Santa Clara County

History

Pen Pictures From The Garden of the World or Santa Clara County, California, Illustrated. - Edited by H. S. Foote.- Chicago:  The Lewis Publishing Company, 1888.

STORY OF THE MURPHY PARTY.

        Martin Murphy, Sr., was born in County Wexford, Ireland, November 12, 1785. Here he grew to man's estate, an intelligent, industrious, and pious man, but dissatisfied with the meager amount of political liberty accorded to the Irish citizens of Great Britain, in Ireland. He married, at an early age, a Miss Mary Foley, whose family afterwards became prominent in America, two of them becoming archbishops and others achieving high places in commercial and manufacturing pursuits. Several children were born to Mr. and Mrs. Murphy in Ireland. As the family increased, so did Mr. Murphy's desire for larger freedom, and in 1820 he emigrated to Canada, taking all his children except his oldest son, Martin, and his daughter Margaret. He settled in the township of Frampton, near Quebec, where he purchased a tract of land and commenced to create a home. Two years afterwards his son Martin and his daughter Margaret joined them from Ireland. Martin, Jr., went to work at Quebec, where he met and married Miss Mary Bulger, July 18, 1831. The next year, the cholera having become epidemic at Quebec, young Martin purchased a tract of land near his father, and moved on to it with his family. Old Mr. Murphy was still not satisfied with his political surroundings and looked longingly across the border to the great republic, beneath the folds of whose starry flag perfect religious and political liberty was maintained. Finally, in 1840, he removed his family (except his sons Martin and James, with their families) across the then western wilds to the State of Missouri, and settled in Holt County, on what was then called the Platte Purchase. Martin Murphy, Jr., who, when he left Quebec, had settled in Frampton, bought land, hewed timbers, and erected a roof-tree for his young family, remained in Canada until 1842, when he sold his property, and, with his brother James, joined his father in Missouri.

        The Murphys were essentially a family of pioneers; not from a nomadic disposition that rendered them uneasy unless in motion, but because they were seeking certain conditions and were determined not to rest until they found them. That no obstacle would stop them in their search for political liberty was demonstrated when they abandoned their native land to seek a home in America, and still further proved when they left the home built up in Canada, for the unknown wilds of Missouri. This second journey was full of inconvenience, and at that early day was an undertaking formidable enough to cause the bravest to hesitate. The course was as follows : Up the St. Lawrence River past Montreal and across Lake St. Louis to Kingston; thence across Lake Ontario and up the Niagara River to Lewiston, near the Falls; thence across the country to Buffalo; thence across Lake Erie to Cleveland; thence by canal south, across the State of Ohio, to the town of Portsmouth, on the Ohio River; thence down the Ohio to the Mississippi, touching at Cincinnati and Louisville; thence up the Mississippi to St. Louis, and thence up the Missouri to the Platte Purchase.

        The location of the Murphy settlement was a few miles below the present site of the city of St. Joseph, but at that time there was nothing but a primitive mill used for grinding corn. The place occupied by our pioneers was called by them the " Irish Grove," in memory of their native land. They had purchased several hundred acres, which they cultivated, and proceeded to lay the foundations of a home. Here was a rich soil, which responded with bounteous crops to the efforts of the husbandman, and here also was the perfect political liberty in pursuit of which the patriarch had traveled thousands of miles, encountering dangers by land and by sea. But there were two things lacking—health and educational and religious privileges. The virgin soil, covered with decayed vegetation, the deposit of centuries, was the lurking-place of deadly malaria, and, when turned up by the plow, the atmosphere was filled with germs of that dread disease, fever and ague, the scourge of the West in the days of its early settlement. There were no schools or churches, teachers or ministers of the gospel.

        All of our settlers were attacked by the prevalent disease, and some of them died. Among these were his wife, and Eliza, Mary, and Nellie, daughters of his son Martin. Martin Murphy, the head of the family, was in anguish of mind at the condition of affairs. He was a devout Catholic and had reared his family in that faith. He saw his younger children and his grandchildren growing up in the wilderness with no religious instruction, and no holy priest to administer the consolation of the church to the sick or dying. The absence of these things was a heavy price to pay for the broad domain whose fertile soil would soon blossom, into a valuable estate. While matters were in this condition the settlement was visited by Father Hookins, a Catholic missionary, who had penetrated the wilderness to administer the sacraments to those of his faith who located their homes on the outskirts of civilization. He found the Murphys in much distress, mourning over loss of loved ones and full of anxiety as to the fate of others who were sick. He was a man of wide information and had traveled much. He had met brothers in the church who had described the glorious climate and fertile soil of California, a country which owed its settlement to the Mission Fathers, and where the cross was planted on every hill-side and in every valley, and which was under a government of which Catholicism was the established religion. All these things Father Hookins told the bereaved family in the days that he passed with them, trying to answer their eager inquiries with detailed information. As to the location of this wonderful land he could tell them that it was on the shore of the Pacific Ocean, and that it lay in a westerly direction from fever-stricken Missouri, but as to the distance, route, or character of the country or people intervening, he had no knowledge that would be useful to anyone attempting the journey. But in spite of this lack of all information as to how to reach this Arcadia, when Martin Murphy announced his intention to seek it, he found his entire family ready to follow him. We cannot sufficiently admire the indomitable mind that could make so great a determination with so little hesitation.

        Men have made perilous expeditions upon compulsion or in quest of glory, but this proposition of the Murphy family to cross pathless plains and trackless deserts, and scale inaccessible mountains, with uncertainty as to food supplies and the certainty of meeting tribes of Indians, almost sure to be hostile, and to do this with half a dozen men and boys, with a larger number of helpless women and children, meets no parallel in history. The voyage of Columbus when America was discovered, contained no element of danger—only uncertainty. His path was defined; he would sail due west, taking sufficient provisions; if in a certain time he met no land he would return by the same easy route. It was a venture that required but a small portion of the courage, and involved none of the labor, entailed upon the Murphy party. Much has been said and written to the glory of Fremont, called the Pathfinder, who, two years later, crossed the continent. He had with him a large body of hardy and experienced frontiersmen, versed in all knowledge of woodcraft, and inured to exposure and hardships of all kinds. He had Kit Carson and his company of scouts, the most skillful ever known on the continent. He had abundant supplies, with a force sufficient to cope with any hostile band he might encounter. He had no women or helpless children to impede his movements, and he had the trail of the Murphy party to guide him. In view of all the circumstances, the journey of these Missouri emigrants in its inception and consummation transcends everything of the kind of which we have any record.

        But little time was allowed to escape after the decision was made to seek the new El Dorado, and the first of March, 1844, found them with their belongings at Nisnabotna, a point on the Missouri River, in the northwest corner of Missouri, and about fifty miles south from Council Bluffs. Here they were joined by a party made up by Dr. Townsend, and they also found a large number of others, some forty wagons in all, but most of these were going to Oregon. Those bound for California were only eleven wagons, with the following-named persons composing the party: Martin Murphy, Sr.; Martin Murphy, Jr., wife and four children, James, Martin, Patrick W., Bernard D.; James Murphy and wife and daughter Mary; Bernard Murphy, John Murphy, Ellen Murphy, Daniel Murphy, James Miller and his wife, nee Mary Murphy, and family; Mr. Martin, father of Mrs. James Murphy; Dennis Martin, Patrick Martin, Dr. Townsend and wife, Allen Montgomery and wife, Captain Stevens, Mr. Hitchcock, Mrs. Patterson and family, Mat Harbin, Mr. Calvin, John Sullivan and sister, Robert Sullivan, Michael Sullivan, John Flomboy, Joseph Foster, Oliver Magnet (a Frenchman), Francis Delanet, old Mr. Greenwood, John Greenwood, Britton Greenwood, and M. Schallenberger.

        Notwithstanding the smallness of their numbers, they determined to go on, keeping with the Oregon party as far as their paths ran together; after that they would trust to their own resources to bring them safely through to the promised land. They proceeded north to Council Bluffs, where they organized the entire company for offense and defense. Mr. Stevens was chosen captain, and corporals of guard were selected from among the younger men. After laying by for a few days in order to make repairs and perfect their organization, the crossing of the Missouri River was commenced.

        From Mr. Moses Schallenberger we have obtained many of the particulars of this famous expedition. The difficulties that met the party at this, the first stage of their journey, would have stopped many stout-hearted men. The wagons were safely crossed in a rude flat-boat, and it was intended to swim the cattle. The river was full and they refused to take the water, and when forced in would swim in a circle, trying to save themselves by climbing on each other's backs. They were finally permitted to return to the bank, but some were stuck in the sand, which had been tramped by them until it was as tenacious as quicksand. When the water receded, a few of the mired cattle were dug out with pick and spade, but others were fastened so securely and deep that it was impossible to rescue them, and they were abandoned. It was a question whether they would be able to cross their cattle at all. At last an expedient was hit upon. Two men got into a canoe with a line, which was tied round the horns of one of the gentlest of the oxen. The ox was urged into the water until he was compelled to swim, after which the men in the canoe could easily guide him. Other cattle were then forced into the stream, and following the lead of the first, they were all safely crossed to the other side.

        They were now in the country of the Otoe Indians, a tribe which, though not considered hostile, had a very bad reputation for honesty. Of the people of the train only a few had crossed over when night came, and the young men volunteered to go over and stand guard. Those who were on the Otoe side were Martin Murphy and his family, and John Sullivan with his two brothers and his sister Mary, who afterwards married Mr. Sherbeck, of San Francisco. John Murphy and Moses Schallenberger had been chosen corporals of the guard. They were mere boys in age, not–over seventeen years, but were excellent marksmen, and had a reckless bravery born of frontier life. The wagons were formed into a corral by drawing them into a circle and placing the tongue of one wagon on the hind wheel of the one in front, thus making a very good sort of a fortification. The guard was placed outside of the corral and relieved every two hours, each relief being in charge of a corporal, whose duty it was to go from post to post and see that each sentinel was alert. While in places where the cattle might be lost or stolen, it was customary to graze them under charge of herdsmen until dark and then to bring them to the corral and chain them to the wagons. This precaution was taken on this first night across the river, on account of the bad reputation of the Otoes.

        The time passed quietly until midnight, when the young corporals became disgusted with the monotony and resolved to play a joke on John Sullivan. The proposition was made by John Murphy, and indorsed by Schallenberger, though not without some misgivings as to what the result would be if Martin should detect them. But to be assured, they informed Mr. Murphy of the plot, who entered heartily into the spirit of the scheme. Accordingly, John unfastened Sullivan's cattle and drove them some distance into the woods, and he then gave the alarm. Sullivan, who it seems had all night been convinced in his own mind that the Indians were hovering about the camp, jumped up with his gun in his hand, and all joined in pursuit of the oxen. After a long chase, in which Sullivan was given a due amount of exercise, the cattle were again captured and secured to the wagon, Sullivan returning to his slumbers. He had barely got to sleep when the alarm was again given, and he again turned out, with some words not indicating much respect for the thieving Otoes. This time the boys had driven the cattle further than before; and the only way they could be followed was by the clinking of the yoke ring. During the chase, Sullivan climbed to the top of a log, and stood listening intently for this sound. John Murphy, who was lying concealed behind this log, when he saw Sullivan in this position, fired into the air with his gun, which was a shotgun heavily loaded. Sullivan leaped into the air, and, as soon as he could recover himself, ran at full speed to the wagons, crying out that he had been shot by an Indian. In the meantime the cattle were recovered and secured to the wagon, and Sullivan stood guard over them until daylight. He frequently afterwards referred to the narrow escape he had from the Indians in the Otoe country.

