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COLONEL E. F. M. HOOKER
 KNOWN from the Atlantic to the Pacific, along the great western trail of civilization, was Colonel——everybody called him "Colonel"——Edward Foster Mills Hooker, descendant of an English family, entitled by Royal decree to wear the heraldic arms of Thomas Hart Hooker, founder of the city of Hartford, Connecticut, and cousin of the famous fighting General, Joe Hooker. He was a conspicuous figure wherever he was, and for nearly thirty years his time-silvered head, sheltered under a white, soft wool, broad-brimmed hat every day of the year, and all his life, which, with his heavy white beard, gave him that venerable bearing which won him his military title.
In 1840, he began freighting by team, but a few years later became connected with the Ohio Stage Company, which operated lines on the national roads to Wheeling, in advance of the iron horse. In 1850, he became General Agent of the company, and moved westward to Columbus, Indianapolis, Chicago, Davenport, in advance of the railroad.
The pioneers of Iowa and Polk County parted company with the railroad at Chicago, and slowly plodded their way in "prairie schooners," or floated on some river boat to Keokuk, and thence, by wagon, to "Raccoon Forks." The tide of immigration increased so rapidly that in 1849, Fink & Walker established a line of stages from Keokuk to the "Forks." Three trips a week were to be made, with elegant coaches, but long before, the heavy wagons of teamsters had cut deep ruts in the soft prairie soil, sloughs and creeks were not bridged, so that, in the wet season, passengers were content with riding in a "jerkey," walking half the distance, and carrying a rail to pry the vehicle out of the mud, and getting through in four days. Skunk River bottoms was a holy terror to drivers and passengers as well.
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"How far to Fort Des Moines?" asked a passenger of the driver one day at "Uncle Tommy" Mitchell's tavern, in 1854.
"Sixteen miles."
"How long will it take to get there?"
"We can make it in six hours, I reckon, if the horses hold out, and the bottom don't fall out."
The regular fare was ten dollars for each person, and five dollars for each trunk.
In 1855, the Western Stage Company purchased the Fink & Walker line, and July First, the coach of the company arrived in Des Moines, the Colonel coming with it as General Manager of all of its lines west of the Mississippi. The only available residence for him was a small frame near the corner of Walnut on Third Street, and there was his office. Subsequently, he built a fine brick residence on Locust Street, on the block now occupied by the Savery House. The headquarters of the company was at the Everett House, on the east side of the street, where the temporary Court House now is, and next to the Colonel's office. The rear part of the hotel was one of the soldier's log barrack buildings, to which William F. Marvin and Benjamin Luse built an addition, named it the Martin House, sold it, in 1853, to J. C. Savery, who re-named it. It was a lively place, always crowded, two in a bed, the overflow taking chairs. The town was small, the entire population of it could have been seated on the lot where The Register and Leader office is. The coming of the stages was a portentious and notable event in the embryo metropolis of the state. On arrival, the small boys, and some larger ones, turned out to greet them, the horses covered with mud in Spring time, foam and lather in Summer, and frost in Winter. I think Simon Casady, the Sherman boys, By. Keffer, and Harry West have not forgotten those days.
The company was a wealthy one, and at once plans were made for the business of the Division Headquarters. A large farm was purchased to provide hay and grain and grazing for the horses, an immense barn and shops were built on Eighth Street, below Vine. There were five departments: Wood Work on Coaches; Iron Work; Painting and Trimming; Horseshoeing; Harness Making. Each department was controlled by an expert superintendent. Routes were at once opened in various directions, one
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from Davenport to Council Bluffs; Lyons to Cedar Rapids, Iowa City, Davenport, and Dubuque; Keokuk to Keosauqua; Oskaloosa to Council Bluffs via Indianola, Winterset, and Lewis; Des Moines to Fort Dodge via Boonesboro. Starting out with weekly trips, they were increased to semi-weekly, tri-weekly, and daily, as the country settled up and the demand increased. Its business was immense. During one year, its receipts between Des Moines and Boonesboro was one hundred thousand dollars.
Thousands of men and horses were required, and a system of management devised demanding the highest degree of executive capacity, but the Colonel proved equal to the necessity.
