Some men are villains by nature, others become so by circumstances. Hogarth’s series of pictures representing in contrast the career of two apprentices illustrates this truth better than words. Both commenced life under the same influences. The predominance of good and evil is exhibited by the natural tendency of one to overcome all unfavorable circumstances by close application to business and by virtuous associations, and of the other to idleness, vicious indulgences, and corrupt companionship. The one becomes Lord Mayor of London, and in the discharge of official duty passes sentence of death upon the other.

The wretch I am now about to introduce to the reader was one of those hideous monsters of depravity whom neither precept nor example could have saved from a life of crime. Boone Helm was a native of Kentucky. His parents emigrated to one of the newest settlements in Missouri while he was a boy. The rough pursuits of border-life were congenial to his tastes. He excelled in feats of physical strength, and delighted in nothing more than a quarrel which brought his prowess into full display. He was an inordinate drinker, and when excited by liquor gave way to all the evil passions of his nature. One of the exploits recorded of him was that of hurling his bowie-knife into the ground and regaining it with his horse at full speed. On one occasion, while the circuit court was in session, the sheriff attempted to arrest him. Helm resisted the officer, but urging his horse up the stairs into the court-room, astonished the judge by demanding with profane emphasis what he wanted of him.

In the year 1848 he married a respectable girl, but neither her affection nor the infant daughter born to him a year later could prevail with him to abandon his vicious and profligate habits. His wife sought security from his ill-treatment in divorce, which was readily granted. This freed him from family responsibilities, and he at once determined to emigrate either to Texas or California. Littlebury Shoot, a neighbor, while Helm was intoxicated, had, for pacific purposes, promised to accompany him,—intending when he was sober to avoid the fulfilment of the promise by explanation. Helm was told of his intention. He called upon Shoot, who had retired, and meeting him at the door of his house, with his left hand on his shoulder, in a friendly tone thus addressed him:

“So, Littlebury, you’ve backed down on the Texas question, have you?”

Shoot attempted an explanation, but was stopped by the peremptory demand:

“Well, are you going or not? Say yes or no.”

“No!”

At the utterance of this reply, Helm buried his bowie-knife in the breast of the unfortunate man, who, without a struggle, fell dead at his feet. Mounting his horse immediately, Helm rode away. The brother of the victim and a few resolute friends followed in pursuit. They tracked him through several neighborhoods and captured him by surprise at an Indian reservation, and returned him to Monroe County for trial. He was convicted of murder; but his conduct was such while in confinement as to raise serious doubts of his sanity. After his conviction, under the advice of physicians he was consigned to the lunatic asylum, his conduct meantime being that of a quiet, inoffensive lunatic. His keeper, finding him harmless, indulged him so far as to accompany him on daily walks into the country surrounding the institution. On one occasion, on some urgent pretence, Helm asked permission to enter a willow copse, which was readily granted. Afterwards the desire to enter this copse whenever he approached it seemed to take the form of mania. Suspecting no ulterior design, his keeper indulged him. One day, meeting a friend near the spot, the keeper, during Helm’s absence, engaged in conversation. Time passed unnoticed at first, but as the stay of Helm was prolonged, the keeper, fearing some accident had befallen him, made a rapid search through the thicket. But the bird had flown. His stratagem was successful. He was never afterward seen in Missouri, but upon his escape he fled immediately to California. Several persons were killed by him while there, in personal rencontre. At length he committed actual premeditated murder, but escaped arrest by flight. In the Spring of 1858 he arrived at Dalles, Oregon. Fearful of a requisition for his return to California, Helm, in company with Dr. Wm. H. Groves, Elijah Burton, Wm. Fletcher, John Martin, —— Field, and —— McGranigan, attempted a journey on horseback to Camp Floyd, Utah, sixty miles southwest of Salt Lake City, by way of Fort Hall. A ride of several days brought them to the Grand Ronde River. During that time they had become sufficiently acquainted with each other to banish all those feelings of distrust natural among strangers in a new country. Helm, who to his criminal qualities added the usual concomitant of being a loud-mouthed braggart, while narrating his exploits said in a boastful tone to McGranigan:

“Many’s the poor devil I’ve killed, at one time or another,—and the time has been that I’ve been obliged to feed on some of ’em.”

“Yes,” replied McGranigan, casting a sinister glance at Groves, “and we’ll have more of that feasting yet.”

The cold sincerity with which these words were uttered struck a chill to the heart of Groves, which experienced no relief when a few moments afterwards Helm proposed a plan for organizing a band of Snake Indians, and returning with them on a predatory excursion against the Walla Wallas.

“The Walla Wallas,” said he, “own about four thousand horses. With such a band of Snakes as we can easily organize for the enterprise, we can run off two thousand of the best of those animals, and after dividing with the Indians, take ours to Salt Lake and dispose of them to advantage.”