        The next morning the captain, in commending the courage and skill of the young men in twice recapturing the cattle, expressed his surprise that Sullivan's oxen should have been taken each time and none of the others disturbed. The boys explained this by calling attention to the fact that Sullivan's cattle were white, and could, on that account, be seen better in the dark. Two days after this event the entire train had been brought across the Missouri and was rolling toward the West. The "Horn," a stream encountered before reaching the Platte River, was crossed by sewing rawhides over one of the wagon boxes and thus constructing a rude ferry-boat. The wagons were unloaded and taken apart and put across the stream in this boat, which occupied much time and was tedious work. The horses and cattle were compelled to swim. This was the last stream where they were compelled to swim their stock; all the others they were able to ford. No striking incident occurred during their journey through the Otoe nation.

        Arriving at the country of the Pawnees, they found a village deserted by all but women, children, and infirm old men. It seems that a short time previously the Sioux had made a raid on them and exterminated nearly all their able-bodied men. When the party received this intelligence they knew they would not be molested while in the Pawnee country. This gave them more confidence in grazing their cattle, but the vigilance of the guard was not relaxed at night. In fact, the Pawnees were not considered hostile; it was the Sioux nation from which they had most to fear, they being the most warlike, cruel, and treacherous Indians at that time known to the whites.

        Before reaching Laramie, herds of buffaloes were encountered. The first were a few old bulls which, not being able to defend themselves from the attacks of the younger animals, had been driven from the herd. They were poor and scrawny, but as they were the first that the boys had seen they must necessarily have a hunt. After putting about twenty bullets into the body of one old patriarch, they succeeded in bringing him to the ground within fifty feet of the wagons, in the direction of which he had charged when first wounded. The meat was poor and did not pay for the ammunition expended in procuring it. However, before Fort Laramie was reached, the party were able to secure an abundance of meat from younger buffaloes, which is generally conceded to be superior to that from any other animal.

        The party reached Fort Laramie with little fatigue and no loss. Here they found about four thousand Sioux encamped round the fort. They had their squaws and children with them, and for this reason were not considered dangerous, this tribe being loath to fight when accompanied by their families. While there was no immediate danger to be apprehended, there was great probability that, after leaving the fort, they would encounter a hunting or war party. These bands usually consisted of from one hundred to five hundred men, unencumbered by women or children, and never were known to waste an opportunity to take a scalp. The party remained at Laramie several days, having a good camp, with plenty of grass for their stock. They traded some of their horses for Indian ponies, thinking they were more hardy and accustomed to the work on the plains. They also bought moccasins to replace their boots and shoes, which were pretty well worn out by their long tramp. In resuming the march, still greater precautions were taken to prevent surprise by the Indians. The wagons were kept close together, so that they could be formed into a corral with no unnecessary delay. As the Indians in those days had no firearms it was thought they could be kept at such a distance that their arrows could not reach the pioneers. Fortunately, the party had no use for these precautions, for no Indians were encountered until the Snake nation was reached.

For so large a train, the party was unusually harmonious, only one occasion of discord having arisen among them. This occurred while passing through the Sioux country. The orders were that no fires should be lighted after dark. This order was disregarded by an old gentleman named Derby, who kept his fire burning after hours. Dr. Townsend, who had charge of the watch that night, remonstrated with the old man. Derby said that Captain Stevens was an old granny, and that he would not put out his fire for him or any other man. However, the fire was extinguished by Townsend, who returned to his duties. A few minutes only had elapsed until the fire was burning as brightly as before. Dr. Townsend went again to Derby and told him he must put the fire out. "No," answered Derby, "I will not, and I don't think it will be healthy for anyone else to try it." The Doctor, seeing that argument was useless, walked up to the fire and scattered it broadcast, saying to Derby at the same time, "It will not be well for you to light that fire again to-night." The Doctor was known to be very determined, although a man of few words, and Derby's fire was not again lighted. But the next morning he complained to the captain, who it seems had been a witness to the transaction of the night before.         Captain Stevens sustained Dr. Townsend, and Derby, with an oath, declared that he would not travel with such a crowd, and he actually did camp about half a mile behind the train for a week afterwards; but he lighted no fires after dark. One day when the party had stopped for noon, some of the boys, returning from a buffalo hunt, reported that they had seen a band of Sioux. That night Derby camped with the train and remained with them afterwards, cheerfully submitting to all the rules.

        John Murphy had been quite ill for some time, but was now recovered sufficiently to get around. He was anxious to go on a buffalo hunt and persuaded Schallenberger to accompany him. The boys were quite proud of their skill as hunters, and promised the camp a good supply of fresh meat on their return. They started early in the morning, well mounted and equipped for their expedition. They saw several bands of buffaloes, and followed them nearly all day, but in spite of all their strategy they were unable to get near enough to shoot with any certainty. Each herd had bulls stationed as sentinels on the higher grounds, who would give the alarm before our hunters could get within reach. Finally, the declining sun warned them that they must return. Reluctantly they turned their horses' heads toward camp, revolving in their minds the big promises they had made before setting out in the morning, and the small chance there was of their fulfillment. They had seen plenty of antelope, but to carry antelope into camp, when they had promised buffalo, would be considered a sort of disgrace.

        On the return, however, the herds of antelope became more numerous, and some came so near to the hunters that Murphy declared he was afraid they would bite him, and, drawing up his rifle, killed one in its tracks. Schallenberger suggested that since the antelope was dead they had better save the meat. They dismounted and commenced the process of butchering. While thus engaged their horses strayed towards camp. They had only got about a hundred yards when Schallenberger, fearing they might go beyond recall, proposed to bring them back. Taking from his waist a handsome belt containing a fine brace of pistols, which Mr. Montgomery had made for him, together with shot pouch and powder horn, he started in pursuit of the horses. He overtook them without trouble, and, noticing that a blanket that had been on Murphy's horse was gone, he looked for it on his way back to the antelope. Not finding it, he called to Murphy, who joined in the search. They soon found the blanket and started to return to their game and guns. Much to their surprise they could find neither. They hunted until dark without success, and then turned their unwilling course towards camp. They fully realized the ridiculousness of their position. Starting from camp with much boasting of the large amount of buffalo they were going to bring in, and returning, not only with no meat, but without arms or ammunition—the affair was altogether too humiliating. As they went along they concocted one story after another to account for their unfortunate condition, but each was rejected. The plan that seemed most likely was to say that they had been captured by Indians and robbed of their arms; but this story, after careful consideration, was voted to be too transparent, and they finally resolved to face the music and tell the truth. Their reception at camp can better be imagined than described.

        The next day, with a party of six men, they went to a spot they had marked as not being more than three hundred yards from where they had left their guns, and, although they continued the search for several hours, could find nothing. There were thousands of acres covered with grass about four feet high, and all presenting exactly the same appearance; it would have been impossible to find their property except by accident.

        Thus far on their journey the emigrants had been taking things very easy, and had not made the progress they intended, but they had no fears that they would not get through. Some of the party were getting short of provisions, but this gave them little trouble, as they were still in the buffalo country. They determined to stop before they got entirely out of the buffalo grounds and kill and dry enough meat to last them through; if their flour became exhausted, they could use their dried meat for bread with bacon for meat, and thus get along very well. Their route continued up the Platte and Sweetwater, the ascent being so gradual that it was hardly perceptible. They lived almost entirely on fresh meat, from three to five men being detailed as hunters each day. After going some distance up the Sweetwater, it was resolved to go into camp and remain long enough to accumulate sufficient meat for the remainder of the journey.

        As the American bison, or buffalo, is now practically extinct, and their existence will soon be beyond the memory of even the oldest inhabitant, a description of this hunt may not be out of place in these pages. John Murphy, Allen Montgomery, Joseph Foster, and Moses Schallenberger started out at daylight, intending to hunt together, but they soon became separated, Murphy and Foster following one herd of cows and Montgomery and Schallenberger another.

        We will follow the latter party, gathering our facts from Mr. Schallenberger's narration. They kept after the herd all day without being able to get within rifle range, owing to the fact that a picket guard of bulls was always kept an the highest points, who gave the alarm on the approach of the hunters. Finally they reached a large mound of rocks, under shelter of which they thought they might reach a ravine which would furnish cover within range of the game. They reached the top of the mound, and, looking over, discovered an old bull on the other side, fast asleep. To keep out of sight of the herd they would be compelled to pass in front of his nose. They crawled along cautiously, near enough to touch him with their guns, and they began to hope for success in their undertaking; but as soon as they came in front of his nose, he seemed to wind them, and, starting up with a snort, he rushed off toward the cows at full speed. Aggravated by their failure, Montgomery sent a bullet after the bull, which tumbled him on the plain. The report of the rifle startled the herd and caused them to move on.

        The hunters followed them until nearly dark, when they stopped at a small tributary of the Sweetwater to drink. Here the men, by crawling on their stomachs and taking advantage of a few greasewood bushes that were growing here and there over the plain, succeeded in approaching within about two hundred yards of the game. It was now nearly night­fall, and although the distance was too great for accurate shooting, it was their last chance, and they resolved to make the venture. Selecting a good-looking cow, they both aimed at her heart. At the word "fire" both rifles were discharged simultaneously. The bullets struck the quarry just above the kidneys, and her hind parts dropped to the ground. The hunters concealed themselves behind the brush and reloaded their rifles. In the meantime the entire herd gathered round the wounded cow, sniffing the blood and pawing and bellowing.

        While thus engaged, Montgomery and Schallenberger emerged from their concealment, and, advancing to about seventy-five yards, shot down seven of the best of them ; but as they advanced nearer, the herd took fright and galloped off, all but one bull, which remained near the broken-backed cow, and showed fight. Two bullets were fired into him, and he walked off about forty yards and laid down and died. On examining the cow first shot, they found the two bullet-holes not two inches apart, but neither one was within three feet of the point aimed at.

        It was now quite dark, and they could not return to camp. Accordingly, they made their bed between the carcasses of the two cows, and, butchering the others, carried the meat to this place to protect it from the wolves. These animals gathered in large numbers and made night hideous until, towards morning, they were driven off by a huge bear, who had come for his breakfast. As soon as it became light enough to shoot, Montgomery and Schallenberger attempted to kill the bear, but he went away so rapidly that they could not follow him. After returning from pursuit of the bear, they finished butchering their game, which process consisted of cutting out the choice pieces and leaving the rest to the wolves. Packing the meat on their horses, they started for camp about three o'clock in the afternoon. They traveled until after dark, but could find no camp. The moon was in the third quarter, but the night was cloudy, and they became bewildered. They traveled all night, walking and leading their horses. At daybreak they crossed the trail of the wagons about a quarter of a mile from camp. They arrived at the wagons just as the guard was taken off. They were nearly worn out with fatigue, but Schallenberger says he felt a great deal more cheerful than when he and Murphy came into camp with neither meat nor arms. The other hunting parties had been equally successfully, and a week was spent in this camp killing and curing meat. after which they resumed their journey up the Sweetwater. In this camp was born to Mr. and Mrs. James Miller a daughter, who was named Ellen Independence, from Independence Rock, which was near the place.

        They continued sending out hunting parties until they reached the summit of the Rocky Mountains, when the buffalo disappeared. There was still plenty of deer and antelope, which rendered it unnecessary to draw on their supply of dried meat. On reaching the summit they saw that the water ran towards California, and their hearts were rejoiced as though already in sight of the promised land. They had no idea of how much farther they had to go. They had already come hundreds of miles and naturally supposed that their journey was nearing its end. Neither did they realize that they were still to encounter obstacles almost insurmountable and undergo hardships compared to which their journey thus far had been a pleasure excursion.