The location of the Division Terminal at Des Moines, with its business, its traffic, and acquisition of employés and their families, gave the town a new life and impetus, for from every direction of its routes, the potential influence was towards its headquarters.
During the War period, the stages were of great benefit in the transportation of troops. The Thirty-third and Thirty-ninth Iowa regiments were taken to Davenport, with all their equipments, in two days each. Parts of the Second, Sixth, Tenth, and Fifteenth were also taken to their place of rendezvous. On all such occasions, the Colonel directed the movements in person.
Gradually, its routes were made over Kansas, Nebraska, Missouri and west to Denver.
In 1868-9, the iron horse had again overtaken the Colonel, and in 1870, the company sold out to the Ben. Halliday Overland Stage Company. Its vast property was disposed of, and July First, 1874, the last coach was shipped to Omaha, A. T. Johnson, who had been the local agent from 1858, riding on the box from the barn to the depot.
The Colonel then went to California, and became manager of the California-Oregon Stage Company, or the Shasta Line, as it was called, from Sacramento to San Francisco and Portland, which position he held five years, when, the iron horse having reached the Pacific Shore, and could push him no farther, he quit, and was soon after appointed General Agent of the Chicago, Rock Island and Pacific Railroad at San Francisco, where he remained four years, when he was appointed General Live Stock Agent of
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of the road,a nd stationed for a time at Salt Lake City, then eastward at other points, until he reached Omaha, and for thirty-one years he was on the payroll of the Rock Island, his services ending with decease. He was known by every live-stock man from Omaha to San Francisco.
In business affairs, he was exact, methodical, the soul of honor, expected of employés faithful service, yet to them he was exceedingly kind. If sick or in trouble, he was their helper and best friend. they knew it, and so it was they served him until the last wheel turned, or they rested in death. He never expected them to do what he would not do himself, if occasion required, and there were times in the experience of drivers which tested pluck and fortitude. I could name scores of drivers who were loaded with incidents interesting and often thrilling.
As an instance of his readiness to do things, "Pap" Clark, who began driving for him in Ohio, and came with him to Des Moines, and died a few years ago on South Sixth Street, a very old man, once related an incident in 1850, ten miles east of Massillon. Two coaches had stopped for supper and to change horses. There was a terrific storm of rain, thunder and lightning raging. It was dark as pitch. The corduroy road was in horrible condition, broken and full of deep, dangerous holes. The coaches were to go east. Old "Pap" was to take the first coach out. The driver marked up for the second refused to go. "Pap" urged him hard, but he refused to budge. The Colonel, who happened to be present, as he usually was at such times, overheard the refusal, and said to "Pap":
"Have the teams brought up. I will drive it. I used to drive team once, and I think I can do it again. If I can't manage it with the reins, I will use the jerk line." The old teamsters used to train their teams of four and six horses to be guided by the "near" leader, to which was attached a long single rein, and to which it had been trained to respond by "jerks."
The team was brought out, and, after requesting "Pap," who knew every foot of the road, to shout to him the dangerous places as they approached them, for they could scarcely see the horses, and chaining the coach body to the axles to prevent being thrown over, the Colonel mounted the box and the run was made safely.
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"To make such a trip," said "Pap," "over such a road, with a strange team, required lots of pluck."
It was the custom of the Colonel to ride over the various lines on the box with the driver, and watch the horses. If he found on that did not match its mate in work or gait, he would simply say, as he left the box, "I will send you a good mate for that 'off leader,'" or as the case might be, on such a day; when the day came, the horse horse was there. That pleased the drivers, for they detested a "shirk."
The first question the Colonel put when application was made for a job was, "Is he honest; is he capable?" Not often, but sometimes, his confidence was misplaced. One day, at a station out in the mountains, while he was strolling about, he overheard a driver saying to another, as the coins clinked, "There's one dollar for the company; there's one dollar for me." He counted an equal division of six dollars, and one over, which was "for me." He concluded to find what was turned in as fares. It was three dollars. He though the company was entitled to a little more than half the receipts, and the driver lost his job.