Groves, who had heard enough to satisfy him that a longer stay with this company would be accompanied by risks for which he had neither inclination nor fitness, mounted his horse at a late hour that night, and spurred back to the Dalles as rapidly as possible. On his arrival he sent intelligence to the chief of the Walla Wallas of Helm’s contemplated foray, warning them to keep a careful watch upon their horses. His plans being frustrated, Helm remained in the vicinity till Autumn, when, in company with his five companions, he continued his journey to Camp Floyd. Five hundred miles of this route lay through a wilderness of mountains, unmarked by a trail and filled with hostile Indians. It was late in October when the party left Grand Ronde River. The mountains were covered with snow. Cold weather had set in for a season whose only changes for the next six months would be a steady increase of severities. The thermometer, seldom above, often marked a temperature thirty or forty degrees below zero in the mountains. The passes were snowed up to the depths of twenty and thirty feet. Wild game, however abundant in Summer, had retreated to the forests and fastnesses for food and shelter. Snow-storms and sharp winds were blinding and incessant. Deep ravines, lofty mountains, beetling crags, and dismal caÑons, alternated with impenetrable pine forests, inaccessible lava beds, and impassable torrents, encumbered every inch of the way. Death on the scaffold or escape through this terrible labyrinth gave the alternative small advantage of the penalty. Small as it was, Helm and his companions took the risk and plunged into the mountain wilderness. He alone escaped.

In the absence of other narratives of this remarkable adventure, I record his own, as detailed to John W. Powell in April of the following year. Mr. Powell says:

“Dear Sir: On the tenth of April, 1859, I was on my way from Fort Owen, Bitter Root Valley, to Salt Lake City. My party consisted of one American named James Misinger, a Frenchman called ‘Grand Maison,’ a French half-breed named Antoine, and three Indians.

“I had crossed the Snake River just above Fort Hall, pitched my lodge, and was entering to indulge in a brief sleep, when I heard some one outside ask in a loud tone of voice, ‘Who owns this shebang?’ Stepping to the door and looking out, I saw a tall, cadaverous, sunken-eyed man standing over me, dressed in a dirty, dilapidated coat and shirt and drawers, and moccasins so worn that they could scarcely be tied to his feet. Having invited him in and inquired his business, he told me substantially the following:

“His name was Boone Helm. In company with five others he had left Dalles City, Oregon, in October, 1858, intending to go to Camp Floyd, Utah Territory. Having reached the Raft River, they were attacked by a party of Digger Indians, with whom they maintained a running fight for several miles, but none of the party was killed or severely wounded. Late in the evening they reached the Bannack River, where they camped, picketed their horses near by, and stationed two sentinels. During the night one of the sentinels was killed, the savage who committed the deed escaping on a horse belonging to the party.

“Upon consultation, it was decided that they had better leave that place as soon as possible. The sky at the time was overcast with storm-clouds, and soon after they got into their saddles the weather culminated in a snowstorm, which increased in violence until it became terrific. Finally, being unable to see anything but sheets of snow, they became bewildered, and knew not in what direction they were proceeding. Morning brought no relief. In the midst of an ocean of snow, they were as oblivious of locality in daylight as if total darkness had encompassed them. They knew they were somewhere between Ross’s Fork and the Bear River, and this was their most definite knowledge.

“At last they reached Soda Springs on Bear River, where familiar landmarks came in view. They then travelled up that river until they reached Thomas’s Fork, where they were forced to stop, from the lean and exhausted condition of their horses and the depth of the snow. Here they found a very comfortable cabin, and perforce went into winter quarters.

“Their provisions soon being all gone they commenced subsisting on their horses, killing one after another, until they had eaten them all but a celebrated race-horse which had been valued on the Upper Columbia at over a thousand dollars. Seeing now that they must all perish unless they soon reached a point where supplies could be obtained, the race-horse had to share the fate of the others. His meat was ‘jerked’ or hastily dried, that they might the more conveniently carry it on their backs. They then made snowshoes of the hides of the horses, and started back towards, and aimed to reach, Fort Hall, where they supposed they would meet with human beings of some kind, white men, half-breeds, or Indians.

“The party kept together until they had got beyond Soda Springs, where some had become so exhausted they could scarcely travel,—and their meat getting frightfully small in amount, Helm and a man named Burton concluded not to endanger their own lives by waiting for the wearied ones, so they left them behind.

“The two finally reached the Snake River, and moved down it in search of Fort Hall, having nothing to eat but the prickly-pear plant. When they had reached the site of Cantonment Loring, Burton, starving, weary, and snow-blind, was unable to proceed; and a good vacant house being there, Helm left him, and continued on for Fort Hall.