        The emigrants now moved towards Green River, by way of Little and Big Sandy. They camped on Big Sandy twenty-four hours, and there old man Hitchcock was appointed pilot for one day, he saying that, from information he had, he could take them to Green River by a cut-off that would save a hundred miles' travel. By this route he thought the distance from Big Sandy to Green River was about twenty-five miles. Not knowing the character of the country, and thinking the distance was short, the emigrants did not prepare a supply of water to take with them, as they might have done and saved themselves much suffering.

        Starting at daylight they traveled until dark, most of the distance being across a rough, broken country, but found no Green River or water of any kind. At last they were compelled to halt in the midst of a desolate country, tired and nearly famished for water. The poor cattle suffered terribly, and notwithstanding their precautions in herding them, about forty head of cows and young cattle broke away in the night. The next morning they pushed forward as soon as it was light enough to see, and at eleven o'clock reached Green River.

        This was their first real hardship on the march, and, coming unexpectedly, it found them unprepared, and their sufferings were much greater than they otherwise would have been. The next morning after their arrival at Green River, they detailed six men to hunt for the cattle that had broken loose on the march from Big Sandy. This detail consisted of Daniel Murphy, William Higgins, Mr. Bean, Perry Derby, Mat Harbin and Moses Schallenberger. After starting on the hunt, a difference of opinion arose as to the route the cattle had taken. Murphy, Schallenberger, and Bean thought they had taken the back track to the Big Sandy; the others thought they had made for the nearest water, which was at Green River, some twelve miles below the point reached by the emigrants.

        Not being able to agree, they divided the party, Murphy, Bean, and Schallenberger going back to the Sandy. About half way across, while this party were riding along in Indian file, Murphy, who was in advance, suddenly ducked his head, threw his body over to the side of his horse, and, wheeling round, signaled to the others to do the same. They obeyed, and, putting their horses to full speed, followed Murphy to a small canon, which they ascended for a quarter of a mile. During this time not a word had been spoken, but now, coming to a halt, they inquired what was the matter. Murphy laconically replied, " Indians." The party dismounted and tied their horses, and, getting down on their stomachs, crawled to a point where they could overlook the plain. Here they discovered a war party of about a hundred Sioux, who were so near that their conversation could be distinctly heard. They passed within twenty yards of the spot where our emigrants were concealed, without discovering them, and the little party drew a long breath of relief when the last feathered top-knot disappeared down the horizon. It was a close call, for had their presence been known, the little band of whites would never have seen the golden plains of California.

        Again mounting their horses, they proceeded to the Big Sandy, where they found all the missing cattle. Gathering them up, they passed the night in their old camp, and the next morning set out on their return to Green River. They had proceeded only half a mile when they discovered two Indians on horseback on the top of a hill about a mile distant. In a couple of minutes, two more made their appearance in another direction, and within ten minutes they were surrounded by a couple of hundred Indians, all whooping and charging in a manner to strike terror to the bravest heart. There seemed no escape, but the little party resolved to sell their lives as dearly as possible. In the short time they had for consultation, it was determined that when they approached within range each man should select his Indian, shoot him, and then charge, trusting to Providence to get through to camp. They said good-by to each other and waited the onset.

        About twenty of the Indians were in advance of their party, and when these had approached to a distance of two hundred yards, the emigrants signed to them to stop. This they did, and sent three men without arms to parley. These came on until they were only fifty yards distant, when they halted and held out their hands as a sign of friendship. Schallenberger says that at this sign their hair, which up to this time had been standing as erect as the quills on the back of a porcupine, began to resume its proper position, and their blood, which had been jumping through their veins like a race-horse, reduced its pace to a moderate gait. The Indians proved to be a party of friendly Snakes, who were in pursuit of the band of Sioux from which our party had had such a narrow escape the day before. They were very friendly, and some of them accompanied our friends to assist them in driving their cattle quite a distance on their way back to Green River, which they reached about nine o'clock at night.

        The route of the emigrants now lay across a broken country to Bear River, where they found old " Peg-leg " Smith, as he was called. He was one of the earliest trappers of the Rocky Mountains, and was living alone in the hills. He had a band of fat ponies, which he exchanged for some of the poor and tired horses of the train. Proceeding down Bear River, they arrived without adventure at Fort Hall, which was the point at which the Oregon party was to separate from those going to California. Here they were compelled to purchase flour, for which they paid a dollar a pound. The Murphy-Townsend party had started with a supply of provisions sufficient for eight mouths, but others were not so well provided. In fact, several had run out of flour and bacon some time previously, and the others had divided with them. As for meat, the party thought they had plenty; if their dried meat and bacon became exhausted, they could kill the young cattle they had brought along for that purpose. The parting with the Oregon party was a sad one. During the long journey across the plains, many strong friendships had been formed, and the separation was deeply regretted by all. Our emigrant train now consisted of eleven wagons and twenty-six persons, all as determined to push on to California as on the day they left Council Bluffs. The country they had traversed was more or less known to trappers and hunters, and there had not been much danger of losing their way; neither were the obstacles very formidable. But the remainder of the route lay for most of the distance through an unknown country, through which they must find their way without map, chart, or guide, and, with diminished numbers, overcome obstacles the magnitude of which none of them had any conception.

        After remaining at Fort Hall for several days, the party resumed its march, crossing the country to Beaver Creek, or Raft River, which they followed for two days; thence westward over a broken country to Goose Creek; thence to the head-waters of Mary's River, or the Humboldt, as it has since been named. Here they encountered the Digger Indians. The language of this tribe was unknown to old man Greenwood, who had hitherto acted as pilot and interpreter, but by use of signs and some few words of the Snake language, he managed to converse with them in a limited way. The journey down the Humboldt was very monotonous. Each day's events were substantially a repetition of those of the day before.

        There was plenty of good grass, and the party was not inconvenienced by the alkali water, which caused so much trouble to trains that afterwards came over this route. The Indians seemed to be the most indolent and degraded of any that the party had yet encountered. They were totally without energy. They seemed very friendly and every night hundreds of them visited the camp. This they continued to do during the entire journey down the Humboldt, a distance of five hundred miles. Although they showed no signs of hostility, the emigrants did not relax their vigilance, and guard duty was strictly performed. At the sink of the Humboldt, the alkali became troublesome, and it was with difficulty that pure water was procured either for the people or the cattle. However, no stock was lost, excepting one pony belonging to Martin Murphy, Sr., which was stolen. The party stopped at the sink for a week in order to rest the cattle and lay out their future course.

        Mr. Schallenberger states that their oxen were in tolerably good condition; their feet were as sound and much harder, and except that they needed a little rest, they were really better prepared for work than when they left Missouri. The party seemed to have plenty of provisions, and the only doubtful question was the route they should pursue. A desert lay before them, and it was necessary that they should make no mistake in the choice of a route. Old Mr. Greenwood's contract as pilot had expired when they reached the Rocky Mountains. Beyond that he did not pretend to know anything. Many anxious consultations were held, some contending that they should follow a southerly course, and others held that they should go due west. Finally, an old Indian was found, called Truckee, with whom old man Green talked by means of signs and diagrams drawn on the ground. From him it was learned that fifty or sixty miles to the west there was a river that flowed easterly from the mountains, and that along this stream there were large trees and good grass. Acting on this information, Dr. Townsend, Captain Stevens, and Joseph  Foster, taking Truckee as a guide, started out to explore this route, and after three days returned, reporting that they had found the river just as the Indian had described it. Although there was still a doubt in the minds of some as to whether this was the proper route to take, none held back when the time came to

start. In fact, there was no time for further discussion.

        It was now the first of October, and they could see that if a heavy fall of snow should overtake them while yet in the mountains, it would be almost impossible for them to get through. Thus far there had been no trouble with the Indians. All that they had met had been treated kindly, and the natives had rather assisted than impeded them in their journey. It had, however, required constant watching on the part of the older men to prevent the hot blood of the younger ones from boiling over now and then. This was particularly the case with John Greenwood, who, being a half-breed, had a mortal hatred for the Indians. On several occasions, when an ox would stray away, he would accuse the natives of having stolen it, and it would require the utmost exercise of authority to prevent him from precipitating hostilities. It seemed as if he was more anxious to kill an Indian than to reach California.

        On the morning that the start was made from the sink of the Humboldt, a general engagement became very imminent. Schallenberger, whose conduct on the march had been conspicuous for coolness and discretion, missed a halter from his horse, and on searching for it saw one end projecting from under the short feather blanket worn by an Indian who was standing near. Schallenberger demanded the halter, but the Indian paid no attention; he then attempted to explain to him what he wanted, but the Indian pretended that he did not understand. He then took hold of the halter to remove it, when the Indian stepped back and drew his bow. Schallenberger ran to the wagon, took his rifle, and drew a bead on the redskin, and was about to pull the trigger when Martin Murphy rushed in and threw up the muzzle of the gun. The whole camp was in confusion in a moment, but the matter was explained, and the Indians loaded with presents until they were pacified. If the Indian had been killed, there is no doubt that the entire party would have been massacred. It did not need the reprimand that Schallenberger received from his brother-in-law, Dr. Townsend, to convince him of his folly, and no one regretted his rashness more than he himself did.

        The party left the sink of the Humboldt, having cooked two days' rations and filled all the available vessels with water. After traveling with scarcely a halt until twelve o'clock the next night, they reached a boiling spring at what is now Hot Spring Station, on the Central Pacific Railroad. Here they halted two hours to permit the oxen to rest. Some of the party dipped water from the spring into tubs, and allowed it to cool for the use of the cattle. It was a sad experiment, for those oxen that drank it became very sick. Resuming the march, they traveled steadily until two o'clock the next day, when they reached the river, which they named the Truckee, in honor of the old Indian chief, who had piloted them to it.

        The cattle, not having eaten or drank for forty-eight hours, were almost famished. This march was of eighty miles across an alkali desert, knee deep in alkali dust. The people, having water in their wagons, did not suffer so much, but there were occasions when it was extremely doubtful if they would be able to reach water with their cattle. So crazed were they with thirst that if the precaution had not been taken to unhitch them while yet some distance from the stream, they would have rushed headlong into the water and wrecked the wagons and destroyed their contents. There being fine grass and good water here, the party camped two days, until the cattle were thoroughly rested and refreshed.

        Then commenced the ever-to-be-remembered journey up the Truckee to the summit of the Sierras. At first it was not discouraging. There was plenty of wood, water, grass, and game, and the weather was pleasant. The oxen were well rested, and for a few days good progress was made. Then the hills began to grow nearer together, and the country was so rough and broken that they frequently had to travel in the bed of the stream. The river was so crooked that one day they crossed it ten times in traveling a mile. This almost constant traveling in the water softened the hoofs of the oxen, while the rough stones in the bed of the river wore them down, until the cattle's feet were so sore that it became a torture for them to travel. The whole party were greatly fatigued by the incessant labor. But they dared not rest. It was near the middle of October, and a few light snows had already fallen, warning them of the imminent danger of being buried in the snow in the mountains. They pushed on, the route each day becoming more and more difficult. Each day the hills seemed to come nearer together and the stream to become more crooked.