The most famous of the Colonel's drivers was "Hank" Monk, immortalized by Mark Twain. He was the most expert, fearless driver that ever drew a rein in the Overland Service. In that mountainous country, mules——the Mexican variety——with most vicious heels, were used. A man had to stand at the head of each and hold him fast, while the driver gloved and got ready. When he grasped the reins and gave the word, the six men suddenly sprang aside, the coach quickly shot out of sight, and the pace was kept up for the ten-mile run.
Stories galore were told of "Hank, one of which was that when Horace Greeley was lecturing through that country, he was billed for Placerville on a certain evening. Arriving at Carson City, he was behind time. When he boarded the coach, he said to "Hank," who was on the box, that he had an engagement at Placerville and wanted to get their quick. "Hank" gave his whip a crack and started at a terrific pace. The coach bounded in every direction, pitching Greeley all over it, until he began to get sore, when he asked "Hank" if he could go a little easier. "You keep your
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seat, Horace, and I get you there by seven o'clock," said "Hank," and he did, pounded almost to jelly. The incident prompted the gift to "Hank," by his friends, of a fine gold watch, suitably inscribed, and chain. The watch and identical coach were exhibited at the Saint Louis World's Fair.
The Colonel was proud of his drivers, and they were loyal to him, for he took great interest in their welfare. A passenger once stopped for dinner at Wood River Station, in Colorado. The eating-house was kept by "Aunt Lamb." He heard the driver ask her: "Where is the Colonel? He has not been along here for three months." "I would be more glad to see Ben. Halliday, for what the Colonel owes me, I know I will get," was the reply.
Nearly all of the old drivers have gone to their rest. I recall a few yet living: John Whissen, William E. Ray, the veterinary surgeon, John R. Burgess, of Des Moines; J. M. Diefenbecker, of Ames; "Billy" Warren, of Stuart; Fred. Willard and Bent Morrow, of Atlantic, and Charley Coon, of Newton, and White Kimes, of Lynnville.
Coon began driving in 1853, in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and for eleven years drew the reins all over California, Colorado and Nevada. He drove into Placerville when "Hank" Monk drove in there, but on another line. I met him one day last week, and he related some of his experiences. "I remember one night in 1854, when going over the mountain, I was suddenly called to halt, kick out the mail sack, and throw up my hands," said he, "but I gave the team a word they understood, and they went off like a shot, and I got away. That was the only time I was held up.
"Over the ranges, the roads were fearful, steep, with short, reverse curves like the letter S, with the reverse so sharp the leaders could see the coach. We had to chain the coach down to the forward axle to keep it from going over. I had to strap myself down to the seat.
"In 1861, I came East and began driving for Colonel Hooker. My first run was from the end of the railroad, four miles east of Brooklyn, to Newton, with the fast mail. The travel was immense, sometimes five and six coaches were necessary to take all the passengers. It was very nice in Summer, but in Spring and Winter there was trouble——lots of it.
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"One Winter night, I left Grinnell at eight o'clock. The snow had been falling all day, and was over a foot deep. I had gone but a few miles when I lost the trail. I drove around for several hours, then took my own tracks and followed them back until it got on some high ground where I could see some distance,a nd, selecting a certain star which I knew was in the direction of Newton, I followed it until I got to Rock Creek; then I knew where I was. I got into Newton at nine o'clock the next morning, the team was fagged, and the passengers were clamoring for breakfast.
"After a time, my run was changed to go west from Newton, and one Spring, Skunk River got on a rampage, as usual, and flooded the whole bottoms. The driver who had preceded me had attempted to go through, but got into deep water, lost the mails, and nearly drowned the passengers, but he finally got it out, and left the coach and horses on the other side. I was sent after them. I went a long distance to the south around the flood, got the horses, and swam them back through the flood.
"One Winter night, with the mercury at the bottom of the thermometer, and the wind cutting like a knife——I had put on double extra thick clothing——on reaching a tavern four miles west of Newton, I was nearly frozen. I pulled up and told the passengers that I would turn out there unless I got something to keep the wind out. "Billy" Quick, who was inside, threw out a big robe, and I went on. Arriving at Kendall Station, we met the coaches going east, and drivers being short, after thawing out for thirty minutes, I had to drive back to Grinnell.
