MEMORIES OF EARLY DAY MILES CITY
By Frank Wiley
Fanning the Embers, ? 1971, Range Rider Reps, Miles City, Montana

I have many childhood recollections of incidents and people I heard my elders tell about.

Miles City, at the time within my memory, then had a population of about three thousand people and thirty-one saloons, supported by a substantial garrison at Fort Keogh, the cowboys and the local townsmen.

The main street resembled the present-day Tombstone, Arizona with the sidewalks of wood, built at wagon box level in front of some stores. Jordan's store was located just west of the Leighton or Olive Hotel. Here the big freight outfits would load up supplies for ranches, enough to last six months or a year. The freighters took pride in their skill in spotting their outfits with their string teams and two wagons.

The Hamilton livery barn and corral was west of the Carnegie Library on the main street. Lavalle's Livery Barn was in the next block adjacent to Rhodes Blacksmith Shop and Echeberg's Blacksmith Shop. Ben Hardin's father had a livery barn on the next street south and east of the Ford garage.

There was a candy store on main street, across from the Metropolitan Cafe and ran by a little, hump-backed man named "Shorty" Jackson. He had a popcorn wagon out in front. The wagon was enclosed in glass with a gas-lighted burner inside that ran a steam engine which turned the popper and various circus clowns and bright machinery designed to attract the youngsters. The machine turned out heaps of fluffy popcorn, hot butter and hot peanuts. We had a chief of police named Olle Jackson who was a friend of the "small fry." He had a procedure that I often fell for as I followed him around.

Olle would ask me if I would like some popcorn. Of course, I would. We would go down to Shorty Jackson's candy store and get a sack of popcorn, then Olle would ask me if I would like to see the monkey; of course I would. We would go down an alley behind the library where, in front of a log shack, there was a post in the ground with a board nailed on top. Here a monkey sat, with a collar around his neck attached to a chain which was stapled to the base of the post.

The monkey and I would try to outstare each other, and the minute I looked away, the monk would run down the post, grab my sack of popcorn, and back up to his perch: he would then call me all sorts of names in monkey talk, and I would scream insults at him in small boy talk. Olle Jackson would laugh until he choked, and I don't remember that I ever turned down a sack of popcorn.

The courthouse was an imposing castle of brick on the main street and adjacent to the present courthouse; the jail was in the basement. The area was surrounded by silver-leaf maple trees and fenced in by a fence made of turned six-inch posts with fence rails of 1 1/2" galvanized pipe.

One cold winter morning the fence rails were covered with frost and Pat Western, whose father was sheriff, told me she couldn't understand why the frost tasted like sugar. I tasted the frost and left some hide off of my tongue on the rail. From then on, I never trusted a woman.

A place on Main Street that attracted youngsters was Lindeberg's Bakery. Out behind was a big pigeon loft over the barn and a yard fenced in and covered with chicken wire. In the yard were rare breeds of pigeons and colorful birds of many kinds, including peacocks, Chinese pheasants, quail, ducks, Mexican game cocks and several kinds of chickens that I couldn't identify. This feathered menagerie was a hobby with Mr. Lindeberg.

The bakery had a big bay horse with big feet that pulled the delivery truck. Every morning the old man who drove the truck would lead the horse down to the fountain in front of the courthouse to get a drink. The frisky old horse would try to step on the delivery man, who in turn looked as if he was pushing on the rope as he danced to keep from getting his feet stepped on. That fountain was a well-used municipal utility appreciated by kids, horses and dogs, and where we all got a drink. It, now very fittingly, is in front of the Range Riders Museum. I could always tell the city horses from the country horses. When the city teams approached the fountain on a hot day, they would pull up and hesitate just right to lift the wagon tongue over the edge of the fountain. The country horses would bang the wagon tongue up against the fountain and then struggle to try and get a drink.

An outstanding event in 1907 was the Elks Convention. Miles town went all out for this and a mock frontier town was constructed in the city park. The rustic buildings were built of slab wood with false fronts. Hundreds of Elks and their ladies came from all over the state. Professional roundup cooks presided over the barbecue pits, where a hungry Elk or anyone else could get a free meal at any time. There was always a quarter of a big steer over the fire in each of the big pits. I acquired a whole rib and a hair-full of tallow, but good'.

The main street was streaming with blue and white decorations and the feature was a big parade with Elk bands and drill teams and cars built into floats. This parade was the biggest and best ever witnessed in our cow town, even exceeding the annual circus which came to town. I remember the Billings Elks brought a horse-drawn streetcar. which in addition to being a parade feature, was left in town, abandoned to the pleasure of the local youngsters and its final disintegration. What a collector's item that would be!