“Reaching the fort, he found it without an occupant. He then returned and reached Burton about dark. When out in the willows hard by, procuring firewood, he heard the report of a pistol. Running back into the house, he found Burton had committed suicide by shooting himself. He then concluded to try and find his way into Salt Lake Valley. Cutting off, well up in the thigh, Burton’s remaining leg (he had eaten the other), he rolled the limb up in an old red flannel shirt, tied it across his shoulder, and started.

“About eight miles out he met an Indian going in his lodge. He entreated the savage to take him along; but the Indian said he had nothing himself to eat, and that his family were starving. Helm exhibited handfuls of gold coin, when the Indian consented to his accompanying him.

“He remained at this lodge about two weeks, paying the Indian ten dollars a meal. His food consisted of ants and an unpalatable herb, called in the mountains the ‘tobacco plant.’

“The above facts Helm gave me with tears in his eyes, and said, ‘I will give you all I have in the world,—which is only nine dollars,—to take me to the settlements.’ I told him I did not desire money for helping a man in his condition.

“That same evening the Indian with whom Helm had been stopping, visited me. His name was Mo-quip. I had known him for several years. He fully corroborated Helm’s story, in regard to the carrying and eating the body of his companion. ‘When I first tasted of the flesh,’ said Mo-quip in his own tongue, ‘I knew not what it was, but told the stranger it was bueno^[1] game,—better than I had myself. The stranger then took hold of one of the corners of a red shirt that was around his pack, and jerked it up, when a white man’s leg, the lower end ragged from gnawing, rolled out on the ground.’ Altogether Helm had paid Mo-quip two hundred and eighty dollars.

“Having given him a new suit of buckskin, and furnished him with a horse, he set out with my party for Salt Lake City. Just after pitching my lodge the first evening after starting with him, ‘Grand Maison,’ very much frightened, came to me with a sack of gold coin which he said Helm had asked him to conceal until they reached Salt Lake City. I took the money and counted it—it amounted to fourteen hundred dollars.

“Though satisfied there was something wrong, I said nothing, and took Helm on to the settlements. Having ascertained in the meantime that he was the worst kind of a desperado, I called him to me as soon as we had reached the end of the journey, and handed him his money, saying, ‘You can now take care of yourself.’ He coolly put the coin in his pocket, without expressing a syllable of thankfulness for the assistance I had rendered him.

“It was not long until he had squandered all he had in gambling and drinking, and was finally expelled from Salt Lake Valley for his atrocities.

“Hoping these facts may be of service to you, allow me to subscribe myself,

We have good reason for believing that before Helm fled from Salt Lake City he murdered, in cold blood, two citizens, at the instigation of some of the leading Mormons, who, after the deed was done, concealed him, and finally aided in his escape from arrest. Certain it is that after leaving there he travelled through southern Utah, and by a long circuit reached San Francisco, whence he returned by water to the Dalles in Oregon.

Here he engaged in fresh villainies. Several murders which were committed along the route leading from the Columbia River to the gold mines were laid to his charge. At one time, in Washington Territory, he stole a herd of horses which he sold at Vancouver’s Island. In this course of varied and hardened crime he passed his time till the Spring of 1862,—with his usual good fortune escaping detection or arrest. In June of that year he made his appearance in Florence, where he soon found, among the roughs, congenial associates.

A man of that mixed character which united the qualities of a gambler, a skilful pugilist, and an honest, straightforward miner in his single person, known only as “Dutch Fred,” at this time enjoyed a local notoriety in Florence which had won for him among his comrades the appellation of “Chief.” He was neither a rowdy nor desperado, and in ordinary deal, honest and generous; but he gambled, drank, and when roused, was a perfect Hercules in a fight. Helm, having been plied with liquor, at the request of an enemy of Fred’s sought him out for the purpose of provoking a fight. Entering the saloon where Fred was seated at a faro table, Helm, with many oaths and epithets and flourishes of his revolver, challenged Fred to an immediate deadly combat. Fred sprung up, drew his knife, and was advancing to close with the drunken braggart, when the by-standers interfered, and deprived both of their weapons, which they entrusted to the keeping of the saloon-keeper, and Fred returned quietly to his game.

Helm apologized, and expressed regret for his conduct, and left the saloon. A few hours afterwards he returned. Fred was still there. Stepping up to the saloon-keeper, Helm asked for his revolver, promising that he would immediately depart and make no disturbance. No sooner was it returned to him than he turned towards Fred, and uttering a diabolical oath, fired at him while seated at the table. The ball missed, and before the second fire, Fred, unarmed, with his arms folded across his breast, stood before his antagonist, who, with deadlier aim, pierced his heart. He fell dead upon the spot. Helm cocked his pistol, and looking towards the stupefied crowd, exclaimed,

“Maybe some more of you want some of this!”