"One great source of danger we had was cattle lying in the road in the Summer, frightening the horses and endangering the passengers. One driver declared he would run over them if they got in his way. Soon after, at Rising Sun, one night, a cow was lying in the middle of the road. He told the horses to go; they spread out, went around the cow on both sides, and when the forward axle reached her, she humped herself and tipped over the coach."
Referring to the Colonel, he said: "The Colonel was a father to all the drivers. If we got into trouble with the Road Agent, as we sometimes did, he being our boss, all we had to do was to go to Colonel Hooker, and it was quickly settled. When he left, and the
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company sold out to Halliday, "Billy" Quick took several of us old drivers, to serve the United States Express Company as messengers and agents."
Coon drove seventeen years without an accident or injury to a passenger. He is now seventy-nine years old.
The Colonel was a man of the people, and for the people. He was not versed in book lore, but he possessed an extensive knowledge of men and things, of which books are made, and he was one of those who are the builders of civic communities. He was loyal to Des Moines, the home of his adoption, and helped to build it.
Socially, he was frank, companionable, and universally popular. His business life brought him in contact with all classes of people, and whether at some notable social function in Washington, or seated beside a driver on the box of a coach, he was equally cordial and courteous. In that respect, he was thoroughly cosmopolitan. He had a keen sense of humor, and thoroughly enjoyed the ludicrous. He was kind, liberal in the bestowment of favors to the needy and worthy. It was his frankness, high sense of humor, unaffectedness sincerity, and cheerfulness that won the friendship of all who knew him. Buoyant and light-hearted, he was always young, never grew old, never would give his age. To ask it, displeased him.
His home was an ideal one, always open to friends, who were scattered from ocean to ocean. He was a royal entertainer, and his dinners and receptions were notable functions. He enjoyed, heartily, the society of young people and little ones, of whom he had an attractive brood of his own. For woman, he had the most profound respect and regard. Motherhood, to him, was her crowning glory. In business relations, he was ever watchful for her care and comfort. He was a member of high degree in the Masonic fraternity.
Religiously, he was bound by no denominational creed, though he regularly attended the Episcopal service. He believed that personal character should be measured by action instead of profession. His high sense of morality made him an exemplary citizen.
Politically, he was like most of the pioneers, a Democrat, but when the Civil War came, he affiliated with the Republican party, but took no part in politics. Very few knew his political faith.
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He died in 1896, aged eighty-three. His funeral was attended by a large concourse, among whom were many notable persons from abroad. The cortége to the cemetery was headed with one of his old coaches, bearing the pall-bearers, with two old drivers, John R. Burgess and Fred. Kromer, on the box.
December Thirty-first, 1905.
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CYRUS MOSIER
 A CONSPICUOUS person among the early settlers was Cyrus A. Mosier, or Cy., as he was better known among them. He came here when eleven years old, with his father, early in 1848, who, in November of that year, entered several tracts of Government land in the northwestern part of the present city. One tract was on the north side of what is now University Avenue, between Thirtieth and Thirty-fifth streets, on which he built a log cabin, about ten rods north of the avenue and west of Thirty-first street. There he planted the first apple tree and peach orchard in Polk County, and in 1856 and 1857, raised an immense crop of peaches, "the most luscious and beautiful I ever saw," said an old-timer a few days ago. The Winter of 1857 killed all the peach trees, since when peach growing has been abandoned in Polk County.
Cyrus was a farm boy, with all that the term signifies, but he very early manifested a desire to get an education. Schools were scarce. There was a log schoolhouse more than a mile north of his home, through the timber and brush, at what was known as "Hickman's Corner," and there he received his first lessons respecting the three "R's" seated on the soft side of slab benches. He soon graduated therefrom, and attended a private school taught by Elder Nash for a short time, in 1853, and a select school in 1855, for a short time taught by John H. Gray, who was, in 1858, elected Judge of the District Court.
His school opportunities were of short duration, for he had not the means to defray the expenses. When not in school, his leisure hours were given to study and fitting himself for teaching——then his highest ambition.
He did not like farming. It was too isolated. He was not built that way, and he would break away. Sometimes he would go hunting and trapping up the river, or driving logs down the river to the
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mill. He once told me he had walked on logs from the dam to Thompson's Bend. He was of extremely nervous, sanguine temperament, and always busy. Father Bird, the first preacher here, had purchased the land from Locust Street north to Center Street, between Third and Fourth streets, and wanted to cultivate it. Cyrus drove an ox team to break it. Corn, potatoes and hay were grown on it as late as 1864.