The big cow outfits and associations of smaller outfits, shipped their cattle in the fall. Herds of hundreds of cattle came down on the west side of Tongue River, where there were no fences. For about a month there was a continued bellowing roar in the area of the N.P. stockyards and on the reservation between town and Fort Keogh. The arrival of each herd could be noted by the increase in the perpetual cloud of dust which drifted over town. This, together with the increased excitement in the saloons of any main street, as the cowboys greeted old friends that they hadn't seen for months or years.

A Miles City landmark known throughout the west was "Kelly's" Saloon, on Main Street and just west of Foster's Drug Store. This refreshment palace was off limits for me, but I occasionally successfully avoided detection, to make a hurried tour before some bartender threw me out. This well-lighted saloon had a beautiful backbar along the west wall, and of the architecture of the time, with walnut and plate glass mirrors, various stacks of polished glasses and rows of labeled bottles. The bar was of polished wood, under which was a casement of glass through which could be seen, with indirect lighting, all sorts of undersea creatures and seaweed. There were starfish, sea shells, sea horses, and other things that were a real eye-opener for a small boy. The brass footrail and brass spittoons were all spit and polish. The floor was tiled and still is, or was the last time I saw it some years ago. I am sure there were appropriate pictures along the wall, but my attention was always drawn to a statue group of a colored man in a chair leaning against the wall and a small colored boy by his side, apparently asleep. I would carefully pass them by, half afraid they were for real. This tour I made of Kelly's was usually good for "two-bits."

At one time we lived over the Foster Drug Store. The windows of our rooms looked out to the east, over the roofs of the adjoining buildings, the next building being Lavine's ready-to-wear store. Some of the structure that I could see had painted stripes and colored blue and red decorations. I was told that the decorations were on parts of a steam boat that were salvaged from the river and used in the building when it was built.

We used to board at Bement's boarding house located next to the newspaper office. The star boarders included many professional people and stockmen. Colonel Malone, a Civil War officer, could always be baited into renewal of the Civil War, and his stories were listened to in wonder by this small boy. They were on a par with those told to me at other times by two old buffalo hunters, George Liscombe and Barney Colleran.

Mrs. Bement's brother-in-law, "Baldy" Bement, drove the 'hack' pulled by a team and with the passengers riding inside, like in a stage coach. The driver sat on top in front. Baldy Bement often put me up on the driver's seat to ride to the depot with him, and this adventure made my day complete.

The popular relaxation for the day was to go down to the depot and watch the train come in, and see the hustle and bustle of loading and unloading the express and baggage. Baggage was hauled uptown to the hotels in a lowboy wagon pulled by tired-looking horses or burros and driven by Tom McNanney or Levy Simpson.

A cafe, where the Metropolitan Cafe now is, was run by an energetic and efficient little lady named Mamie Schirmer. My most vivid recollection of this cafe was the excitement, noise and disturbance I created when I put my finger in the cigar clipper. This contrivance, with an alcohol flame cigar lighter, was a fixture at the cashier's counter. The patron who bought a cigar would place the end that was to be lighted in this mouse trap. an obvious hole in the base of the lighter; with a loud click the end of the cigar was clipped off, and following this, the cigar was lighted from the alcohol flame at convenient eye level. The automatic sequence of this procedure always fascinated me until, as an experiment, I put my finger in the clipper, which efficiently removed the skin and a small amount of tissue. The sudden spurt of blood was followed by howls of protest on my part and the attention of all the customers and waitresses.

Larry Mott's steam laundry was an institution next to the light plant. I think he got his steam from the light plant which also furnished heat to the business section on Main Street, an efficient and economical municipal utility. The light plant was owned by the city until the power company talked the city dads out of it. Mott's delivery wagons were pulled by teams of small burros: the model never changed from year to year and they no doubt got many miles to a ton of hay. The laundry put the Chinese laundries out of business. We had several of these Chinese people in town. It was a novel sight to see them take a mouthful of water and sprinkle the clothes, as they ironed with immense hand irons heated on a stove.

Every youngster in town congregated at the laundry door when the Chinamen passed out candy on their New Year. The candied ginger and pickled nuts were a real treat, appreciated and remembered to this day.