As no one deigned a reply, he walked coolly away.

If Helm was arrested for this murder, he escaped; for the next we hear of him, he was captured on Frazer River in the Fall of 1862, as will appear from the following extract from a British Columbia paper:

“The man, Boone Helm, to whom we referred some weeks since, has at last been taken. He was brought into this city last night strongly ironed. The first clue of the detectives was the report that two men had been seen trudging up the Frazer River on foot, with their blankets and a scanty supply of provisions on their backs. The description of one corresponded with the description given by the American officers of Boone Helm. Helm’s conduct on the road is conclusive evidence that he was aware he was being pursued. He passed around the more populous settlements, or through them in the night time. When overtaken, he was so exhausted by fatigue and hunger that it would have been impossible for him to continue many hours longer. He made no resistance to the arrest,—in fact, he was too weak to do so,—and acknowledged without equivocation or attempt at evasion that he was Boone Helm. Upon being asked what had become of his companion, he replied with the utmost sang froid:

“‘Why, do you suppose that I’m a —— fool enough to starve to death when I can help it? I ate him up, of course.’

“The man who accompanied him has not been seen or heard of since, and from what we have been told of this case-hardened villain’s antecedents, we are inclined to believe he told the truth. It is said this is not the first time he has been guilty of cannibalism.”

While on his return for trial in the Spring of 1863, leave was obtained from the proper authorities at Portland, Oregon, to confine him in the penitentiary there until provision could be made to secure him safely at Florence. There I will leave him for the present, as, after accompanying me thus far through the horrible narrative of his adventures, my readers doubtless, now that he is fairly within the sharp fangs of the law, hope soon to learn that justice has finally overtaken him, and that the world is freed from his further depredations.

Three brothers of Boone Helm came to the Pacific coast between 1848 and 1850. They all died violent deaths. At the time of the return of Boone Helm to Florence for trial for the murder of Dutch Fred, one of these brothers, familiarly called “Old Tex,” was engaged in mining in the Boise diggings, two hundred miles south of Florence. He had a good reputation for honesty, liberality, and courage. He was, moreover, a man of eccentric character. It is told of him that in one of the mining towns he threatened to shoot on sight a person with whom he had a personal difficulty. His enemy hearing of this, swore to reciprocate the intention upon the first opportunity. A chance soon after offering to carry his threat into execution, he said to Old Tex, as he presented his pistol to fire,

“Tex, I heard that you said that you’d shoot me on sight.”

Looking around, Tex replied, “Well, didn’t you say you would shoot me, too?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, why don’t you do it then? All you’ve got to do is to pull that trigger, and that’s the last of Old Tex.”

This stoical bravery won the admiration of the man and defeated his bloody purpose.

“Tex,” said he, “I don’t want to kill you.”

“Do you mean that?” asked Tex.

“I do.”

“That suits me,” replied Tex, “let’s go and take a drink.” And thus their enmity ended in making them fast friends. Tex was killed by being thrown from a wild horse, in Walla Walla, in the year 1865.

It was to this brother that Boone Helm, when he found all hope of escape at an end, applied for assistance. True to the fraternal instinct, Tex promptly responded, and soon made his appearance in Florence, with a heavy purse. He soon satisfied himself that unless the testimony could be suppressed, the trial must result in conviction; and to this object he immediately addressed himself. Some of the witnesses had left the country. Tex succeeded in buying up all that remained, except one. He wanted an extravagant sum. Tex finally agreed to pay it, if he would at once leave the country and never return. The extortionist accepted the conditions. Fixing his cold, gray eye on him, Tex, as he handed him the money, said: “Now, remember, if you do not fulfil the last condition of the bargain, you will have me to meet.”

Shylock knew the character of the man too well to trifle with him.

The day of trial came, no witnesses appeared, the case was dismissed, and the red-handed murderer and cannibal was again at liberty to prowl for fresh victims. The truehearted brother who had purchased his life, as soon as he was free, took him kindly by the hand, and in a voice choked with emotion, said to him,

“Now, Boone, if you want to work and make an honest living, go down to Boise with me. I have plenty of mining ground, and you can do well for yourself:—but if you must fight, and nothing else will do you, I will give you an outfit to go to Texas, where you can join the Confederate armies, and do something for your country.”

Boone accompanied his brother to Boise, and for a while engaged in mining, but it was not a congenial occupation. He soon signified his desire to go to Texas, and Old Tex, true to his promise, furnished him clothing, a horse, and a well-filled purse. He set out in quest of new adventures, but, as we shall see hereafter, did not go to Texas.