IT was a penniless but hopeful youth who came into Sioux City in the spring of 1872 and made a straight path to the Methodist parsonage. Pastor Crozier was the minister who received the traveler, and who found a congenial spirit in him. There was much work at hand, and under his new friend’s direction, William gave himself eagerly to new, and yet familiar tasks. Sunday-schools were organized in schoolhouses, and the religious interest of the community was revived as the happy boy evangelist sang his songs and preached his earnest message. He was not idle for a day.

Early in June a minister named Bennett Mitchell returned from New York, where the General Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church had been held, with the news that a Conference of North Iowa had been organized. Mr.Mitchell had been appointed as its presiding elder and he offered Van Orsdel a charge in this new field.

“Take the night to consider it,” he said. “Pray about it, and give me your answer in the morning.”

It was settled long before morning, for William had learned that the same General Conference had formed a Rocky Mountain Conference to embrace the territories of Washington, Idaho, Montana, and a part of Wyoming.

“The line of duty is very clear to me. Imust go to the mountains.” Such was the young pioneer’s firm reply on the morrow.

That very day a boat was starting up the Missouri for the Northwest. The captain was hastily sought and interviewed. The fare was found to be one hundred dollars.

“I haven’t that much money,” was the missionary’s frank reply to the statement concerning the sum required.

“Well, I have no through passenger, so I’ll take you for seventy-five.”

“I’m sorry, but I haven’t got it.”

“Well, what in the world are you going to Montana for?”

“Oh, to sing and pray, and to encourage people to be good.”

The captain eyed the would-be passenger wonderingly. “Well, Ihave been running this boat for a good many years, but Ihave never known of a person going to Montana for that purpose,” he exclaimed. “If you will sing and preach for us, I’ll take you for fifty dollars.”

The embarrassed young man was forced to admit that he did not have even five dollars; then he made a venture of faith.

“If you will take me to Fort Benton, you will find fifty dollars waiting for you here in care of Pastor Crozier when you return,” he said.

The good-natured captain agreed. When the boat came into Sioux City again many weeks later, he promptly received the fifty dollars. So much was he impressed by the incident, that he sent the greater part of the money to Montana for the missionary’s work—to help “encourage people to be good.” The debt was paid in a curious manner. Agroup of friends back in the oil region of Pennsylvania had been following the western journey of the young missionary with deep interest but with no real knowledge of his exact circumstances. They realized, however, that some money would “come in handy,” and without previous notice or arrangement had forwarded to Pastor Crozier, at Sioux City, a sum which made it possible for him to keep the promise which the dauntless Van Orsdel had made to the captain.

It was on June 12, 1872, that the boat, the Far West, started on its twelve-hundred-mile trip up the Missouri River carrying the missionary to his new work. This proved to be a notable run, the quickest made by any boat to Fort Benton. The reason for the unusual speed was the fact that a rival boat, the Nellie Peck, had left Sioux City two days before, and the captain was eager to pass her. In spite of insufficient fuel, hostile Indians, and difficult channels, the Far West came to Fort Benton one hour before the Nellie Peck.

On the second day out from Sioux City the tenderfoot missionary on the boat saw a battle between hostile Indians on the banks of the river, and the question came to him, “If we are in hostile country so soon, what will it be when we get to Montana?”

Coming to the Upper Missouri, they found that the woodchoppers had been either killed or driven away. No coal was used on the river boats in those days; so whenever fresh supplies of cut wood were not ready at the usual supply points, the boat roustabouts would rush into the cottonwood groves near the bank, chop down trees and carry the logs on deck to be cut into lengths as the steamer proceeded. The pilot-house and other parts of the Far West showed that the aim of the Indians was far from perfect as they pursued the frantic workers, for the men escaped unhurt, while the boat was frequently struck by the shots of the attacking party.

At one time when the boat was nearly out of wood a landing was made close to a large cottonwood flat. The plank had scarcely touched the shore when from all directions there advanced parties of Sioux warriors in full war-regalia. Two braves with a great following came on board. One of them was a splendid specimen of Indian manhood. He stood over six feet high and wore a brilliant bead war-bonnet, decorated with many eagle feathers; each feather represented a scalp taken in the terrible warfare which these tribes practised. In one hand he held a tomahawk, and with the other grasped the folds of his gorgeous robe. It was a critical moment. If these chiefs should be angered, the boat would be at the mercy of the band. The captain made gifts of pipes, beads, and jewelry, and without showing too much anxiety, tactfully persuaded them to depart.