        They were now compelled to travel altogether in the bed of the river, there not being room between its margin and the hills to furnish foothold to an ox. The feet of the cattle became so sore that the drivers were compelled to walk beside them in the water, or they could not be urged to take a step ; and, in many

instances, the teams had to be trebled in order to drag the wagons at all. On top of all these disheartening conditions came a fall of snow a foot deep, burying the grass from the reach of the cattle, and threatening them with starvation. The poor, foot-sore oxen, after toiling all day, would stand and bawl for food all night, in so piteous a manner that the emigrants would forget their own misery in their pity for their cattle. But there was nothing to offer them except a few pine leaves, which were of no effect in appeasing their hunger. Still the party toiled on, hoping soon to pass the summit and reach the plains beyond, and that beautiful land so eloquently described to them by Father Hookins. In face of all these obstacles, there was no thought of turning back. One day they came to some rushes that were too tall to be entirely covered by the snow; the cattle ate these so greedily that two of James Murphy's oxen died. However, by constant care in regulating the amount of this food, no evil effects were experienced, although it was not very nourishing. These rushes were scattered at irregular intervals along the river, and scouts were sent out each day to find them and locate a camp for the night. Some days the rushes would be found in a very short drive, and sometimes they would not be found at all.

        In this manner they dragged their slow course along until they reached a point where the river forked, the main stream bearing southwest and the tributary almost due west. Then arose the question as to which route should be taken. There being an open space and pretty good feed at the forks of the river, it was decided to go into camp and hold a consultation. This camp was made on what is now the site of the city of Truckee, and the route pursued by these emigrants is practically that now followed by the Central Pacific Railroad. After considering the matter fully, it was decided that a few of the party should leave the wagons and follow the main stream, while the others should go by way of the tributary, as that seemed to be the more promising route for the vehicles.

        Those who left the party were Mrs. Townsend, Miss Ellen Murphy, John Murphy, Daniel Murphy, Oliver Magnan, and Mrs. Townsend's servant, Francis. They each had a horse to ride, and they took with them two pack-horses and some provisions. The ladies had each a change of clothing and some blankets, and each man had a rifle and ammunition. There was still some game to be found, and as the Murphys were good hunters there was no thought of their starving. In our account of this journey we have followed the narrative of Mr. Schallenberger, who has kindly furnished us with the facts. In regard to this separation, John Murphy says that there was no consultation or agreement; that the persons spoken of were traveling in advance of the rest of the party, and, coming to the forks of the river, naturally took the main stream, expecting the others to follow, which they did not do. However this may be, the fact remains that the parties here separated and went the different routes as above stated.

        The party with the wagons proceeded up the tributary, or Little Truckee, a distance of two miles and a half, when they came to the lake since known as Donner Lake. They now had but one mountain between them and California, but this seemed an impassable barrier. Several days were spent in attempts to find a pass, and finally the route, over which the present railroad is, was selected. The oxen were so worn out that some of the party abandoned the attempt to get their wagons any further. Others determined to make another effort. Those who determined to bring their wagons were Martin Murphy, Jr., James Murphy, James Miller, Mr. Hitchcock, and old Mr. Martin, Mrs. James Murphy's father. The others left their wagons.

        The snow on the mountains was now about two feet deep. Keeping their course on the north side of the lake until they reached its head, they started up the mountain. All the wagons were unloaded and the contents carried up the hill. Then the teams were doubled and the empty wagons were hauled up. When about half way up the mountain they came to a vertical rock about ten feet high. It seemed now that everything would have to be abandoned except what the men could carry on their backs. After a tedious search they found a rift in the rock, just about wide enough to allow one ox to pass at a time. Removing the yokes from the cattle, they managed to get them one by one through this chasm to the top of the rock. There the yokes were replaced, chains were fastened to the tongues of the wagons, and carried to the top of the rock, where the cattle were hitched to them. Then the men lifted at the wagons, while the cattle pulled at the chains, and by this ingenious device the vehicles were all, one by one, got across the barrier.

        After reaching the summit a drive of twenty miles westerly brought them to the head-waters of the Yuba River, where the able-bodied men started for Sutter's Fort, then known as New Helvetia, and now as the city of Sacramento. They walked and drove the cattle, expecting to return immediately with supplies for the train. The others remained in camp. Thus were the first wagons that ever made tracks in California soil, brought across the mountains.

        Those who remained with the wagons on the Yuba were Mrs. Martin Murphy, with her four boys, Martin, James, Patrick We, and Bernard D.; Mrs. James Murphy, with her daughter Mary; Mr. James Miller, wife, and three children; Mrs. Patterson, with her children, and old Mr. Martin, Mrs. James Murphy's father. Leaving them here for the present, we will return to the wagons, which had been abandoned when the party divided at the forks of the Truckee.

        Dr. Townsend and Mr. Schallenberger had brought with them an invoice of valuable goods, which they had intended to sell in California. When the wagons were abandoned, Schallenberger volunteered to remain with them and protect the goods until the rest of the party could reach California and return with other and fresher animals with which to move them. Mr. Schallenberger thus describes his experience:

        "There seemed little danger to me in undertaking this. Game seemed to be abundant. We had seen a number of deer, and one of our party had killed a bear, so I had no fears of starvation. The Indians in that vicinity were poorly clad, and I therefore felt no anxiety in regard to them, as they probably would stay further south as long as cold weather lasted. Knowing that we were not far from California, and being unacquainted, except in a general way, with the climate, I did not suppose that the snow would at any time be more than two feet deep, nor that it would be on the ground continually.

        "After I had decided to stay, Mr. Joseph Foster and Mr. Allen Montgomery said they would stay with me, and so it was settled, and the rest of the party started across the mountains. They left us two cows, so worn out and poor that they could go no further. We did not care for them to leave us any cattle for food, for, as I said, there seemed to be plenty of game, and we were all good hunters, well furnished with ammunition, so we had no apprehension that we would not have plenty to eat, that is, plenty of meat. Bread we had not tasted for many weeks, and had no desire for it. We had used up all our supply of buffalo meat, and had been living on fresh beef and bacon, which seemed to satisfy us completely.

        "The morning after the separation of our party, which we felt was only for a short time, Foster, Montgomery and myself set about making a cabin, for we determined to make ourselves as comfortable as possible, even if it was for a short time. We cut saplings and yoked up our poor cows and hauled them together. These we formed into a rude house, and covered it with rawhides and pine brush. The size was about twelve by fourteen feet. We made a chimney of logs eight or ten feet high, on the outside, and used some large stones for the jambs and back. We had no windows; neither was the house chinked or daubed, as is usual in log-houses, but we notched the logs down so close that they nearly or quite touched. A hole was cut for a door, which was never closed. We left it open in the day-time to give us light, and as we had plenty of good beds and bedding that had been left with the wagons, and were not afraid of burglars, we left it open at night also. This cabin is thus particularly described because it became historic, as being the residence of a portion of the ill-fated Donner party in 1846.

        " On the evening of the day we finished our little house it began to snow, and that night it fell to a depth of three feet. This prevented a hunt which we had in contemplation for the next day. It did not worry us much, however, for the weather was not at all cold, and we thought the snow would soon melt. But we were doomed to disappointment. A week passed, and instead of any snow going off more came. At last we were compelled to kill our cows, for the snow was so deep that they could not get around to eat. They were nothing but skin and bones, but we killed the poor things to keep them from starving to death. We hung them up on the north side of the house and covered them with pine brush. That night the meat froze, and as the weather was just cold enough to keep it frozen, it remained fresh without salt. It kept on snowing continually, and our little cabin was almost covered. It was now about the last of November or first of December, and we began to fear that we should all perish in the snow.

        "The snow was so light and frosty that it would not bear us up, therefore we were not able to go out at all except to cut wood for the fire; and if that had not been near at hand I do not know what we should have done. None of us had ever seen snow-shoes, and of course had no idea how to make them, but finally Foster and Montgomery managed to make something they called a snow-shoe. I was only a boy and had no more idea of what a snow-shoe looked like than a Louisiana darkey. Their method of construction was this: Taking some of our wagon bows, which were of hickory and about half an inch thick, they bent them into an oblong shape forming a sort of hoop. This they filled with a network of rawhide. We were now able to walk on the snow to bring in our wood, and that was about all there was to do. There was no game. We went out several times but never saw anything. What could we expect to find in ten feet of snow ? It would sometimes thaw a little during the day and freeze at night, which made a crust on the snow sufficiently thick to bear the weight of a coyote, or a fox, and we used sometimes to see the tracks of these animals, but we were never fortunate enough to get a sight of the animals themselves.

        "We now began to feel very blue, for there seemed no possible hope for use We had already eaten about half our meat, and with the snow on the ground getting deeper and deeper each day, there was no chance for game. Death, the fearful, agonizing death by starvation, literally stared us in the face. At last, after due consideration, we determined to start for California on foot. Accordingly we dried some of our beef, and each of us carrying ten pounds of meat, a pair of blankets, a rifle and ammunition, we set out on our perilous journey. Not knowing how to fasten snow-shoes to our feet made it very fatiguing to walk with them. We fastened them heel and toe, and thus had to lift the whole weight of the shoe at every step, and as the shoe would necessarily sink down somewhat, the snow would crumble in on top of it, and in a short time each shoe weighed about ten pounds.

        " Foster and Montgomery were matured men, and could consequently stand a greater amount of hardship than I, who was still a growing boy with weak muscles and a huge appetite, both of which were being used in exactly the reverse order designed by nature. Consequently, when we reached the summit of the mountain about sunset that night, having traveled a distance of about fifteen miles, I was scarcely able to drag one foot after the other.   The day had been a hard one for us all, but particularly painful to me. The awkward manner in which our snow-shoes were fastened to our feet made the mere act of walking the hardest kind of work. In addition to this, about the middle of the afternoon I was seized with cramps. I fell down with them several times, and my companions had to wait for me, for it was impossible for me to move until the paroxysm had passed off. After each attack I would summon all my will power and press on, trying to keep up with the others. Toward evening, however, the attacks became more frequent and painful, and I could not walk more than fifty yards without stopping to rest.

        " When night came on we cut down a tree and with it built a fire on top of the snow. We then spread some pine brush for our beds, and after eating a little of our jerky and standing round our fire in a vain attempt to get warm, we laid down and tried to sleep. Although we were thoroughly exhausted, sleep would not come. Anxiety as to what might have been the fate of those who had preceded us, as well as uncertainty as to our fate, kept us awake all night. Every now and then one of us would rise to replenish the fire, which, though it kept us from freezing, could not make us comfortable. When daylight came we found that our fire had melted the snow in a circle of about fifteen feet in diameter, and had sunk to the ground a distance also of about fifteen feet. The fire was so far down that we could not get to it, but as we had nothing to cook, it made but little difference. We ate our jerky while we deliberated as to what we should do next. I was so stiff that I could hardly move, and my companions had grave doubts as to whether I could stand the journey. If I should give out they could afford me no assistance, and I would necessarily be left to perish in the snow. I fully realized the situation, and told them that I would return to the cabin and live as long as possible on the quarter of beef that was still there, and when it was all gone I would start out again alone for California. They reluctantly assented to my plan, and promised that if they ever got to California and it was possible to get back, they would return to my assistance.

        " We did not say much at parting. Our hearts were too full for that. There was simply a warm clasp of the hand accompanied by the familiar word, 'Good-by,' which we all felt might be the last words we should ever speak to each other. The feeling of loneliness that came over me as the two men turned away I cannot express, though it will never be forgotten, while the, 'Good-by, Mose,' so sadly and reluctantly spoken, rings in my ears to-day. I desire to say here that both Foster and Montgomery were brave, warm­hearted men, and it was by no fault of theirs that I was thus left alone. It would only have made matters worse for either of them to remain with me, for the quarter of beef at the cabin would last me longer alone, and thus increase my chances of escape. While our decision was a sad one, it was the only one that could be made.

