A Veteran of the Black Hawk War

A VETERAN OF THE BLACK HAWK WAR By H. R. Merrill, Brigham Young University Last spring I had the pleasure of going to Bryce and Zion in company with A. A. Anderson, Scout Executive of the Timpanogos District Council. We took our wives along. Though we were in a hurry, both of us being interested in early history and the pioneers W. A. Cox, veteran of 84, one of the party shot at first in the Black Hawk War. Scout Executive A. A. Anderson, Provo, at his side. who made it, we found time to hunt up various people and places of interest. At Manti, we came in contact with W. A. Cox, a veteran 84 years of age, still comparatively active. We found him in his garden, and when we told him that we were looking for some one who knew something about the Black Hawk war, he immediately laid down his hoe and followed us to his blacksmoth shop which is, in reality, the old curiosity shop. Near the shop Mr. Cox perched on a block

VETERAN OF THE BIACK HAWK WAR 59 of wood and Mr. Anderson and I found another, while we listened to the veteran tell of the exciting days of long ago. "I was one of the first men to be shot at in the Black Hawk war," Mr. Cox began. Then he proceeded to tell a tale that might have stepped bodily from the pages of some wild, western book. The beginning of the war, according to Mr. Cox, dates from a certain altercation which took place between John Lowry, a well known veteran and leader of Sanpete county, and an Indian which occurred in Manti. Others trace the beginning to a little earlier date, but that doesn't matter so much here. It seems that a young Indian brave be- came angry and threatened to shoot Mr. Lowry with an arrow, where- upon the white man jerked him from his horse rather unceremoniously. This was hard on the dignity of the Red Man, who rode away uttering threats against the whites. As a result of this tilt, the whites decided next day to round up their stock which were grazing about twelve miles from Manti down the valley towards Richfield. A company of twenty or thirty young fellows were dispatched to bring the cattle in. Among them was W. A. Cox. "We were riding along the trail near Twelve Mile creek," Mr. Cox said in his slow way, "when we saw on a trail that ran almost parallel with ours, and which we knew would join ours a little farther on, a band of Indians. These Indians began shooting as we approached. We supposed that they were tryin' to scare us, so paid no attention to them until we began to hear the bullets whistling pretty close. This had continued but a short time when one of our boys, Peter Ludvigsen, fell form his horse, dead. We discovered then that the Indians were shootin' to kill, and that they meant real mischief. We whirled our horses and started for home as we were not prepared to fight. The In- dians followed, but we soon got away from them, since our horses were grain-fed and theirs were just range horses and poor; it was early spring." Mr. Cox then told us other interesting tales of Indian trouble, but he seems to like best to tell his story of the famous Black Hawk uprising. I was very much interested in Mr. Cox because he reminded me of a famous story-telling uncle of mine whom I had listened to by the hour as he told his yarns of the early days. As I listened to Mr. Cox's slow drawl I lived over again many of the nights I had spent around our home fire listening to my uncle's tales. The memory was made more vivid when I glanced down and beheld Mr. Cox's boots. They were of a pattern that could not be mistaken. Many times I had acted as boot-jack for just such boots. "Where did you get your boots?" I couldn't refrain from asking the question, though it might have seemed rude. He drew up his overalls that I might see their quilted tops and

60 IMPROVEMENT ERA feel of the fine texture of the leather. "These boots are thirty years old," he said. "I used always to wear boots like them. I found these a while ago where they had been stored away, and decided to wear 'em out." Mr. Cox is an interesting old veteran who can tell his yarns to one or two interested listeners in really a charming way. He has much of the ability of the pioneer to picture episodes, especially if he is given a stick and a patch of dirt in which he can draw out the position of things as they were. He took us to his shop where he has collected crooked sticks, irons of all kinds, ox bows, yokes, pioneer wagons — he even has one that was used by Johnston's army — and traps of all kinds. The outside of the shop is covered like the inside with a thousand and one trinkets he has picked up in various places. "Crooked sticks are my hobby," he said whimsically. "I use crooked sticks for everything." He showed us a rich assortment of canes, a hand-saw handle, a turn stile for his gate, and many other instruments that had been made in part or in whole by crooked sticks that he had picked up in his travels. Mr. Cox was a member of a wagon train that made one of the best records between the River and Utah. I saw the veteran again in June. He is growing feeble, but his mind works well, and he can still spin his true yarns of the early days in a manner that is a delight to one who has been brought up with such tales. Provo, Utah. I Am the Helmsman I hold my fate in the balance, This power's my right divine; My life is what I make it, Though walls my body confine. It matters not what condition, Let fate smile kindly, or frown, 'Tis mine to still do the choosing: Will roses or thorns be my crown? This God giv'n power that's within me, Views mountain tops hid from sight, Where treasures untold wait the winners, Who fight on with strength and with might. There's none can steer life's boat for me, But God; and will to achieve Will lead my bark to its moorings, Where sacrifice finds its reprieve. Raymond, Canada HELEN KIMBALL ORGILL