget that wonderful spring we passed on the road. To us, overheated
as we were, it seemed the most refreshing drink we ever
had.
This is a most beautiful place. Huge pine-clad mountains surround
our camp. We can see a snow bank on the highest peak. We
have made our beds of spicy pine needles under the limbs of two
towering pines. A small cabin stands near by, but we have
shunned its dark recesses. Our horses are hobbled and are roaming
about through the darkness, nibbling grass. Skidoo, the Family
Skeleton, is the limit. He rushes out and barks at the darkness,
making us think there are wild animals about. Fran keeps asking Mickey, her small, twelve year
old brother, why he brought that pesky dog along.
We’re going to wait for the moon to come up, because we are afraid to put our fire out until we
get some other kind of light. At last the moon is rising over the mountain. The darkness is disappearing
rapidly; and we can go to bed, feeling safe from harm, with a trusty ax and a rusty
shovel within Fran’s reach. I’ll have to write some more tonight to tell about our bed. We’ve
made it over three times in order to keep from running our feet out into the pine needles.
September 5: Last night was fine. After a long time we all managed to go to sleep. This morning
the sun woke us up at an unearthly hour. We crawled out of our warm beds, and dashed,
with quilts wrapped around us, to the creek. In we jumped, leaving our garments on the bank.
Such blood curdling yells! That water almost made frozen images of us. Was ever such a
breakfast! Sallie made about forty hot cakes apiece, while we cooked eggs, prepared the wild
gooseberries we had gathered the night before, and made coffee. Believe me! Gooseberries
and hot cakes are delicious. As we were sitting at our crooked table, balancing ourselves on
tottering benches, Ann and I heard a queer buzzing sound. “A bee!” cried Ann, and we both
jumped up, scattering all obstructions to the four winds, and took to the tall timber. ‘‘Oh, come
on back,” Sallie called, ‘‘Bees won’t hurt you if you leave them alone ” We finally sneaked back
to the table. Those bees! They just stuck around our camp all the time. Ann and I had some
time trying to dodge them. We would get nicely seated when along would come those bees.
Over would go our benches, taking with them Sallie, Fran, and Mickey, who shouted loud protests
at such treatment. However, we did succeed in eating our share of the breakfast between
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G h o s t T o w n s a n d H i s t o r y o f
M o n t a n a N e w s l e t t e r
jumps. In the afternoon we went for a long hike up a pretty mountain road. We left a kettle of
beans cooking on the stove. When we got back our fire was out. Someone had raided our camp
for eats. The unknown person had left the cover off the bean-kettle; and the bees had taken possession.
Fran, the brave, lifted the kettle; but she had taken only a few steps when she gave a
loud shriek, dropped the kettle, and ran to the stream. A bee had stung her! N. B. Don’t mention
bees to Fran.
It is evening now, and we are sitting around the fire
singing and telling stories and fortunes. The Family
Skeleton still barks. He is afraid of his own shadow
but seems to think he could protect us if his protection
were needed. He is no taller than a good- sized
cat and much skinnier. His hair is short and white,
and he has a poor excuse for a tail. But what he
lacks in tail he makes up in voice. The impressive
stillness of the night holds one in thrall. Nothing but
the rush of the water in Roaring Brook can be
heard. This only adds to the charm. Now and then we think we can see gleaming eyes a few feet
away from us, and our imaginations succeed in making our hearts work double duty. We have put
our fire our carefully, and Fran is hunting for the weapons to put at the head of the bed. It is quite
cool these September nights. It is great to sleep out in the open with nothing but the sky and twinkling
stars for a roof.
September 7: This is our last evening. We had a delightful time today. We had already explored
everything but Roaring Brook, and this morning we took a lunch and started out to find its source.
We tried climbing up the steep mountains; but the trees and underbrush were so thick that we
soon had to take to the rocks in the stream. These were not much better, They were large and
slippery with pretty green moss. We were forced to crawl over them much of the time to keep from
slipping off into the stream. We each took a turn at falling into the water. Even Skidoo, in leaping
for another rock, tumbled into the swift little current, which almost carried him down stream. Our
hearts were so touched at the sight of his struggling that Mickey waded in and rescued the yelping
canine. We climbed for about three hours but seemed no nearer the source of Roaring Brook; so
we called a halt and ate our lunch. As we were eating, threatening clouds began to pass over our
heads; and soon it commenced to rain. The big pines sheltered us very well as we climbed over
rocks and slid down the mountain side on pine needles. Nevertheless, we were drenched when
we reached camp; but we were soon dried by a good campfire.