        " My companions had not been long out of sight before my spirits began to revive, and I began to think, like Micawber, that something might `turn up.' So I strapped on my blankets and dried beef, shouldered my gun, and began to retrace my steps to the cabin. It had frozen during the night and this enabled me to walk on our trail without the snow-shoes. This was a great relief, but the exertion and sickness of the day before had so weakened me that I think I was never so tired in my life as when, just a little before dark, I came in sight of the cabin. The door-sill was only nine inches high, but I could not step over it without taking my hands to raise my leg. * * * As soon as I was able to crawl around the next morning I put on my snow-shoes, and, taking my rifle, scoured the country thoroughly for foxes. The result was as I had expected—just as it had always been—plenty of tracks, but no fox.

        "Discouraged and sick at heart, I came in from my fruitless search and prepared to pass another night of agony. As I put my gun in the corner, my eyes fell upon some steel traps that Captain Stevens had brought with him and left behind in his wagon. In an instant the thought flashed across my mind, 'If I can't shoot a coyote or fox, why not trap one.' There was inspiration in the thought, and my spirits began to rise immediately. The heads of the two cows I cut to pieces for bait, and, having raked the snow from some fallen trees, and found other sheltered places, I set my traps. That night I went to bed with a lighter heart, and was able to get some sleep.

        "As soon as daylight came I was out to inspect the traps. I was anxious to see them and still I dreaded to look. After some hesitation I commenced the examination, and to my great delight I found in one of them a starved coyote. I soon had his hide off and his flesh roasted in a Dutch oven. I ate this meat, but it was horrible. I next tried boiling him, but it did not improve the flavor. I cooked him in every possible manner my imagination, spurred by hunger, could suggest, but could not get him into a condition where he could be eaten without revolting my stomach. But for three days this was all I had to eat. On the third night I caught two foxes. I roasted one of them, and the meat, though entirely devoid of fat, was delicious. I was so hungry that I could easily have eaten a fox at two meals, but I made one last me two days.

        "I often took my gun and tried to find something to shoot, but in vain. Once I shot a crow that seemed to have got out of his latitude and stopped on a tree near the cabin. I stewed the crow, but it was difficult for me to decide which I liked best, crow or coyote.

        I now gave my whole attention to trapping, having found how useless it was to hunt for game. I caught, on an average, a fox in two days, and every now and then a coyote. These last-named animals I carefully hung up under the brush shed on the north side of the cabin, but I never got hungry enough to eat one of them again. There were eleven hanging there when I came away. I never really suffered for something to eat, but was in almost continual anxiety for fear the supply would give out. For instance, as soon as one meal was finished I began to be distressed for fear I could not get another one. My only hope was that the supply of foxes would not become exhausted.

        "One morning two of my traps contained foxes. Having killed one, I started for the other, but, before I could reach it, the fox had left his foot in the trap and started to run. I went as fast as I could to the cabin for my gun, and then followed him. He made for a creek about a hundred yards from the house, into which he plunged and swam across. He was scrambling up the opposite bank when I reached the creek. In my anxiety at the prospect of losing my breakfast, I had forgotten to remove a greasy wad that I usually kept in the muzzle of my gun to prevent it from rusting, and when I fired, the ball struck the snow about a foot above reynard's back. I reloaded as rapidly as possible, and as the gun was one of the old-fashioned flint-locks that primed itself, it did not require much time. But, short as the time was, the fox had gone about forty yards when I shot him. Now the problem was to get him to camp. The water in the stream was about two and a half feet deep and icy cold. But I plunged in, and, on reaching the other side, waded for forty yards through the snow, into which I sank to my arms, secured my game, and returned the way I came. I relate this incident to illustrate how much affection I had for the fox. It is strange that I never craved anything to eat but good fat meat. For bread or vegetables I had no desire. Salt I had in plenty, but never used. I had just coffee enough for one cup, and that I saved for Christmas.

        "My life was more miserable than I can describe. The daily struggle for life and the uncertainty under which I labored were very wearing. I was always worried and anxious, not about myself alone, but in regard to the fate of those who had gone forward. I would lie awake nights and think of these things, and revolve in my mind what I would do when the supply of foxes became exhausted. The quarter of beef I had not touched, and I resolved to dry it, and, when the foxes were all gone, to take my gun, blankets, and dried beef and follow in the footsteps of my former companions.

        "Fortunately, I had a plenty of books, Dr. Townsend having brought out quite a library. I used often to read aloud, for I longed for some sound to break the oppressive stillness. For the same reason, I would talk aloud to myself. At night I built large fires and read by the light of the pine knots as late as possible, in order that I might sleep late the next morning, and thus cause the days to seem shorter. What I wanted most was enough to eat, and the next thing I tried hardest to do was to kill time. I thought the snow would never leave the ground, and the few months I had been living here seemed years.

        "One evening, a little before sunset, about the last of February, as I was standing a short distance from my cabin, I thought I could distinguish the form of a man moving towards me. I first thought it was an Indian, but very soon I recognized the familiar face of Dennis Martin. My feelings can be better imagined than described. He relieved my anxiety about those of our party who had gone forward with the wagons. They had all arrived safely in California and were then in camp on the Yuba. They were all safe, although some of them had suffered much from hunger. Mrs. Patterson and her children had eaten nothing for fourteen days but rawhides. Mr. Martin had brought a small amount of provisions on his back, which were shared among them. All the male portion of the party, except Foster and Montgomery, had joined Captain Sutter and gone to the Micheltorena war. Dr. Townsend was surgeon of the corps. My sister, Mrs. Townsend, hearing that Mr. Martin was about to return to pilot the emigrants out of the wilderness, begged him to extend his journey a little farther and lend a helping hand to her brother Moses. He consented to do so, and here he was. Being a Canadian, he was accustomed to snow-shoes, and soon showed me how to fix mine so I could travel with less than half the labor. He made the shoe a little narrower, and fastened it to the foot only at the to; thus making the heel a little heavier, so that the shoe would drag on the snow instead of having to be lifted at every step."

        The next morning after Martin's arrival at the cabin he and Schallenberger started to return. Schallenberger's scanty diet and limited exercise rendered this a rather trying journey for him. But they arrived safely at the emigrants' camp, which, during Martin's absence, had been moved two days' journey down the hills. At this camp was born to Mr. and Mrs. Martin Murphy a daughter, the first white child born in California. She was named Elizabeth, and afterwards married Mr. William Taaffe.

        To make this history complete, we must return to the party which, separating from the wagons at the forks of the Truckee, followed the main stream. They continued up the river to Lake Tahoe, and were the first white people to look upon that beautiful body of water. Here they crossed the river, keeping on the west side of the lake for some distance, and then struck across the hills to the headwaters of the American River, which they followed down to the valley. This route was exceedingly rough, much more so than the one up the Truckee on the other side. The American River was wider and deeper than the Truckee, and fully as crooked. They were compelled to cross it many times, and frequently their horses were compelled to swim, and the current was so swift as to make this a very hazardous undertaking. Mrs. Townsend rode an Indian pony, which was an excellent swimmer. She would ride him across the river and then send him back by one of the boys for Ellen Murphy. Once this pony lost his feet. He had crossed the river several times and was nearly worn out. John Murphy had ridden him back to get a pack saddle, and on returning, the pony fell. John, though an excellent swimmer, had a narrow escape from drowning. The water was running with the force of a mill race, while the bed of the stream was full of huge rocks, against which he was dashed and disabled from swimming. The party on the banks were paralyzed with terror as he was swept down the raging torrent. Recovering themselves, they hurried down the stream, expecting at every step to see his mangled body thrown upon the shore. But John had not lost his head in his deadly peril. Watching his opportunity, as he was swept under a willow tree which grew on the bank, he seized the overhanging branches and held on with a death grip until he was rescued. The ice-cold water and the mauling he had received from the rocks rendered him unconscious. A warm fire restored him to his senses, but it was many days before he fully recovered from the shock caused by his involuntary bath.

        The party were twenty-one days in getting to the valley. They did not suffer for food, for they were soon out of the snow and in a game country. John and Dan Murphy were excellent hunters, and there was no scarcity of meat. If game was scarce there was plenty of cattle roaming about, which made starvation impossible. They followed the American River until they came to St. Clair's ranch, where they stopped for some time. Mr. and Mrs. St. Clair received them with a warm hospitality, which excited the liveliest feelings of gratitude in the hearts of the emigrants. These feelings were mingled with remorse when they thought of the number of St. Clair's calves that had been killed on the way down the river. They had, of course, intended to pay for them, but just at that time they had no money. The idea of accepting the hospitality of a man whose cattle they had killed, worked on their feelings until it nearly broke their hearts. The teachings of their father, the old patriarch, had kept their consciences tender, and they held many secret consultations as to what should be done in the premises.

        They finally determined to confess. The lots cast for spokesman elected Dan Murphy, but it was agreed that all should be present to give him their moral support. Dan opened the interview by carelessly inquiring who owned all those calves that they had encountered coming down the river. St. Clair said he guessed they all belonged to him. "Well," said Dan, "there's a good bunch of them. What are calves about three months old worth in this country?" St. Clair told him. "Well," resumed Dan, "we killed some of them to eat, and we haven't got any money to pay you now, but if you will let us work out the price we will be very much obliged." The earnestness of the boys amused Mr. St. Clair very much, and when he told them that they were welcome to the calves they had killed, and as many more as they wanted to eat, they retired from the interview with a great load lifted from their consciences.

        From St. Clair's they went down to Sutter's, arriving there about the same time that the men from the wagons got in. Here they found great excitement. Micheltorena had been appointed by the Mexican Government as Governor of California, with both civil and military authority. The former officials, Alvarado and Vallejo, had resolved to resist his authority, and had joined with them General Castro. The native Californians were very jealous of the foreigners, especially the immigrants from the United States. Taking advantage of this feeling, the revolutionists had roused the country and collected quite a formidable army. Whatever may have been the intention of the leaders, it was openly talked by the rank and file, that, after they had settled their difficulty with Micheltorena, they would drive the foreigners from the country, The Murphy party had not come two thousand miles across deserts and mountains to be driven back into the hills without an effort in their own defense, and without hesitation they joined a company that Captain Sutter was raising for the assistance of Micheltorena, who held the legal commission as Governor of California. With this company they went South, doing good service in the campaign as far as Santa Barbara. Here, there being no further need of their services, they started to return to their women and children, whom they had left with the wagons on the Yuba.

        Here was another instance of the indomitable courage of these men. The whole country had been roused against Micheltorena and the foreigners, and here was a handful of these same foreigners who had been arrayed against them in every movement from the Sacramento to Santa Barbara, now returning alone through this hostile country with no protection but their trusty rifles. The boldness of the act was only equaled by the skill which enabled them to make the return journey without firing a hostile gun. It seems as if the hand of Providence had upheld them through all their tribulations and dangers, and preserved them for some great destiny.

        They arrived at the wagons about the same time that Schallenberger was rescued by Dennis Martin from his perilous situation in the cabin by Donner Lake. About the time Schallenberger joined the wagons, with Martin, a man named Neil, who had been sent by Captain Sutter, with a supply of provisions and horses, arrived at the camp. The emigrants now were in a very cheerful frame of mind, being only one day's march from the plains, and the end of their year's journey in sight. The next day they pushed on, all mounted, some with saddles, some with pack-saddles, and some bare-back, and that night camped at the edge of the valley, on the banks of Bear River. This was the first of March, just one year from the time they left Missouri. They found, Bear River full and still rising, from the melting snow in the mountains and the heavy rainfall of the season. There was no bridge or ferry, and an attempt was made to find a tree of sufficient length to reach across, but in vain. In this search for a tree Mr. Neil, who had gone down the stream, was cut off from the mainland by the rapidly rising waters, leaving him on a little island, which was soon submerged, and as he could not swim, he was compelled to climb a tree. His cries for help finally reached the ears of those in camp, and Schallenberger and John Murphy, each mounting a horse and leading a third one, swam into the foaming torrent and brought him safely to the shore.