An outstanding social event was the Firemen's Ball, held annually at the roller rink. The proceeds were used to finance the equipment for the volunteer fire department. The firemen really turned out when the light plant whistle tooted the alarm number also every youngster in town.

The first equipment I remember was a hose cart, a two wheeled affair upon which the hose was wound. This cart was pulled to the fire by the firemen and pulled back to the firehouse by the kids. The city next acquired a ladder wagon and pumper pulled by a beautiful team of big, bay horses. These horses loved their job and everyone in town loved those horses. When the city purchased a fire truck, it was suggested that the team be sold. The whole town descended on the city fathers who, being quick to sense the feeling, pensioned the team to a good pasture on Haynes Avenue near Carbon Hill. Here people stopped to pet the horses while on a Sunday drive.

The history and economy of every town has been punctuated by fires. Miles City had some bad ones. I remember three livery barn fires and the tragedy of the burned horses. When I was a small boy, old-timers dated events before and after the McQueen House burned. This was a hotel on Park Street near the depot. I remember them telling about a house burning on the south side of the railroad track. The firemen had the hose stretched across the track and were unable to flag down a train that cut the hose. The railroad didn't offer to buy a new hose, all resulting in some understandable bitterness. At a later date, the wool house owned by the railroad caught fire, and there just wasn't hose enough to reach the blaze. The railroad then generously contributed funds to buy needed hose for the department.

Incidents, remembered with enjoyment, include various Halloween pranks in which there seemed to be unlimited opportunity.

George Miles, one of the town founders, built a residence, of period architecture, at a site about two blocks north of the Lincoln School. There was an old river channel of Tongue River which ran just east of the school yard, then curved west and turned north in front of the Miles house. There was a wagon bridge across the old river channel northeast of the school, and a foot bridge across the slough, for a wooden sidewalk along the west side of the school yard to the Miles house; another foot bridge carried the sidewalk west from the Miles house across the slough or river channel.

The high school football stadium was built on the site of a small lake or pond which had water in it the year around. This lake was called "Miles' Pond" and was a popular skating pond in the winter. The morning after Halloween, buggy tops could be seen projecting from the pond while various citizens probed the pond on rafts, trying to retrieve the gates to the fences which surrounded their residences.

Every residence. with lawn, trees, and flowers, had to have a fence around it for protection from cows and horses which had a free run of the unfenced areas. The usual family home complex included a barn for the cow, a chicken house and an outside toilet, a complement to the pot under each bed. The morning after Halloween, most of the outhouses were in a reclining position, having been pushed over the night before by teen-aged pranksters, sometimes with the incautious owner inside.

The town herd was an institution and the herdsman picked up the cows from the alleys as he went by on horseback. This herd of about fifty to one hundred head was taken across Tongue River south of town to graze all day and then returned that evening.

I had my own horse at the age of seven and lived on Strevell Avenue. My job was to cut the neighbor's cow out of the herd and put her in the barnyard. The horse and the cow knew what to do, I just went along for the ride and to take home the lard pail full of warm milk after Mr. Laney, a retired Powder River rancher, finished milking the Jersey cow. The milk was generous compensation for my labor.

One day, at the age of five, while watching the ranchers load their big freight wagons at Jordan's Store on Main Street, I happened to walk past a big white colonial house west of the store. This house had a well-kept lawn surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. There were several ladies sitting on the front porch, and as I paused to look through the fence they invited me in and gave me some candy from the biggest box of chocolates that I had ever seen. I was allowed to have all I could eat, and took advantage of this opportunity.

I noted on repeated visits that there seemed to be no limit to the candy supply, and my mother noted a lack of appetiete by me at mealtime. With motherly suspicion, she followed me one afternoon and terminated my visits with those friendly people by vigorous and repeated paddling all the way home. It was some years before I understood her unreasonable attitude.

The first automobile in town received a lot of comment and attention, and it wasn't long until the motor car became a status symbol. Ownership of the first car was claimed by Hank Greenway, a rancher up Tongue River; George Ulmer, a merchant; and Doctor Andrus. The Lakin Brothers, who owned a general drygoods store, were agents for the Maytag Automobile. They built an inclined ramp of planks on the Main Street and would demonstrate this red hill-climbing marvel by taking customers for a ride up the steep ascent of the ramp, all accompanied by much racing of engine, burning of clutch and brakes, smell and smoke.

The transition from "Whoa!" to a footbrake was quite a problem for many ranchers, and the operating expense of the automobile included the repair of both the cars and the gates in their fences.

