Late in the Fall of 1872, I spent a few days in Salt Lake City. One evening at the Townsend House, while conversing with Governor Woods and a few friends upon the events which had led to the organization of the Montana Vigilantes, I mentioned the name of Boone Helm.

“Boone Helm! I knew him well,” was the abrupt exclamation of a stranger seated near, who had been quietly listening to our conversation. We were no less attracted by the singular appearance of the speaker, than the suddenness of the remark. Tall, slender, ungainly, awkward in manner, he yet possessed a pleasing, intellectual countenance, and a certain magnetism, which begat an instantaneous desire in all to hear his history.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said he, drawing his chair nearer our circle, “for obtruding myself, but the mere utterance of the name of Boone Helm brings to memory the most thrilling episode of my life’s history.”

Assuring him that no apology was necessary, and that the recital of adventures was the order of the evening, we all united in the request that he should favor us with his narration.

“It’s quite a long story,” he resumed, lighting his meerschaum, “and you may tire of it before I close. Our individual experiences seldom interest listeners, but the subject of your conversation at this time affords a good place to slip in this single feature of a life not entirely void of adventure; and I hope it will not detract from the entertainment of the evening. Truth obliges me to be the hero of my own tale.”

Drawing his chair into the centre of our circle, he began:

“I went to Oregon a mere boy, and grew to manhood there. My early education was neglected for want of opportunity, there being no schools in the country. I mention this to account for a fact which will become apparent hereafter. Our neighbors, in the dialect of the country, thought me a little ‘luny,’ and predicted for me an unhappy future. I certainly was eccentric, and when I recall many acts of my early life, I do not blame them for harshness of judgment.

“As I approached manhood, no text of the sacred volume exercised me more than that which declares it is not good for man to be alone. I set to work to make preparations for domestic life. I entered a quarter section of land, built a house, ploughed fields, planted an orchard, cultivated a garden, which I laid out with walks, adorning them with the choicest shrubs and flowers. My grounds and dwelling were as neat and comfortable as the resources of a new country would permit. I stocked my farm with horses, cattle, sheep, and chickens—in brief, I lacked none of the essentials to a happy farm life.

“I had selected the fair one who was to share with me life’s joys and sorrows, and obtained her promise to marry the following autumn. The world before me was roseate with beauty and happiness. My feelings were buoyant, unmingled with a single thought of disappointment or failure in the plans I had made. But alas! in a few brief months all this dream was wretchedly dispelled. I learned the lesson taught in those simple words, ‘Man proposes, but God disposes.’ When the products of my fields were teeming with their highest life, and the flowers and shrubs in my garden were blooming in their greatest beauty, and the sun shone brightest, and the birds sang sweetest, an angry cloud appeared, filled with myriads of those winged pests that have so often swept from the soil all the hopes and treasures of the husbandman. The destruction of the fields of Egypt under the curse of locusts was not more complete than that of the field and garden which, a few hours before, had been my greatest pride. They were thoroughly denuded—field, garden, yard, even the stately trees around my dwelling—all were naked, shaven, brown, and barren. A more perfect blight could not be conceived. My heart for the moment sank within me.

“But, being naturally of a hopeful disposition, I remembered that flocks and herds were still left, and I determined to look at the disaster with a strong heart, and try by renewed exertion to regain what had been lost. Alas! troubles never come singly. I was obliged to postpone my marriage indefinitely. The coldest winter and heaviest snows ever known before or since in that country brought starvation to all my cattle, horses, pigs, and chickens, and when spring came I had nothing left but my dwelling. I became despondent, sulky, indifferent. My father, who dwelt in another part of the country, was wealthy. Generously sympathizing in my misfortunes, he offered to give me a fresh start, with three hundred head of cattle and the necessaries of life. I accepted, and determined to plunge deeper into the wilds, away from civilization, and begin life anew, thinking to avenge myself upon the disappointments of the past by a solitary life, with nature and books as a solace.