        Again the affairs of the emigrants began to assume a gloomy aspect.  Bear River had overrun its banks until it was ten miles wide. The small supply of provisions sent in by Captain Sutter had been exhausted. Two deer had been killed, but this afforded scarcely a mouthful each to so large a party. There was no direction in which they could move except to return to the hills, and this would only be making their condition worse. Three days passed with no food. They could hear the lowing of the cattle across the river, and now and then could discern the graceful forms of herds of antelope on the other side of the water. Mr. Schallenberger relates an incident that occurred at this time. The Hon. B. D. Murphy was then a little chap only four years old. As Schallenberger was sitting on a wagon-tongue, whittling a stick and meditating on the hollowness of all earthly things, and especially of the human stomach, little Barney approached him and asked if he would lend him his knife. " Certainly," replied Schallenberger, " but what do you want to do with it ? " " I want to make a toothpick," said Barney. The idea of needing a toothpick when none of the party had tasted food for three days was so ridiculous that Schallenberger forgot the emptiness of his stomach and laughed heartily.

        There was a large band of wild horses belonging to Captain Sutter, which were ranging in the foothills on that side of the river where the emigrants' camp was located. The question of killing one of these had been seriously discussed. The proposition had been earnestly opposed by Martin Murphy, who had declared that it was not food fit for human beings, and that although in the last stages of starvation his stomach would revolt at such diet.  The respect that the young men had for Mr. Murphy restrained them from committing equicide for some time. But at last it became a question of horse meat or starvation.

        One morning Mr. Murphy rode back over the trail to see if he could find any trace of an ox that they had lost on the march, while Schallenberger and Dennis Martin went hunting for something to eat. Returning empty handed, it was decided to kill a horse. Accordingly, Neil drove the band as near camp as possible, and Schallenberger shot a fine, fat two-year old filly. Mr. Murphy did not arrive until the meat had been dressed and was roasting before the fire.   He had been unsuccessful in his search and was delighted to find that the boys had succeeded. With his face glowing with pleasure in anticipation of the feast, he inquired, "Who killed the heifer?" The party pointed to Schallenberger, and Mr. Murphy, patting him on the shoulder, exclaimed: "Good boy, good boy, but for you we might all have starved!" When the meat was cooked he ate of it, eloquently praising its juicy tenderness and fine flavor, which, he said, surpassed any meat he had ever tasted. About the time he had satisfied his appetite, his brother-in-law, James Miller, drew out the filly's mane from behind a log, exhibited it to Mr. Murphy, and asked him to see what queer horns they had taken from the heifer of which he had just been eating so heartily. Mr. Murphy's stomach immediately rebelled, and he returned to the ground the dinner which he had eaten with so much relish, saying, when he had recovered from his paroxysm, that he thought he had detected a peculiarly bad taste about that meat. He never, by any artifice, could be induced to taste horse flesh again.

        Soon after this, the waters receded sufficiently to allow the party to reach Feather River, where, near Hick's Farm, Captain Sutter had prepared a boat to ferry them across. Here the vaqueros brought them a fine fat cow, and, for the first time in many months, they had what Schallenberger called a "good square meal."

Our pilgrims had reached the promised land. Their enduring faith had been lost in sight, and their hopes had ended in fruition. The old patriarch had gathered his flock around him in the shadow of the Cross, in a country through the length and breadth of which the name of his family was destined to become a household word, and in the development and history of which they were to become prominent. Of all the property with which they started, little was left on their arrival in California. As Mrs. James Murphy said to the writer, "We brought very little property with us, but we did bring a good many days' work."

        After a short rest at Suttee's Fort, the party sepa­rated, each to seek a location and to plant his roof tree in his adopted land.

MR. MARTIN MURPHY, SR.,

with the unmarried portion of his family, which consisted of his three sons, Bernard, John, and Daniel, and his daughters, Ellen, Margaret, and Joanna, came to Santa Clara County and purchased the Rancho Ojo de Agua de la Coche, situated on the Monterey road, south of San Jose, near what has since been known as the Twenty-one Mile House. Here he lived for many years, loved and respected by all who knew him. Coming daily in contact with the native Californians, he commanded their good-will and respect, in spite of their natural jealousy and hatred of the foreigners. In grateful remembrance of the power which had safely led him by land and sea, through so many perils, to this haven of rest, he built a beautiful chapel on his ranch, which, in honor of his patron saint, he named San Martin.    His house was located on the then most traveled road in California, and he always held its door wide open to the wayfarer. His liberal hospitality, his charity, his piety, his inflexible integrity, and his warm heart and sympathizing disposition, compelled the friendship of all who knew him, and when he died there was grief throughout the State. Courts adjourned, and business was suspended, while from every direction people gathered to assist in the last sad rites of the patriarch and pioneer. For the last few years of his life he had retired from active business, making his home at San Francisco, and paying periodical visits to the different members of his family.  When death overtook him, which was on March 16, 1865, he was at the house of his daughter, Margaret Kell, near San Jose.

MARTIN MURPHY, JR.,

the eldest son of Martin Murphy, located, after the emigrant party broke up at Sutter's, on the Cosumne River, in what is now Sacramento County. His family consisted of seven children, as follows: James, Martin, Patrick Washington, Bernard Daniel, Elizabeth, Mary Ann, and Ellen. Here he purchased four leagues of land and erected a house. About the first thing he did after taking possession of his new home, was to look around for a school-teacher. This he found in the person of one Patrick O'Brien, an educated man, who, having become reduced in circumstances, had joined the army. He came across the mountains with Fremont and probably deserted. While engaged in teaching at Murphy's, General Sherman, then a lieutenant, arrested him and took him away. We understand, however, that he was finally released. This was the first school ever held in Sacramento County. At this place their daughter Mary, afterward Mrs. Richard T. Carrol, of San Francisco, was born. The land which Mr. Murphy had purchased in Sacramento County was very fertile, but, desiring to live near his people, he removed to this county, and purchased the Rancho Pastoria de las Borregas, near Mountain View, containing four thousand eight hundred acres. While awaiting the building of a house on the new homestead, the family took up its residence in San Jose, occupying a house opposite where the convent now stands, which was owned by Mariano Hernandez.

        They were living here when Hernandez made his remarkable escape, as is elsewhere reported in this history. The first intimation the family had of this event was the visit of the officers to search the house. The John Foster whom Hernandez was accused of murdering was a brother of the Joseph Foster who crossed the plains with the Murphy party.

        The Rancho Pastoria de las Borregas became the permanent home of Martin Murphy, and here he, with his estimable wife, reared their large family. Here was born James T. Murphy, their youngest child. The mantle of Martin Murphy, Sr., had descended on his oldest son, and all the traits which characterized the founder of the family seemed developed in a greater degree, if that were possible, in the son. His strict integrity, devout piety, kind and gentle disposition, liberal hospitality, united. With a firmness of character, all combined to give him a place in the affection and respect of the people that no one has ever since been able to command. His wife was a worthy companion for such a man. Sharing all his trials, she lessened them, and partaking of his joys, she doubled them; and together they have impressed their character upon their children to such a degree that they have made them worthy to succeed them. Language can accord no higher praise than this. These people also imprinted, their individuality on their material surroundings to such an extent that the homestead soon forgot its old Spanish name and became known throughout the country as the " Murphy Ranch." Their efforts were prospered to an eminent degree, and although they acquired vast domains in several other counties, they never abandoned the first home which they had erected in Santa Clara County. The facilities afforded by the schools and colleges of the Catholic Fathers and Sisters, enabled them to see their children educated in all the higher branches, and to become cultured men and women, with ability and disposition to carry the honored family name untarnished to future generations.

        As the desire for religious and educational facilities was the controlling sentiment that induced the Murphys to cross the wilderness, it was also the main­spring of their actions after arriving at their destination. To Martin Murphy was due the establishment of the College of Notre Dame in this county. A number of the Sisters had established a school in the Willamette Valley, in Oregon. In 1851, four Sisters from Cincinnati started to join this religious colony, and Sister Loyola and Sister Mary came down from Oregon to San Francisco to meet them. While waiting for the arrival of the vessel from Panama, they accepted the invitation of Mr. Murphy to visit his family at Mountain View. During this visit they called at Santa Clara and San Jose, and determined to establish an institution here. The College of Notre Dame is the result of this determination.

        On the 18th of July, 1881, Mr. and Mrs. Murphy celebrated their " golden wedding" at the homestead at Mountain View. This event will be a landmark in the history of the county. About fifteen thousand people were present, including the most distinguished men of the State. People came hundreds of miles to offer their congratulations. They were all entertained in princely style beneath the shade of the noble live-oaks on the lawn. Hundreds of the best animals from the immense herds were slaughtered for the feast, while the choicest vintages of France and California were represented in limitless abundance. The virtues of Mr. and Mrs. Murphy were celebrated in song and in story, the most eminent men of the commonwealth leaving their business to lay their tribute of respect at the feet of these pioneers.

        Soon after this event, Mr. Murphy's health began to fail, and three years later, October 20, 1884, he died, full of years and of honor.

JAMES MURPHY,

the second son of Martin Murphy, Sr., was born in County Wexford, Ireland, September 19, 1809, and was eleven years of age when his father removed to Canada. At that time he was a bright, intelligent boy, with stout muscles and an active brain. He was of great assistance to his father in establishing their new home, where he remained until he attained man's estate. He early developed a taste for the lumber business, and when twenty-four years of age, made a journey to Maine in this interest. He remained there but a short time, however, soon returning to Canada, where he went into business for himself, which he conducted successfully for nine years. During this time he met Miss Ann Martin, a beautiful and intelligent young lady, who had come over from Ireland in 1829, with her parents, and settled in the neighborhood of the Murphys, who had preceded them about eight years. Miss Martin was born at Thomastown, in King's County. She was only seven years of age when her parents came to America, and therefore her husband was acquainted with her from childhood, and knew her many sterling qualities. Two children were born to them in Canada, the eldest being a son, whom they named Martin, from his grandfather, and who died while still in Canada. The other child was a daughter, whom they named Mary, and who afterwards married B. S. Machado, and is now living near Gilroy, in Santa Clara County. In 1842 Mr. Murphy, with his brother Martin, joined the other members of the Murphy family in Holt County, Missouri, on the Platte Purchase, as it was then called. The history of this journey will be found in the general history of the Murphy family. During their residence in Missouri, the subject of this sketch visited the lumber regions in the vicinity of St. Joseph, where he was engaged in business for a short time. He accompanied the family in their memorable journey through the wilderness to California, and took his full share of the trials and dangers of that historic expedition. After arriving in California, he was one of the first to offer his services in defense of the Government in the Micheltorena war. After the battle of Chauvenga he returned to Sutter's and then chose a location for his family in Marin County. Here he engaged in the lumber business and furnished the timbers for Leidesdorff wharf; the first wharf built in San Francisco, then Yerba Buena.

        On the discovery of gold every person who could get there, went to the mines, leaving the fields untilled and the mills idle. Not being able to procure labor, Mr. Murphy's lumber operations came to a halt. Not desiring to remain idle, he determined to go to the gold fields. He visited Sutter's Mill, where gold was first discovered, and from there to Placerville, then called "Hangtown," and visited all the diggings in that vicinity. He came to the conclusion that, for a man who had a family, mining was too precarious a business. Therefore, in the fall of 1848, he came to Santa Clara, and, with his brother Daniel, purchased the Rancho de las Llagas, near Gilroy. He remained here, prospering by agricultural pursuits, until after the survey of the famous five-hundred-acre lots. He purchased a number of these lots, lying north of San Jose, and, having built a house for his family, took possession of his new home in 1849. Here he lived until his death, which occurred January 13, 1878.