While he was preparing himself for teaching, he took up a system of stenography, or shorthand writing, then but very little known in the West. Without instruction, by perseverance and toil, many nights in the light of a "tallow dip," he mastered the symbolical pot-hooks, angles and curves, and so perfected his skill that he was able to do reporting. It was the custom in those days, there being no railroads, for the lawyers here to hire some person to take them around the circuit to the different places where the court was to be held——the district covered nearly all the northwestern part of the state——and they frequently hired Cyrus to go with them and report the proceedings in their cases, for which he was paid five and ten dollars per day. It was a purely private clerical arrangement. He was thus employed at intervals for several years, and he became so proficient and reliable that, in 1862, he was appointed by Judge Gray as official reporter for his court. It was the first of the kind in the state, and he held the office for more than a score of years. I have no doubt he was the first resident of Iowa to practice reporting by stenography.
In September, 1854, he organized the first brass band. The town had become enthused with "Manifest Destiny," visions of the Seat of Government coming this way filled the air. Political enthusiasm also ran high, and a brass band was deemed necessary to give eclat to the times and occasions. It consisted of eleven members. Being in a reminiscent mood one day, he unburdened his memory of the aggregations, and its lost chords, thusly:
"Business had crept from the 'Point' along the cabin rows on First and Second streets, as far as Vine, and the population of the town had risen to the enormous figure of seven hundred, counting men, women, boys, girls, all told, suburban and close-in folks living out at Beaver, our friend Wash. Hickman, on his farm three miles
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out, included. In 1854, remember the date, it was whispered about during the Grimes-Bates campaign for Governor, that we ought to have a brass band at The Forks when we had speeches by the candidates and others. Furthermore, we had begun to hope for the Capital; it was in the atmosphere that came across the two hundred miles of unsettled prairie to the northwest, and in the smoke that settled in the valleys in the blue October days. The old frames of wickiups scattered up and down North River and 'Coon, as well as far up the Des Moines, even into Minnesota, seemed to shout: 'The Capital is coming to The Fort,' and settlers were asking as high as five dollars per acre for their farms, where on stood sod corn, shone the turnip patches, and rattled the buckwheat when the southwest winds of Autumn came sweeping through the tangled straw! Ten acres in corn, worth two-bits a bushel. Yes, we must put on city airs or never amount to anything; we must fill the skies with better wind, more musical than that which fanned the flames of the prairie grass and yearly devastated the timber lands, licked up the rail fences, as well as some pole cabins, the homes of pioneers.
'Time we had a band,' shouted the noted lawyers of those days, and the justices said, 'If the court understands herself, and she thinks she do, we will never 'mount to anything till we have a band——that's the p'nt!' The wide-awake merchants——'Billy' Moore, B. F. Allen, J. M. and H. H. Griffith, the Campbell brothers, and Peter. Myers, Jesse Dix, the stove and tinware man; 'Hod' Bush, the baker; all the doctors, especially Doctor Henry C. Grimmel, father of Doctor George Grimmel, with his bulldog pills, and even Doctor J. C. Bennett, who once led the Mormon militia, for he loved fuss and feathers; Alex. Scott, big-hearted, generous to a fault, were in the thickest of the blow. As soon as the ten who were to take the instruments and master them had paid in ten dollars each, the town, as a Committee of the Whole, went to work and raised another fifty dollars, making the magnificent sum total of one hundred and fifty dollars. One dollar, in those days, was bigger than one hundred dollars these times. The amount raised was looked upon as a princely sum. The instruments were bought at Davenport; part were secondhand.
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"When Ed. Clapp drove his express into town, at sunset, one beautiful September day, in 1854, freighted with bacon and United States mail, some three or four weeks old——judging from the skippers, the bacon was the oldest——he brought a box of horns, brass horns, mind you, some few copper, not many, else the horns might not all have arrived, though Ed. was always, as to-day 'safe and sound' on the horn question, and strictly reliable. But those old wagons often caused the breakage of cooperage, especially while standing in the tall grass on the eastern side of Skunk, waiting for the water and mud to go down. The news of the arrival of the box soon spread; the members of the band-to-be quickly gathered and opened the box, and, after some discussion as to the fitness of things, an assignment of the instruments was made, as follows:
"William Boy, E flat bugle, leading instrument.