“I bought a well-selected assortment of educational volumes, ranging from a spelling-book to the Latin and Greek classics, and from Ray’s Arithmetic to the higher branches of mathematics, and, employing three reliable men to drive the herd, picked my way over mountains and rivers to the Rogue River Valley, a region then destitute of settlers, but the principal hunting-ground and home of the fiercest and most warlike tribe of Indians on the Pacific coast. Their hostility to the whites then, and for many years afterwards, was bloodthirsty and unappeasable. But I was accustomed to frontier life, familiar with the country, and did not fear the Indians. The valley was full of game, and they would not kill my stock. My life, which they would destroy on the first opportunity, I determined to look out for as best I might; besides, there was an indescribable charm in the idea of such exposure as required a constant exercise of all the faculties. A man shows for all he is worth in a country filled with hostile Indians. He makes no mistakes there, and learns the value of gun, pistol, and hunting-knife.

“I selected a place thirty-six miles west of the old California trail, under the shadow of the Coast Range of mountains, in one of the most charming of valleys. The only evidence that it had ever been visited by a human being was a small Indian trail near by, which led from the base of Siskiyou Mountain to the ocean, near the mouth of Coquillas River. I turned my cattle upon the fine range of native grass which covered both hill and valley in all directions, and, with the aid of the herdsmen, built a log cabin, stockading a half-acre, enclosing it with poles fifteen feet high. My armory consisted of one rifle, fifteen United States yagers, one double-barrelled shotgun, a pair of Colt’s revolvers, and a large supply of ammunition. Feeling that I was now prepared to defend myself against the Indians, I dismissed the men, who returned to the settlements, and began the life of solitude.

“In the early days of this experience, I confess I sometimes cast longing thoughts back to the relations and friends I had forsaken, and wished I had been less precipitate in my choice of a mode of life. Then the past would come up, with its commencement of promise and happiness, and its close of disappointment and gloom. I called philosophy to my aid, and strove to forget, in my studies, which I engaged in with energy, all my former joys and griefs.

“Familiarity with my condition wore away all regrets, and I soon learned to love my exile, and to regard it as the most instructive and least harmful portion of my life. To avoid too great monotony, I occasionally spent a day in hunting or fishing, or looking after my herd; but the proficiency I made in study was my greatest source of encouragement and happiness.

“Month after month imperceptibly glided away, except as each was marked by some increase in knowledge, and some additions to my cattle. I felt resigned to an isolation which cast me off from all communion with the world and all knowledge of its transactions. Indians would occasionally appear, but they knew my means of defence, and never disturbed me. Their attacks upon armed men, like those made upon the grizzly or mountain lion, are only ventured when safe, and always with strategy. Sometimes, when I saw them passing, I longed for a tussle with them as a change of occupation, but they never gave me the opportunity.

“One day, wearied with a problem in Euclid, I shouldered my rifle, and strolled into the adjacent forest in quest of a deer. A rustle in the undergrowth attracted my attention. Supposing it to be caused by some animal, I peered cautiously in the direction from within the shadow of a pine, and saw, to my surprise, a man half concealed in a thicket, watching me. It was the work of an instant to bring my rifle to an aim.

“‘Who are you?’ I demanded, knowing if he were a white man he would answer.

“He replied in unmistakable English, ‘I am a white man in distress.’

“Dropping my rifle on my shoulder, I hastened to him, and found a shrunken, emaciated form, half naked, and nearly famished. A more pitiable object I never beheld.

“‘My name,’ said he, ‘is Boone Helm. I am the only survivor of a company which, together with the crew and vessel, were lost on the coast ten days ago. We were bound for Portland from San Francisco, and were driven ashore in a storm. I escaped by a miracle, and have wandered in the mountains ever since, feeding on berries, and sleeping under the shelter of rocks and bushes. I came in this direction, hoping to strike the California trail, and fall in with a pack train.’

“He gave me a circumstantial account of his shipwreck and wanderings, which interested me very much. My sympathies were enlisted, and I conducted him to my home, sharing ‘bed and board ’ with him for a month or more. He recruited in strength rapidly. I found him genial and intelligent, though uneducated. He was an agreeable talker, and told a story with an enchanting interest. By shreds and patches he disclosed much of his personal history, occasionally dropping a word or expression which led me to believe he had been a great criminal, and more than once imbrued his hands in the blood of his fellow-man. He remained with me for a month or more, long enough to make the prospect of separation painful, though I felt that I would be better off without than with him. When he left, I gave him a good buckskin suit, a cap, a pair of moccasins, and a gun. He wrung my hand at departure, expressing the warmest gratitude.