My stepfather had a 1903 red Ford and then a Winton, that he acquired from George Burt of Ismay. Allie Jordan of Jordan's Store had a Winton, also Carl Calvin. My uncle had a 1908 Buick. Two people sat in front and one behind in a single jump seat. Kenneth McLean of the 54 had a Hupmobile, two-passenger, neat little roadster, distinguishable by a big, high radiator cap. On Sunday, everyone who had a car that would run drove out to Fort Keogh, on the only graded road, and around the parade ground and back to town. This Sunday drive was always an adventure and an opportunity to see who had a new car, a flat tire, a broken spring or a motor failure.

The balky cars were frequent evidence that the automobile was not yet ready to replace the horse.

A steam car was owned by a Mr. Taylor who ran a clothing store next to the post office which adjoined the Wibaux Block. On a Sunday drive we saw him and his wife, Myrtle, standing at a safe distance while their steamer was enveloped in smoke and steam, expected to blow up at any moment.

The controversy over who had the first car was brought to a head by the city registration of all motor vehicles, authorizing the owners to display a leather license plate number, suspended from the rear axle by straps. The number procalimed the sequence in which the owner had become qualified as the bonafide owner of a motor vehicle. The three contestants for number one had plates number zero, double zero, and number one.

As I remember, the biggest and most expensive car in town, a Locomobile, was owned by a Madam who frequently took all of her girls for a ride.

One of our family cars was a 1910 Velie which I interited when my stepfather purchased a new model in 1916. 1 stripped this rugged old car down to chassis and seat, and its continued usefulness was evidenced by the enjoyment that I (and the neighborhood youngsters) got out of bouncing over the dirt roads of Custer County.

This car left me afoot one day in the north end of town. I couldn't start it without the dry cell batteries which I had left at home. I walked home, put the dry cell batteries inside my shirt, and climbed aboard my reproachful and neglected horse, who took off at a dead run as I guided him by my knees across town to get the car.

As I turned the horse, to go behind a man on a crosswalk by the First National Bank, the horse's feet went out from under him and he fell on top of me and my batteries. This was on the first block of paving on Main Street, which was made of hardwood blocks and new to both me and the unshod horse.

The next thing I knew I was in the hospital and a nurse was preparing me for the operating room where Doc Andrus was going to put me back together. I watched the nurse, who with a sickly grimace, felt of my ribs and looked at one leg which pointed off in an unnatural manner. She looked away and jerked my shirttail up, resulting in the batteries plunking out on the floor. I had to laugh as I told her that she sure must have thought that I was really broken up.

Doc Andrus, with no x-rays, put my leg back together good enough so that I later ran the hundred yards in 10:2, but I never could begin to beat his son, Edson, who was a close contender for Charlie Paddock in the Olympic trials in Pennsylvania and a record holder at the University of Montana.

My first job was driving a delivery wagon for Harry Horton, who operated a meat market on Main Street. The delivery horse knew every customer and would stop in the alley and wait without being anchored while I ran to the back door with the pork chops.

I was a pretty important delivery boy when Horton bought a new, yellow Republic truck with cast iron wheels and hard rubber tires: popular, too, as the other kids would jump on and ride with me on deliveries, some of them for their first automobile ride.

Art Schrumpf was about the first Ford dealer in town; he was then in high school and his most material profit was his Ford roadster demonstrator. The Model T gained in popularity as the "honyokers" settled the country and fought the gumbo roads. A Mr. Boorse operated a "Jitney" municipal bus line with regular routes through the city and on schedule at five cents a ride.

"Orschel's" was the leading men's store in the city in the early 1900s, and for many years carried the best lines in men's clothing. They had a peddler's wagon that called at outlying ranches and road houses. This wagon was driven by a Hebrew gentleman named Mr. Fry, who later clerked in the store. Substantial bets were often made, the wager entitled the winner to pick out a Stetson hat or suit of clothes at "Orschel's" at the expense of the loser. In their many years of operation, Orschel's never billed a customer and, with a large credit business, seldom lost an account.

Our town served a trade area of one hundred miles or more in any direction with an economy supported by the stock business, about evenly apportioned between horses, cattle and sheep.

There was a time when Miles City was the largest horse market in the world. The horse was the medium of transportation for the land armies of the world from the beginning of history through World War One.

Our modern highways, now a symbol of the mechanization of our way of life, and the municipal airport, have made all of the world's people our neighbors, living closer together than the people within the Miles City trade area at the turn of the century.

It is a privilege to have seen all of these things, the memory of which I treasure.