I was born in the year 1869 in Manchester, Iowa. My father served in the Civil War and during that service contracted consumption and was discharged from the army and came home a very sick man, without any provisions being made to take care of him—only through the efforts of my mother, who didn’t have a dollar, only what she made working for wages which was very small at that time.
There was four children—the oldest eight, the youngest two. So with my father’s sickness and us hungry kids to feed, she must have had hard going. I think my father was home about a year when he died. How she provided for the burial, I do not know, as there was no charitable organizations or county help those days.
I remember after the funeral my mother called in a Catholic priest to consult him about what to do with us kids. They finally decided that the priest would find homes for us by having some wealthy families adopt us, which he did.
I was placed with a family by name of Calligan, near a town named Manson, Iowa. As I remember the contract, those people were to give me an education and when I was twenty-one years old, they were to give me a horse and saddle and $500.00.
But after a few years my mother married again and she and her husband decided they wanted us children back. All the parties that had the other children gave them up, but the people I was with contested my mother’s rights, and they had a law suit about who would have possession of me. My mother won out, which broke my heart, as I was very much attached to my adopted parents. And another thing, as I see the picture now, my stepfather didn’t have intelligence enough to raise a pig, let alone a child, and I didn’t like him.
So there was a mutual dislike between him and me right from the time they got me home. The first thing he put me doing was herding cattle out on the prairie. And almost every night I got a whipping or a scolding and I was always thinking about my adopted home. I think I was about nine years old at that time and he gave me a pretty good horse to ride to herd those cattle. So one day I conceived the idea of stealing this horse and run away and go back to my other home, which was about 100 miles. Of course, when I came up missing they didn’t know what happened and they went to all the neighbors looking for me before they got the idea that I had run away, which gave me quite a start.
It took me about three days to make the trip. I stayed over night with ranchers and I remember they asked me, what I thought at that time, some queer questions—where I came from and where I was going, and so forth. But I mixed up a story that I was going on a visit, which I guess seemed strange to them—a boy about nine years old going that far with a good horse but no saddle. I was riding bareback. Anyway I made the trip. But about three miles from my adopted home, I turned the horse loose and walked—and as there was no fences to stop him, in the course of a few days he drifted back home.
My adopted father and mother were tickled to death to see me. They were an old couple and had become very fond of me. So they cached me around in different places for several days until they decided my stepfather was not going to bother about me—and I thought I was settled down in my old home again. And they used to send me after the milk cows in the evening when I came home from school.
They gave me a little mare to ride. She must have been a race horse, for she could sure run. I rode her without a saddle and I was still on the look-out for someone to come after me.
Now my stepfather had a mare that was very fast, but he sometimes worked her in harness. Well, one evening I went after the cows—I think about two miles—and had just started towards home, when I saw a team and wagon coming pretty fast towards me right across the country and not on a road. I soon recognized my stepfather and my mother in the wagon. They were between me and my home, and I had a rather narrow place to go by them—(a fence on one side and a creek on the other ... I think about fifty yards space) and it looked like I was in a tough spot, as I had to go right past them. I had to go about a quarter of a mile to be opposite them. When I started towards them, my stepfather sensed what I was going to do. He jumped out of the wagon and started to unharness his fast horse. He was pretty quick and about the time I got to where he was, he had mounted and hollered at me to stop—but I was in high and I fairly flew past him. I looked back at him once and he was whipping that old horse and getting all the speed he could. But he might as well be standing still as far as his chances were of catching me. I had to go through some timber before I got to the house, so he couldn’t see which way I went.
I give the alarm and the old lady told me to run into the corn field and hide. My stepfather came to the house and made all kinds of threats but he didn’t find me. My folks went back home and everything seemed all right again for about two weeks. I thought they were going to let me stay where I was.
But one morning I was taking the cattle out to graze and had got off of my horse and was trying to drive a cow out of the brush. When I looked around there were two men close to me in a buggy. I didn’t wait a second but started to run. One of them jumped out of the buggy. I thought he was the largest man I ever saw—must have weighed 250 pounds. He hollered at me to stop, which only scared me worse and away I went and that big fellow after me.
The country around there was very brushy and rough. I tore into that brush like a rabbit and run until I fell down and I just laid still, hoping he wouldn’t find me. I heard him go by me. I think he missed me about three feet and went on by. He must have been gone about an hour—I heard him coming back and he walked right up to where I was lying. He said, “I am the sheriff. Get up. I want you.” Boy, was I scared! He put one handcuff on my wrist and led me back to the buggy. My stepfather had sent him after me.
I have never had any handcuffs on since but I sure suffered agony that day. They had to drive about 15 miles to the railroad to get a train to take me back home and I begged the sheriff to take the handcuffs off, as the thoughts of them scared me to death. The sheriff was a kindly man and I know he felt sorry for me and was going to take them off—but I heard the driver tell him, “That kid is going to give you the slip if you turn him loose and we never will catch him again, and he sure can run like hell.” It was a livery stable team and driver that the sheriff had hired to go after me, and I guess they didn’t want to waste anymore time chasing me. But the sheriff did take the cuffs off when we got to town and took me to dinner and treated me fine, but told me if I tried to run away he would put me in jail. That cooked me ... I stayed close to him all day so he wouldn’t think I was trying to get away.
When I landed back home I had quite a score to settle with my folks for running away. They kept me under pretty close guard for awhile but finally put me back to herding cattle—but they did not give me a horse to ride anymore. I had to walk, as my stepfather knew there was less chance of me running away if I had to walk.
My mother tried to make peace between the old man and myself but never made much headway, as we both hated each other. He was a comical-looking little Irishman—I was quite a mimic and was always making fun of him behind his back to the other kids. One day he caught me at it and it sure made him mad and he gave me a good beating, which didn’t help my feelings towards him. So I used to job him every chance I got and I guess I made life about as miserable for him as he did for me.