        The "Ringwood Farm," the homestead of James Murphy, is one of the landmarks of Santa Clara County. From the time he took possession of it in 1849, it was carefully and intelligently tilled, and notwithstanding the open-handed liberality of its owner, was very profitable. In 1872 he erected a magnificent mansion at a cost of forty thousand dollars, and surrounded it with beautiful grounds He planted one of the first olive orchards in the county, and demonstrated that this valuable fruit could be profitably grown in the Santa Clara Valley. At the time of his death, he had accumulated property valued at about $300,000. His death was much regretted by the entire community, which followed him as mourners to his last resting-place. His widow, a bright and intelligent lady of seventy-six years, still occupies the homestead, which is managed by the youngest son, Daniel J, a worthy son of a good father. They have had nine children, as follows: Martin, born and died in Canada; Mary F., born in Canada, February 4, 1842; Martin D., born at Sutter's Fort, February 6, 1845; Helen E., born at Corte Madera, December 18, 1847, deceased. The other children were born at Ringwood Farm, and are: Wm B., August 21, 185o; Lizzie A, July 8, 1853; Julia A, January 6, 1853; Helen, April i8, 1860, died in infancy; Daniel J., April 25, 1861.

BERNARD MURPHY,

son of Martin Murphy, Sr., came to Santa Clara County with his father, and lived with him on the ranch near the Twenty-one Mile House, until he married. His wife was Miss Catherine O'Toole, who afterwards married James Dunne. They had one child, Martin J. C. Murphy, a bright young man whose early years gave promise of an illustrious career. He, however, was attacked by disease in the midst of his studies, and died at Washington, District of Columbia, in 1872. His father, Bernard, was killed in the fatal explosion of the steamer Jenny Lind, in 1853.

JOHN M. MURPHY,

son of Martin Murphy, Sr., soon after settling in this county, with his father, entered the store of Chas. M. Weber, in San Jose. At the discovery of gold, he went to the mines, taking with him a stock of goods. He employed the Indians to prospect and dig for him, and probably has had more gold in his possession than any other miner on the Pacific Coast. He was the first treasurer of Santa Clara County, and was afterwards elected recorder and then sheriff. In later years he was engaged in mercantile business, which he followed until failing health compelled him to retire. His wife is Virginia F. Reed, daughter of James F. Reed, and one of the ill-fated Donner party.

DANIEL MURPHY

settled with his father on the ranch at the Twenty-one Mile House. He, with his brother Bernard, bought other property, and at the time of his death he owned large landed estates in California, Nevada, and Mexico. His rancho in Durango comprised some million and a half acres, and included the mountain of magnetic iron made famous by the report of Alex. Von Humboldt. He devoted nearly his entire life to the cattle business, his herds numbering thousands of head. He died October 22, 1882.

ELLEN MURPHY

married Chas M. Weber, of San Jose, afterwards of Stockton.

JAMES MILLER

and his wife (Mary Murphy) set­tled in Marin County, where they became prominent citizens.

        Sketches of the younger generations of the Murphy family will be found in other pages.

MOSES SCHALLENBERGER

was born in Stark County, Ohio, November 9, 1826. He was a son of Jacob and Barbara Schallenberger, who were emigrants from Germany, his father being of Swiss and his mother of German birth. They both died in Stark County, when Moses was but six years of age, and he was taken into the family of Dr. Townsend, who had married his sister. It was with them that he made the famous journey across the plains, as above related. Dr. Townsend was induced to undertake the journey to California by the ill health of his wife. At that time they were living in Buchanan County, Missouri, as was Mr. Montgomery, another of the party.     Montgomery was a gunsmith, and, during the winter of 1842-43 made a quantity of guns and pistols, ox shoes, and also fixed up the wagons, and did everything in the way of iron-work necessary to furnish a complete outfit for the trip. They had intended to start early in the spring of 1843, but a Mr. Potter, who had an interest in the expedition, dying unexpectedly, the start was delayed until the next year. They spent this time in perfecting their arrangements, among which was the marriage of Mr. Montgomery to a young lady, Miss Armstrong, who was living at Dr. Townsend's. About the first of March they arrived at the rendezvous at Nisnabotna, where they were joined by the Murphy party. To Mr. Schallenberger we are indebted for the facts concerning this historic journey which we have given above. Of these first wagons that made tracks in California, Mr. Schallenberger has in his possession a wheel, which he guards as a precious relic. Mr. Schallenberger's first employment in California was in the mercantile establishment of Larkin and Greene at Monterey, where he remained until the termination of the Mexican War. The firm was largely engaged in furnishing supplies to the United States navy, and Mr. Schallenberger's duties consisted in procuring these supplies from the country, and superintending their delivery. In July, 1848, furnished with an invoice of goods by the firm, he made a successful venture on his own account in the mines on Yuba River. Later he engaged with James H. Gleason as a partner in trade in Mexican goods at Monterey, which he closed in December, 1850, when the death of his brother-in-law, Dr. Townsend, necessitated his coming to San Jose to manage his estate. The same fatherly care that he had received from the doctor was, in return, bestowed by him on the doctor's only child, John H. M. Townsend. He was married September 20, 1854, to Miss Fannie Everitt, at the residence of Thomas Selby, in San Francisco. Mrs. Schallenberger is a native of Alabama, born in 1834. Her father, John Everitt, was for six years judge of the Court of Common Pleas at Mobile, and his ability as a lawyer and fairness as a judge, is shown by the fact that no decision of his was ever reversed. Mrs. Schallenberger came to San Francisco in 1852, with her brother-in-law, Mr. S. Le Jones. The young couple set up housekeeping on Dr. Townsend's estate, but a year later they moved to the homestead, on the Coyote River, two miles north of San Jose, where they have lived ever since. The house they first erected was burned in 1870, but was immediately replaced by one more adapted to their prosperous circumstances, and in keeping with the progress of the country. Their present home is large, convenient, and substantial, and is surrounded with beautiful grounds, ornamented with choice shrubbery and flowers. The house was erected at a cost of $13,000. The farm consists of one hundred and fifteen acres of fertile sediment land, devoted to the production of fruit and vegetables. Mr. Schallenberger was one of the early horticulturists, having planted ten acres to orchard in 1858. They have had five children, viz.: Louise, wife of Thomas Montgomery, San Jose; Margaret E., a teacher in the State Normal School; Lloyd E., in business with his uncle, S. L. Jones, at San Francisco; Fanny, a student at the State Normal School, and Milton P. Mr. Schallenberger is a member of the Santa Clara County Pioneer Society, by which association he is held in the highest regard, both on account of his trials in the early days, and his character as a citizen.

DR. JOHN TOWNSEND.—

        No history of the American pioneers of California could well be written without mention of the subject of this sketch. A thoroughly educated physician, a man prominent in every community in which he ever had lived, who, had he so chosen, could have settled anywhere in the old States, and won renown and fortune, he was, notwithstanding, possessed of that spirit of adventure which continuously led him westward in search of new fields to conquer. He was born in Fayette County, Pennsylvania, a county unequaled in that State, and perhaps in any other, in the number of men which it produced and sent out to subdue the wildness of the Northwest and of the Pacific Coast. His father, John F. Townsend, was from England, and was one of the pioneers of Fayette County. Dr. Townsend received his first degree in medicine at Lexington Medical College. He successfully and successively practiced in Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and Missouri, marrying in Stark County, Ohio, in 1832, Miss Elizabeth Louise Schallenberger, a sister of Moses Schallenberger, whose history appears in this connection. In the pioneer party of 1844 from Missouri, which did so much in opening to the world this grand valley, Dr. Townsend was one of the master spirits. He was one of the first Alcaldes of San Francisco, and for two years before coming to this county (which he did in 1849) he held the scales of justice so evenly as to cause him to be ever remembered for his judicial integrity. Upon removing to Santa Clara Valley, he established his home in an adobe house, on what is now the Milpitas road, two miles from San Jose. There he commenced the improvement of one hundred and ninety-five acres of land, intending to live the life of a quiet agriculturist, avoiding the turmoil of the city, and the cares of a professional life, but the All-ruling Power decreed otherwise, both himself and his wife dying of cholera in 185o. Their pioneer homestead property is now owned by their son and only child, John H. M. Townsend, who was born in San Francisco, November 26, 1848, and in his orphaned infancy and youth was cared for by his guardian and uncle—Moses Schallenberger. He spent the greater part of his school life in attendance upon Santa Clara College, going to England when sixteen years of age. He there studied two years under private tutorship. Later, he was two years a student at Cambridge University. He married Miss Kate M. A. Chisholm at Cambridge, in 1872. They have four children—Eva, Ethel, Arthur, and Maude. Public-spirited and enterprising, Mr. Townsend is one of

Santa Clara County's representative men. He served in the Assembly of the State of 1883 and 1884, being elected on the Democratic ticket. He has also held local trusts, and has served on the County Board of Supervisors, being elected in 1877. He is actively interested in the Santa Clara Valley Agricultural Society, and has served several years as director of that organization. The family residence, shaded and surrounded by beautiful grounds, is located near the crossing of the Coyote Creek by the Milpitas road.

        Those who came to this county in 1845, as far as can be learned, were Frank Lightston, J. Washburn, William O'Connor, William C. Wilson, John Daubenbiss, and James Stokes. In the following year, 1846, the survivors of the Donner party arrived, several of whom became residents of this county. The fearful sufferings of these people make a story of horrors almost unparalleled in history. So terrible was their experience that it has been almost impossible to induce the survivors to recount it, the remembrance seeming to haunt their entire lives like a hideous specter. Mr. James F. Reed, the original leader of the party, and afterwards, until his death, a prominent and esteemed citizen of San Jose, in his last years gave his story to the public, and from it we quote:

        "I left Springfield with my family about the middle of April, 1846. We arrived at Independence, Missouri, where I loaded two of my wagons with provisions, a third one being reserved for my family. Col. W. H. Russell's family had started from here before our arrival. We followed and overtook them in the Indian Territory. I made application for the admission of myself and others into the company, which was granted. We traveled on with the company as far as the Little Sandy, and here a separation took place, the majority of the members going to Oregon, and a few wagons, mine with them, going the Fort Bridger, or Salt Lake route for California. The day after our separation from the Russell Company, we elected George Donner as captain, and from this time the company was known as the 'Donner party.' Arriving at Fort Bridger I added one yoke of cattle to my teams, staying here four days.  Several friends of mine who had passed here with pack-animals for California, had left letters with Mr. Vasquez, Mr. Bridger's partner, directing me to take the route by way of Fort Hall, and by no means to take the Hasting's cut-off. Vasquez, being interested in having the new route traveled, kept these letters. This was told me after my arrival in California. Mr. McCutchen, wife and child, joined us here.