“For a while I was very lonely, and found my studies irksome; but, as time flew on, I fell naturally into my old round of employment, and solitude became sweeter than ever. Another year came and went, during which I labored diligently at my books. I was proud of my acquirements. I had mastered arithmetic, algebra, and geometry, and read Latin and Greek with facility. My herds had greatly increased. I could drive them to Yreka and sell them for a small fortune, a measure I had determined upon for the following summer. Except when I went to fish or hunt, or look after my cattle, I never left my home. It was my custom, during the warm days of summer, to spread my blanket, and lie down in the shade of the stockade; and, with guns and pistols in reach, pursue my studies.

“One day while thus extended, reading a thrilling passage in the Æneid, I was startled by the distant clatter of a rapidly approaching horse. Seizing my rifle, I sprang to an opening, to reconnoitre for Indians. I could see nothing,—the noise had ceased, and I resumed reading; but in a moment I heard the hoof-beat more distinctly, and applied myself again to the crevice. Judge of my astonishment, to behold at no great distance a woman well mounted, urging her steed rapidly towards my stockade, along the Indian trail. There was something so unreal in the thought that a woman should traverse this wilderness alone, I could not for a moment believe my senses. But there she was, coming at a rapid rate, and, to all appearance, a very beautiful woman too. She rode along with the air of a queen; her riding-habit fitted closely to a magnificent bust, and fell in graceful folds over the flanks of her horse, which, though jaded with travel, seemed proud of his burden. Assisting her to alight, I invited her to a seat upon a box, spread with my blankets. It was the work of a moment to secure her horse, and hasten to her to learn the import of her wild errand.

“I need not say that my conduct on this occasion bordered somewhat upon the romantic. Indeed, how else than after the fashion of a cavalier or knight of old could I, under the circumstances, approach a strange and beautiful lady, who had voluntarily, and without premonition on my part, placed herself so completely at my disposal? I felt all the delicacy of the situation, for I discovered at a glance that she was high of spirit, refined, and intelligent.

“‘Tell me,’ I inquired, ‘where you came from, and why you are here. It must be a mission of more than ordinary purport that has caused you to brave the perils of a journey through this wild, unfrequented region.’

“Seemingly for the purpose of putting my curiosity to the rack, she evaded my question, and talked about the beauty of the scenery, the desolation of my home, and finally, picking up my books one after the other, she commenced scanning and rendering the liquid hexameters of Virgil with the grace and ease of an accomplished professor. Provoking as this caprice was, there was a charm about it, which led me soon to adopt the same playful humor.

“‘It cannot be,’ I said laughingly, ‘that you have come here to marry me.’

“‘No, indeed,’ she replied, blushing and smiling at the same time. ‘I need not have run so great a risk, if marriage had been my object.’

“‘Well, then,’ I rejoined, ‘Madam or Miss, angel or spirit, or whatever you are, for the love of Heaven relieve me from this suspense, and tell me what brought you to my desolate cabin.’

“The earnest tone in which I asked the question elicited a serious reply.

“‘I was born and reared in Boston, the only child of highly educated parents. My father was a merchant of wealth and position. I never knew a want unsupplied or a pleasure ungratified, that parental love could bestow, in my childhood days. At school, I learned rapidly, outstripping my classmates, and receiving encomiums from my teacher. I was sent to a seminary, and graduated with signal honor. Exhibiting an early taste for music, vocal and instrumental, after my classical course was completed, I was placed under the instruction of the best professors. Just at this time, my father failed because of the misconduct of his partner, and was utterly ruined. Everything, even to the old homestead, was swept away by his creditors. My father, wounded in spirit and feeble in health, sunk under the blow, and died in a few months.

“‘Never shall I forget the look of utter despair on the face of my dear mother, when we consigned my father to his last resting-place. It seemed as if her fountain of tears was exhausted, and her heart would break. She threw herself into my arms like a child, and looked up to me for counsel and protection. I, in turn, almost sinking beneath the care thus early cast upon me, looked up to the Great Father for aid, and became strong.