"Doctor Henry C. Grimmel, low E flat trumpet, similar to cornet.
"Thomas Boyd, ophecleide, heavy bass instrument.
"L. D. Karns, trombone.
"James Hall, trombone.
"Cyrus A. Moseir, B flat bugle.
"Alonzo F. Dix, B flat bugle.
"Horace M. Bush, French horn.
"William Deford, French horn.
"John B. Boyd, bass drum.
"George Sneer, snare drum.
"Our first trombone, Karns, the tailor, he who made 'Billy' Moore's fine broadcloth wedding suit, took the heavy task of teaching us to read notes and play the simplest scale. He had been a member of a band, and could play the trombone to perfection. Our first meetings were held in Doctor F. C. Grimmel's office, on the Commons, where the Catholic School now is. The old rail fence had been removed from the field where Doctor George Grimmel, as a boy, plowed corn barefooted. The office fronted on what is now Grand Avenue. It was so small there was not breathing room for us, and the chaos of sound soon deadened our senses, and we had to find another place. We went to the old first Court House, but there were so many demands for it——it was used as a place of worship
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by all the churches except the Methodist and First Prebysterian, [Presbyterian] and for public gatherings and the court——that we were soon forced out. We then interceded the Trustees of the Fifth Street Methodist Church, to permit us to meet in their little frame meeting-house, where the Iowa Loan and Trust Company Building now is. As we had no big fiddles, or wicked little dance fiddles, and 'Bill' Deford was somewhat an exhorter, 'Hod' Bush, and, I think, two or three others, were Methodist——in fact, we all leaned that way, for a majority of the pretty girls in town attended that church——we readily got the consent.
"The house was open, and as cold as a barn. It had once been tipped over by a cyclone, but strightened up and propped by poles. A small Franklin wood stove was all the means for heating. We arranged the old-fashioned, high-backed wood benches around the stove as support for our music and the sconces, in which were placed the 'tallow dips,' which we snuffed with our fingers. The teacher——we had secured Professor Hess, of Saint Louis, a master of all brass instruments——who beat time with the wooden stove poker, and scolded us in several languages beside Dutch when our breaks were so bad as to excite his disgust. But we pounded away there until we were able to appear in public."
The band was a notable acquisition to social affairs in the town, with its aid in celebrations and the many schemes for raising funds for different societies, but after a few months it collapsed, as one of the members once said, "for want of wind." Of the eleven members, not one is now living, Cyrus being the last survivor.
In 1856, Cyrus began teaching Winter school in the rural districts, and so continued until he began court reporting, in 1858. He was a prodigious reader and always a zealous student. He early began to investigate the subject of Indian mounds, so many of which existed in the Des Moines Valley, and that of the Mississippi. There were fifteen of them on the plateau abutting the two rivers here, one near the corner of Fourth and Walnut, on which "Billy" Moore built his dwelling-house; another where the Court House now stands (the Sacs and Foxes had a war dance there in 1854); another at the corner of Fourth and Court Avenue, opposite the The Register and Leader building. The others were scattered
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in various localities. His research, investigation, and travel convinced him beyond a doubt that the Mississippi Valley was once a populous empire, millions of whose subject repose in mound sepultures scattered over our valleys and prairies; that we to-day tread on the ruins of a civilization older than that of the Aztecs, of a people divided into stationary communities, who, centuries in the past, possessed the arts of semi-civilized life, who worshipped the elements, whose form of government subordinated the masses to hereditary power, as revealed in marks they have left. To what race they belonged has not been revealed, but, reading from archaeological investigations made, the conclusion is that, after centuries of warfare, they were driven southward into Mexico by the ancestors of Indians.
In 1867, Cyrus was elected County Superintendent of Schools, but resigned during the second year of his term because the duties of the office interfered with his court reporting.