        " Leaving Fort Bridger we unfortunately took the new route, traveling on without incident of note, until we arrived at the head of Weber Canon. A short distance before reaching this place we found a letter sticking in the top of a sage-brush. It was from Hastings. He stated that if we would send a messenger after him, he would return and pilot us through a route much shorter and better than the canon. A meeting of the company was held, when it was resolved to send Messrs. McCutchen, Stanton, and myself to Mr. Hastings; also, at the same time, we were to examine the canon and report at short notice. We overtook Mr. Hastings at a place called Black Rock, south end of Salt Lake. Leaving McCutchen and Stanton here, their horses having failed, I obtained a fresh horse from the company Hastings was piloting and started on my return to our company with Mr. Hastings. When we arrived at about the place where Salt Lake City is built, Mr. Hastings, finding the distance greater than anticipated by him, stated that he would be compelled to return the next morning to his company. We camped this evening in a canon, and next morning ascended to the summit of a mountain where we could overlook a portion of the country that lay between us and the head of the canon where the Donner company were encamped. After he gave me the direction, Mr. Hastings and I separated. He returned to the companies he had left the morning previous, I proceeding on eastward. After descending to what may be called the table­land, I took an Indian trail and blazed the route where it was necessary the road should be made, if the company so directed when they heard the report

        "When McCutchen, Stanton, and myself got through Weber Canon, on our way to overtake Mr. Hastings, our conclusions were that many of the wagons would be destroyed in attempting to get through the canon. Mr. Stanton and Mr. McCutchen were to return to our company as fast as their horses could stand it, they having nearly given out. I reached the company in the evening and reported to them the conclusions in regard to Weber Canon, at the same time stating that the route I had blazed that day was fair, but would take considerable labor in clearing and digging. They agreed with unanimous voice to take that route if I would direct them in the road-making, they working faithfully until it was completed. Next morning we started, under these conditions, and made camp that evening without difficulty, on Bossman Creek. The afternoon of the second day we left the creek, turning to the right in a canon, leading to a divide.

        Here Mr. Graves and family overtook us. This evening the first accident that had occurred was caused by the upsetting of one of my wagons. The next morning the heavy work of cutting the timber commenced. We remained at this camp several days. During this time the road was cleared for several miles. After leaving this camp the work on the road slackened, and the farther we advanced, the slower the work progressed. I here state that the number of days we were detained in road-making was not the cause, by any means, of the company remaining in the mountains during the following winter.

        " We progressed on our way and crossed the outlet of the Utah, now called Jordan, a little below the location of Salt Lake City. From this camp in a day's travel we made connection with the trail of the companies that Hastings was piloting through his cut-off. We then followed his road around the lake without any incident worthy of notice until reaching a swampy section of country west of Black Rock, the name we gave it. Here we lost a few days on the score of humanity, one of our company, a Mr. Holloron, being in a dying condition from consumption. We could not make regular drives, owing to his situation. He was under the care of George Donner, and made himself known to me as a Master Mason. In a few days he died. After the burial of his remains we proceeded on our journey, making our regular drives, nothing occurring of note until we arrived at the springs, where we were to provide water and as much grass as we could for the purpose of crossing the Hastings' Desert, which was represented as being forty or fifty miles in length; but we found it at least seventy miles.

        " We started to cross the desert, traveling day and night, only stopping to water and feed our teams as long as water and grass lasted. We must have made at least two-thirds of the way across when a greater portion of the cattle showed signs of giving out. Here the company requested me to ride on and find the water and report. Before leaving, I requested my principal teamster, that when my cattle became so exhausted that they could not proceed further with the wagons, to turn them out and drive them on the road after me until they reached the water; but the teamster, misunderstanding, unyoked them when they first showed signs of giving out, starting with them for the water. I found the water about twenty miles from where I left the company, and started on my return. About eleven o'clock at night, I met my teamsters with all my cattle and horses. I cautioned them particularly to keep the cattle on the road, for as soon as they would scent the water, they would break for it. I proceeded on and reached my family and wagons. Some time after leaving the men, one of the horses gave out, and while they were striving to get it along, the cattle scented water and started for it; and when they started with the horses, the cattle were out of sight; they could not find them or their trail, as they told me afterwards. They, supposing the cattle would find water, went on to camp. The next morning the animals could not be found, and never were, the Indians getting them, except one ox and cow. Losing nine yoke of cattle here was the first of my sad misfortunes. I stayed with my family and wagons the next day, expecting every hour the return of some of my young men with water, and the information of the arrival of the cattle at the water. Owing to the mistake of the teamsters in turning the cattle out so soon, the other wagons had driven miles past mine and dropped their wagons along the road as their cattle gave out, and some few of them reached water with their wagons.

        " Receiving no information, and the water being nearly exhausted, in the evening I started on foot with my family to reach the water. In the course of the night the children became exhausted. I stopped, spread a blanket, and laid them down, covering them with shawls. In a short time a cold hurricane commenced blowing; the children soon complained of the cold. Having four dogs with us, I had them lie down with the children outside the covering. They were then kept warm. Mrs. Reed and myself, sitting to the windward, helped to shelter them from the storm. Very soon one of the dogs started up and commenced barking, the others following and making an attack on something approaching us. Very soon I got sight of an animal making directly for us. The dogs seizing it, changed its course, and when passing, I discovered it to be one of my young steers. Incautiously stating that it was mad, in a moment my wife and children started to their feet, scattering like quail, and it was some minutes before I could quiet camp ; there was no more complaint of being tired or sleepy during the remainder of the night. We arrived about daylight at the wagons of Jacob Donner, the next in advance of me, whose cattle having given out, had been driven to water. Here I first learned of the loss of my cattle, it being the second day after they had started for water. Leaving my family with Mr. Donner, I reached the encampment. Many of the people were out hunting cattle; some of them had their teams together and were going back into the desert for their wagons. Among them was Jacob Donner, who kindly brought my family along with his own to the encampment.

        " We remained here for days hunting cattle, some of the party finding all, others a portion, but all hav­ing enough to haul their wagons except myself. On the next day, or the day following, while I was out hunting my cattle, two Indians came to the camp, and by signs gave the company to understand that there were so many head of cattle out, corroborating the number still missing. Many of the people became tender-footed at the Indians coming into camp, and thinking they were spies, wanted to get clear of them as soon as possible. My wife requested that the Indians should be detained until my return, but unfortunately, before I returned, they had left. Next morning, in company with young Mr. Graves—he kindly volunteering—I started in the direction the Indians had taken. After hunting this day and the following, remaining out during the night, we returned unsuccessful, not finding a trace of the cattle. I now gave up all hope of finding them, and turned my attention to making arrangements for proceeding on my journey.

        "In the desert were my eight wagons; all the team remaining was an ox and a cow. There was no alternative but to leave everything but provisions, bedding, and clothing. These were placed in the wagon that had been used by my family. I made a cache of everything else, the members of the company kindly furnishing a team to haul the wagon to camp. I divided my provisions with those who were nearly out, and, indeed, some of them were in need. I had now to make arrangement for a sufficient team to haul that one wagon. One of the company kindly loaned me a yoke of cattle, which, with the ox and cow I had, made two yoke. We remained at this camp, from first to last, if my memory serves me right, seven days. Leaving this camp we traveled for several days. It became necessary, from some cause, for the party who loaned me the yoke of cattle, to take them back. I was again left with my ox and cow, but through the aid of another kind neighbor, I was supplied with another yoke of cattle.

        "Nothing transpired for some days worthy of note. Some time after this it became known that some families had not enough provisions remaining to supply them through. As a member of the company, I advised them to make an estimate of provisions on hand and what amount each family would need to take them through. After receiving the estimate of each family, on paper, I then suggested that if two gentlemen of the company would volunteer to go in advance to Captain Sutter's (near Sacramento), in California, I would write a letter to him for the whole amount of provisions that were wanted, and also stating that I would become personally responsible for the amount. I suggested that, from the generous nature of Captain Sutter, he would send theme Mr. McCutchen came forward and said that if they would take care of his family he would go. This the company agreed to. Mr. Stanton, a single man, volunteered if they would furnish him with a horse. Mr. McCutchen, having a horse and a mule, generously gave the mule. Taking their blankets and provisions, they started for California.

        "After their leaving us we traveled on for weeks, none of us knowing the distance we were from California. All became anxious for the return of McCutchen and Stanton. It was here suggested that I go in advance to California, see what had become of McCutchen and Stanton, and hurry up supplies. They agreed to take care of my family. That being agreed upon, I started, taking with me about three days' provisions, expecting to kill game on the way. The Messrs. Donner were two days' drive in advance of the main party when I overtook them. With George Donner there was a young man named Walter Herren, who joined me."

        Leaving Mr. Reed and his companion to make their journey across the mountains in search of relief, we return to the main body of hungry and tired immigrants, toiling along the trackless wilderness, and for their experience we give the story as told by Mr. Tuthill in his valuable history.

        "Mr. Reed's and Mr. Donner's companies opened a new route through the desert, lost a month's time by their operations, and reached the foot of the Truckee Pass, in the Sierra Nevadas, on the thirty-first of October, instead of on the first, as intended. The snow began to fall on the mountains two or three weeks earlier than usual that year, and was already so piled up in the pass that they could not proceed. They attempted it repeatedly, but were as often forced to return. One party built their cabins near the Truckee Lake, killed their cattle, and went into winter quarters. The other, Donner's party, still believed that they could thread the pass, and so failed to build their cabins before more snow came and buried their cattle alive. Of course they were soon destitute of food, for they could not tell where their cattle were buried, and there was no hope of game on a desert so piled with snow that nothing without wings could move. The number of those who were thus storm-stayed at the very threshold of the land whose winters are one long spring, was eighty, of whom thirty were women, and several children. The Mr. Donner who had charge of one company was an Illinoisan, sixty years of age, a man of high respectability and abundant means. His wife was a woman of education and refinement, and much younger than he. During November it snowed thirteen days; during December and January, eight days in each. Much of the time the tops of the cabins were below the snow level.

        " It was six weeks after the halt was made, that a party of fifteen, including five women, and two Indians, who acted as guides, set out on snow-shoes to cross the mountains, and give notice to the people of the California settlements of the condition of their friends. At first the snow was so light and feathery that even in snow-shoes they sank nearly a foot at every step. On the second day they crossed the "divide," finding the snow at the summit twelve feet deep. Pushing forward with the courage of despair, they made from four to eight miles a day. Within a week they got entirely out of provisions ; and three of them, succumbing to cold, weariness, and starvation, had died. Then a heavy snow-storm came on, which compelled them to lie still, buried between their blankets under the snow, for thirty-six hours. By the evening of the tenth day three more had died, and the living had been four days without food. The horrid alternative was accepted—they took the flesh from the bones of their dead, remained in camp two days to dry it, then pushed on. On New Year's, the sixteenth day since leaving Truckee Lake, they were toiling up a steep mountain. Their feet were frozen. Every step was marked with blood. On the second of January, their food again gave out. On the third they had nothing to eat but the strings of their snow­shoes. On the fourth, the Indians eloped, justly suspicious that they might be sacrificed for food. On the fifth they shot a deer, and that day one of their number died. Soon after three others died, and every death now eked out the existence of the survivors. On the seventh all gave out and concluded their wanderings useless, save one. He, guided by two stray, friendly Indians, dragged himself on till he reached a settlement on Bear River. By midnight the settlers had found, and were treating with all Christian kindness, what remained of the little company that, after a month of the most terrible sufferings, had that morning halted to die.

        " The story that there were emigrants perishing on the other side of the snowy barrier ran swiftly down the Sacramento Valley to New Helvetia, and Captain Sutter, at his own expense, fitted out an expedition of men and of mules laden with provisions, to cross the mountains and relieve them. It ran on to San Francisco, and the people, rallying in public meeting, raised $1,500, and with it fitted out another expedition. The naval commandant of the port fitted out still others. The first of the relief parties reached Truckee Lake on the nineteenth of February. Ten of the people in the nearest camp were dead. For four weeks those who were still alive had fed only on bullock's hides. At Donner's camp they had but one hide remaining. The visitors left a small supply of provisions with the twenty-nine whom they could not take with them, and started back with the remainder. Four of the children the