“‘The California gold excitement had just reached the Atlantic coast. People everywhere were wild. I partook of the infatuation, and then determined to seek my fortune in that far-off land. My friends tried to dissuade me, but my purpose was fixed. Placing my mother in charge of a kind relative, where I knew she would be cared for, I sold my jewelry for money to meet the expenses of the journey, and sailed by way of the Isthmus, for San Francisco, where I arrived early in the Summer of 1850.

“‘There were but four American ladies in California when I arrived. I found myself alone, a stranger in a strange land; but, with courageous heart, pure purpose, judgment matured by experience, and a firm trust in God, I had no fears for success. I soon became familiar with the marvellous richness of the mines, the solitary life and many wants of the miners. My opportunity was apparent. Purchasing a small assortment of stationery, consisting chiefly of pens, ink, paper, envelopes, and postage stamps, I visited the various mining camps, selling my wares to the miners, writing letters for many whose hands were so stiffened that they could not guide a pen, and singing the simple ballads I had learned in the days of prosperity. They paid me generously, often an hundredfold the value of their purchase. I was everywhere received and treated with a respect akin to idolatry, regarded, indeed, as a being almost supernatural. These noble-hearted men, remembering beloved ones they had left in the States, were so respectful, so kind, so attentive, it seemed that they could not do enough for me. Commencing thus, afar up in the Sierras, near Hangtown (Placerville), I visited all the mining regions, until I arrived at Yreka, a new camp, just then creating the wildest excitement.

“‘I had now money enough to carry out the design nearest my heart, of going East, and returning with my mother to live at San Francisco. While at Yreka, I put up at the principal hotel, a half-finished house, with rooms separated by light board partitions, and crowded with the varieties of a thriving mining town.

“‘One evening, after a day of more fatiguing labor than usual, I retired early, but could not sleep. While tossing upon the pillow, I heard two men enter the adjoining room, and engage in earnest conversation. I could hear distinctly every word they uttered, and the subject they were discussing very soon riveted my attention. They were planning a murder and robbery. In the midst of their conversation, another man entered, whom they saluted by the name of Boone Helm. He seemed to be their leader, for he proceeded at once to describe the home and surroundings of the intended victim, said he had been there and shared his hospitality for several weeks; spoke of the road leading there, the trail from the road to the house, and the distance of the large herd of cattle, and the ready sale for them at Yreka.

“‘“We cannot,” said he, “make more money in a shorter time, with greater ease, and less liability to detection, than to go there and dispose of the man and take his property.”

“‘They finally agreed that at a certain time the three should go in company, and execute their murderous design. I immediately determined to foil them in their bloody purpose, or lose my life in the attempt. I could not sleep; indeed, so nervously anxious was I to start on my errand of mercy, that I could hardly await the approach of morning. I arose early, made immediate preparation for departure, and before noon was in the saddle and on my way. I had no fear of Indians, simply because I believed God would take care of one engaged on a mission so pure and holy. I have ridden more than two hundred miles to warn you of your danger. Be on your guard. Make every preparation to defend yourself, for, as sure as the time comes, the men will be here to take your life. And now,’ she concluded, ‘bring my horse, and I will start on my return.’

“Language was inadequate to express my gratitude, or the admiration with which I regarded this noble act of humanity. I begged and insisted that my benefactress should remain, at least long enough for rest, but she refused. I then told her my own history, prepared a hasty meal, and asked her to favor me with a song. In the sweetest voice I think I ever heard, she sung the Hunters’ Chorus in ‘Der Freyschutz’; then, springing to the saddle, she waved me a farewell, and in a few moments disappeared. So sudden had been her appearance and disappearance, so startling the warning she gave me, so wonderful her long and dreary ride, that it all seemed like a dream. I had never made a habit of prayer, but, influenced by the emotion of the moment, I dropped on my knees, and thanked God, in a fervent prayer, for this special manifestation of His Providence.

“The next day I made every needful preparation for defence, and calmly awaited the arrival of the ruffians. In the afternoon of the day my informant mentioned I saw them approaching, one, whom I recognized as Helm, half a mile or more in advance of the other two. I stood in the gate of my stockade, with my revolver in my belt, and as he approached me greeted him kindly, bade him enter, and closed and bolted the door behind him. As this had always been my custom, he did not notice it. I saw at once, by his subdued, churlish manner, and his crabbed style of address, that he was bent upon mischief. Hardly waiting for an exchange of common civilities, he said,

“‘Lend me your pistols. I am going on a perilous expedition.’