September 8: We got tired waiting for the moon last night and went to bed in the dark. We had
been asleep for some time when we heard Fran yelling, “ Mickey, get up! There’s a forest fire.”
This startling announcement brought us all to a sitting posture. Sure enough we could see a huge
blazing fire on the mountains to the southeast. It took a long time to get Mickey out of bed, but he
finally crawled from under the covers. He slept with all his clothes on and, consequently, was the
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G h o s t T o w n s a n d H i s t o r y o f
M o n t a n a N e w s l e t t e r
only one prepared to investigate. He went out into the open and climbed a tree. A few minutes later
he came running back. He looked at us disgustedly. “You poor fish! It’s only the moon,” said he, as
he rolled up once more in his covers. It did not take us long to follow suit. A rapid exit from the canyon
by the light of a forest fire did not appeal to any of us. It was with a feeling of absolute safety
and peace that we finally closed our eyes as we saw our terrible forest fire rise majestically above
the haze of the mountains.— Ruth Harding., Accessed via: http://montananewspapers.org/
Chastine Humphrey
The first boy born in Butte, Chastine Humphrey, was born
April 16, 1868, in a three-room log cabin beneath the shade
of a fir tree – the only tree in the townsite of Butte. The cabin
stood on West Quartz Street at the later site of the Maryland
Boarding House, which was located at 21 West Quartz, the
parking lot immediately west of the Fire Station, today’s Archives
building.
Chastine Humphrey, Sr., the boy’s father, laid out the townsite
of Butte in 1866. The senior Humphrey’s brother, Oliver,
passed through the Butte area in the early 1860s but ultimately
settled in Helena. He wrote to his brother encouraging
him to come to Montana, and in late 1864, Chastine, his wife
and daughter (later Mrs. Nell O’Donnell of Walkerville) arrived in Butte. Mrs. Humphrey was reportedly the
first woman in Butte.
These cabins and the tree were on the first block of
West Quartz Street, where the old fire station (Butte
Archives) stands today. The main cabin and tree
were just west of the fire station, in today's parking
lot. All these buildings are gone today. All but the
left-most of the row of three cabins were gone by
1901.
Of the cluster of cabins Humphrey built, only one was still standing in 1901,
just east of the then new fire station. That log cabin served as a barn and stable
for Gilmore & Salisbury’s stage coach horses. Further east, another small
cabin had been built by Ben Kingsbury. The 3-story Kingsbury Block was built
about 1887 on the northwest corner of Quartz and Main, where it stood until
it was demolished in the Model Cities program in 1969-70. Furthest east, probably
the cabin in the lower left corner in the image above, William Matthews
and Bryan Irvine shared the space. Matthews committed suicide by jumping
from a window at the Insane Asylum at Warm Springs. Irvine was still in Butte
30 years after the date of the image above (circa 1868), living at 643 West
Granite Street in 1895.
Other residents in the 1860s in this block included A.W. Barnard, on the south side of the street. The story
went that when W.A. Clark first came to Butte, he spent his first night here in Barnard’s cabin. Barnard, like
Kingsbury, became quite wealthy, and built the Barnard Block on the site of his original cabin.
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P a g e 7
G h o s t T o w n s a n d H i s t o r y o f
M o n t a n a N e w s l e t t e r
The tree that sheltered the Humphrey house, the last one in the area, finally “yielded to the axe and fell like
the gallant soldier on the field of battle, after all hope had gone.” The Humphreys burned the wood in their
fireplace and kitchen stove.
Chas Humphrey, the son, took a job with the Butte Miner newspaper in 1879, at age 12. He eventually became
a member of the International Typographical Union, working until automated machines – Mergenthalers
– replaced him in 1895. He continued in the printing profession including typesetting for the Jefferson
County Zephyr, in Whitehall.