When the Indians had taken their leave, the boat proceeded as far as it could go with its scanty supply of wood. Again a stop was made for fuel, and as the roustabouts were loading it, a remarkable personage suddenly appeared. He was a tall, athletic, white man, with long black hair flung back on his shoulders from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. His suit was of buckskin and he wore a cartridge belt, while on his arm there rested a fine rifle. As he came on board the vessel, the missionary watched him wonderingly. It was his first meeting with a man who was to become world famous for his exploits in the far West, William F. Cody, known more commonly as Buffalo Bill.

These are not the only names by which this interesting man was called in the course of his long and thrilling career among cowboys and Indians. First he was little Billy Cody, the western messenger; then Wild Bill, the pony express rider, and as a grown man he was known as Bill Cody, the wagon master. Finally, to the heart’s delight of boys and girls the world over, he became Buffalo Bill. For many years before his death in 1917, he was generally spoken of as Colonel William F. Cody; but to the Indians he will always be their beloved “Pa-has-ka,” or “Long Hair.”

When Cody was told about the braves having boarded the boat dressed in full war-regalia, he marveled. “That was the band of Sitting Bull and Rain-in-the-Face, two Sioux Indian chiefs,” he exclaimed. “They have five hundred men with them and are out for a lark. It is miraculous that you escaped, for you have in the boat just what they most want—food and ammunition.”

Sitting Bull’s life story has been the theme of many writers. This great warrior was a medicine-man, who preached of a happy day to come when the palefaces should all be wiped out, and the land which they had occupied should be restored to the Indians. To this end he greatly incited his people to murder and devastation, but one thing must be remembered, Sitting Bull believed firmly that the Indians were unfairly treated. He sternly declared, “God Almighty made me—God Almighty did not make me an agency Indian. I’ll fight and die fighting before any white man can make me an agency Indian.” And he did. He defied the government up to the very moment of his death in 1890; and his resistance did not end until he fell pierced by the bullets of the soldiers sent to take his person dead or alive.

Rain-in-the-Face was a warrior who had met all the tests of the exacting medicine-man, Sitting Bull. His breast had been slashed, and rawhide strips passed through it by which he was to hang until the flesh gave way. Sitting Bull was not satisfied with the test and maintained that the flesh had torn away too soon. Rain-in-the-Face thereupon demanded another trial, lest he spend the rest of his life despised as a squaw. So the strips were passed through the muscles of his back, and for two days he hung, taunting his torturers, jeering, and singing war songs. At last Sitting Bull was satisfied, and buffalo skulls were hung on the feet of the tortured brave so that the folds of flesh might tear away and release him. After that rather terrible test, he was counted worthy of the title of warrior. Rain-in-the-Face died at Standing Rock Agency in 1905.

The voyage in the Far West became more and more exciting as the boat proceeded. Indian camps came into view peopled so entirely by squaws and children, that it was evident that the men were out on hostile business. Great herds of buffalo and numberless droves of deer and antelope were to be seen roaming on the prairie.

Young Van Orsdel was fascinated by the novelty of it all. His high spirits, his friendliness, and his willingness to help in every way made him a general favorite, and he soon won the complete confidence of the captain and the roustabouts. He gave a hand at any odd job that offered, singing as he worked, and daily living out his religion of happiness and trust. When the woodchoppers were at work, he would climb to some high point where he could watch the wide prairie for the approach of Indians. In leisure moments as the boat forged ahead he sang for the crew, much to their enjoyment, for his voice was of fine quality and persuasive in tone. He became a fast friend of Jack, the cabin boy, for he helped him to wash the dishes and arrange the tables. Many were the intimate talks they had about their distant homes and friends. As a result of this new friendship Jack became a Christian, and later abandoned the river to take up the varied life of a frontier preacher. So helpful was the missionary, that by the time the journey came to its close, he was called the Sky Pilot of the expedition. He was a friend to every one, from the captain to the lowest laborer.

The voyage contained one other interesting experience. At a landing near Fort Benton, a typical plainsman clad entirely in buckskin boarded the boat, saying, “Ican’t stay in this place any longer. There are too many hostile Indians.” This was Jim Dexter, who became one of Montana’s great landholders and one of its well-known pioneers. From the first moment of meeting there sprang up a warm friendship between him and William Van Orsdel. This tie grew stronger in the long years following, as in their different fields of effort they threw themselves into the task of building a commonwealth in the wilderness.