“‘I cannot spare them,’ I replied.

“‘But you must spare them. I want them.’

“‘I tell you, I cannot let you have them.’

“Flying into a passion, he with bitter oaths rejoined,

“‘I’ll make you give ’em to me, or I’ll kill you,’ at the same time grasping his revolver.

“Before he could pull it from its scabbard, I had mine levelled with deadly aim at his head, and my finger on the trigger.

“‘Make a single motion,’ said I emphatically, ‘and I will shoot you.’

“He quailed, for he saw I had the advantage of him. His comrades now approached the gate from without.

“‘Break down the door,’ he shouted, and, adding an opprobrious epithet, ordered them to kill me.

“Still holding my pistol level with his temple, I replied sternly,

“‘If they attempt such a movement, I will kill you instantly.’

“He knew me to be desperately in earnest, and, taking the hint, told them to go away. They obeyed.

“‘Now, sir,’ I persisted, still holding him under fire, ‘unbuckle and drop your belt, pistol, and knife, and walk from there, so that I can get them.’

“He begged, but I was inexorable. He tried to throw me off my guard by referring pleasantly to our former acquaintance, and assuring me he was only jesting, and would not harm me for the world. I told him I had been warned of his coming and its object, and detailed with some particularity the conversation he had with his companions at the time they agreed upon the expedition. He stoutly denied it, and demanded the source of my information. Knowing that he was ignorantly superstitious, I gave him to understand that it was entirely providential. For a moment he seemed dum-founded, and, hardened as he was in crime, showed by his action that he believed it. I made him sit down, and kept him in range of my revolver all night, conversing with him, meantime, on such subjects as were best calculated to win his confidence. The night seemed a year in duration, but he told me his entire history—his birth, the errors of his early manhood, his first and only love, the illness and death of his betrothed, his resolution to lead a criminal life, his murder of Shoot, his escape, and many other murders that he afterwards committed, and of his intention to murder me and dispose of my cattle. I never heard or read a more horrible history than that narrated by this man of blood. He lost no opportunity to throw me off my guard, but I knew too well what would be the result. He was my prisoner, under absolute control, as long as his life was in my power.

“Morning came. Helm’s companions were still lingering near the stockade. I ordered them to withdraw a certain distance, that I might with safety release my prisoner. I then opened the gate, and with my double-barrelled shotgun levelled upon him, bade him go, assuring him that if we ever met again I would shoot him on sight. He marched out and away with his comrades. The next intelligence I received concerning him was the announcement of his execution by the righteous Vigilantes of Montana in 1864.

“I beg pardon, gentlemen, for detaining you so long. My story is done.”

After a moment’s silence one of our circle, a nervous, excitable young man, remarked,

“We cannot consider the story completed until we know something more of the young lady. She is really the object of the most interest.”

“Well, gentlemen,” he resumed, “since you desire it, I will tell you all I know. Soon after Helm’s departure, influenced by a desire to have the address of and see once more my benefactress, I drove my herd to Yreka, and sold it for a handsome sum. While there I searched diligently, but in vain, for my heroine. She had gone, and, as she had refused to give me her name, I found inquiry for her impracticable. I went to San Francisco, but no one could give me the least trace of her, and, after repeated disappointments, I gave up the search and returned to Oregon.

“Five years thereafter, business took me to Portland. While seated by the office stove, in conversation with some old friends, the clerk came and whispered that a young lady in the parlor wished to see me. Wondering who she could be, I hastened to the room, and there sat my friend of the wilderness. She gave me a cordial greeting, and to my numerous and eager inquiries, informed me in substance that soon after she left me and returned to Yreka, she went to Boston. After a year spent among old friends, she came back to San Francisco, accompanied by her mother. She purchased a neat residence there, and it was now her home. She had arrived in Oregon with some friends the day before on a pleasure excursion, but intended to return in a few days. We had a pleasant interview, and I bade her good-bye.”

“So you did not marry her, after all,” was the eager remark of our young friend.

“No, gentlemen. Had I not been fortunately married some time before our last meeting, I cannot tell what might have happened; but as it was, I did not marry her after all, as you say.”