Chastine Humphrey, Jr. died of pneumonia January 12, 1901, only 32 years old. The Humphreys are buried in
Mount Moriah Cemetery.
On the occasion of Chas’s death, his sister Nell O’Donnell recounted the locations of the Humphrey cabins on West Quartz.
“Our house stood where the Maryland House now stands [i.e., the lot immediately west of the Archives building today]. It has
been said that it stood upon the site of the new fire station. It is true a house belonging to father stood on the fire station site, but
we did not live in it. The old tree stood on the slope almost where the kitchen of the Maryland house stands. [i.e., near the alley,
just west of the northwest corner of the Archives building].”
The photo below is from 1875 and shows the Humphrey cabin and the tree at far right. Beneath it is the
same photo, annotated to show buildings and Main Street. -By Richard I. Gibson
Primary resource: Anaconda Standard, January 27, 1901. Also Sanborn maps and city directories. See also this post about the first
house in Butte, on East Quartz St. See also The Story of Butte, special issue of The Butte Bystander for April 15, 1897. Images of
Butte in 1875 from A Brief
History of Butte, Montana:
the World's Greatest Mining
Camp, by Harry C. Freeman,
1900, digitized by Butte Public
Library, annotations by
Gibson.
Richard Gibson is a geologist. His
career has ranged from analyzing
kidney stones to 35 years in
oil exploration. Butte's history,
architecture, and people captured
his interest like he thought
nothing could, and have expanded
his life significantly. He’s still
passionate about geology, but
now he’s passionate about Butte,
too. His book "What Things Are
Made Of" came out in March
2011; his writing blog focuses on
it. The Butte History blog contains
interesting stories discovered
in Butte, Montana, which
are documented in "Lost Butte,
Montana," from The History
Press. Check out more great
stories from Richard by visiting his sites:
http://buttehistory.blogspot.com/
http://butte-anacondanhld.blogspot.com/
https://www.verdigrisproject.org/butte-americas-story
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G h o s t T o w n s a n d H i s t o r y o f
M o n t a n a N e w s l e t t e r
Driving the Golden Spike
The most visible art in the Montana State Capitol attests to
the importance of the arrival of the Northern Pacific Railroad.
Driving the Golden Spike commemorates the great
event that took place at Gold Creek on September 8, 1883,
marking the completion of the last section of track across
the vast stretches of the state.
Amédée Joullin, Driving the Golden Spike, 1903. Oil on
canvas, 183" x 90". Grand Stairway
While Governor Joseph Toole oversaw the subjects of the
Capitol’s other art, the Northern Pacific insisted upon the
right to dictate the subject matter and the people depicted
in this painting. Railroad officials chose as the artist Amédée
Joullin, who earned his credentials as an artist at the Ecole
des Beaux-Arts and the Académie Julian in Paris. Finished in
1903, the oil on canvas was unveiled first in California and
subsequently mounted in its place of honor at the top of the grand stairway beneath the stained glass barrel vault
in the Capitol. It is indeed impressive in its place of honor. In consultation with railroad officials, Joullin drew on
photographs of the event and portraits of the participants to create
the mural. Former President Ulysses S. Grant holds the sledgehammer
while Northern Pacific president Henry Villard looks on. A
delegation of Crow Indians, whose land the railroad crossed, includes
Chief Iron Bull. Generic onlookers include soldiers, cowboys,
miners, and railroad men. Absent, however, are those who actually
did the work laying the tracks across Montana: the Irish, the Chinese,
and other laborers. The golden spike used in the ceremony
was not actually gold at all but a working iron spike that reputedly
was used to begin the transcontinental project in Minnesota in
1872. –Ellen Baumler
Ellen Baumler is an award-winning author and Montana historian. A master at
linking history with modern-day supernatural events, Ellen's true stories have
delighted audiences across the state. She lives in Helena in a century-old house with
her husband, Mark, and its resident spirits. To view and purchase Ellen’s books,
visit: http://ellenbaumler.blogspot.com/p/my-books.html
This view shows the Last Spike ceremony on
which Joullin's painting is based. Photo by F. Jay Haynes.
Montana Historical Society Photograph Archives, H-984
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