In 1889, he was appointed by President Harrison a special agent of the General Land Office of the Interior Department at Washington. In 1893, he was removed by President Cleveland, to make room for a Democrat, but in 1897, was reinstated by President McKinley, and held the office three years, when he resigned because of failing health. The duties of the office were of responsibility and trust, requiring the supervision of Government land in Washington and other territories, to prevent the sequestration of timber b the lumber hog, or minerals, and other encroachments upon the public domain. The conditions of living were such his health became seriously impaired. While in this service, he made a large and valuable collection of curios.
He was an active member of the Old Settlers' Association, and always added zest to its gatherings by his presence and reminiscent lore.
Socially, he was genial, a good mixer, a rapid-fire talker, and took part in whatever was doing for the enjoyment and pleasure of the community. He was a charter member of Emanuel Consistory, Number Two, A.A.S.R., of the Masonic Order, organized in 1867. The last few years of his life were embittered by physical disability.
January SEventh, 1906.
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SAMUEL N. DYER
LATE one day in the last week of October, 1851, Samuel N. Dyer sailed into Raccoon Forks in a prairie schooner, with his family, and tied up for the night at the Marvin House, on Third Street. The next morning, he went house hunting, and found a small vacant dwelling on Walnut street, where Vorse's implement warehouse stood for many years afterward, but it was so uninhabitable, he soon after moved to one of the double log barrack cabins in First Street,near Walnut. Conrad Stutsman, a radical East Sider, had built a tavern at the corner, which he named "Pennsylvania House."
In 1855, Colonel S. F. Spofford and J. C. Warner purchased the corner, enlarged and completed the tavern, the south end joining the Dyer's cabin——or Sam., as he was better known by everybody——in fact, there was no caste among the pioneer settlers. They knew each other well, and it was Jeff. Polk, Lamp Sherman, Ed. Clapp, Hub. Hoxie, Pete. Myers, "Billy" Moore, "Jim" Savery, "Dan" Finch, Frank Allen, "Sammy" Gray, "Tom" Mitchell, "Jimmy" Jordan, "Bill" McHenry, Father Bird, Elder Nash, with several Kentucky and Virginia Captains and Colonels. It was simply an impulsive expression of a fraternal good fellowship. Among the "Colonels" was Barlow Granger. The venerable Judge George C. Wright, a man, as we all know, of truth, veracity, and the utmost circumspection, once related to a lot of old-timers how Barlow got his title:
"Captain Allen, the commander of the troops at The Fort, before departing, was given orders to send in the name of some suitable person, to be commissioned Colonel and Commander of the Home Defenses, for safety when the United States troops were withdrawn, for the Indians were still here. The Captain had so many good friends, and all good men, that he determined to make the selection in a very impartial manner. So he sent out word.
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one day (without mentioning the direct purpose) to Alex. Scott, Doctor Brooks, Isaac Griffith, P. M. Casady, Will. Porter, Barlow Granger, M. M. Crocker, W. W. Moore, James A. Williamson, Harry and J. M. Griffith, to meet him at ''Coon Point quarters this evening.' All were there. Sentinel at the door. the Captain said: 'Friends, I have a great honor to bestow, ordered and commissioned by the Government so to do, and in justice to you and myself, I must do so impartially. So now, gentlemen, I must put you to a test' [then Isaac Griffith gave one of his soft whispers, so as not to disturb the sentinel outside, and Barlow ran his hands into his pockets, and "Billy" Moore winked], but the Captain, not at all disturbed, said, 'Here is the test [lifting an army blanket from a large, good, sod-grown pumpkin, that rested on a puncheon bench]; he who can bite the farthest into the pumpkin will be made a Colonel and Commander of the Home Defenses.' Each man, in about the order named, struggled and did his best, the Captain resetting the peg as each one distanced the other, but none over-reached Barlow, and he got to be Colonel."
Sam. had to vacate the cabin. It was weather-boarded, a new roof put on, and fitted up for a barroom. For many years, it was the trysting place of legislatures, lobbyists, and politicians of that day. The political schemes concocted therein would fill a book, while the "corn-juice" imbibed to wash them down would be surprising. "Whiskey straight" was the popular thirst quencher in those days, but the quality was evidently better than most of the stuff sold at the present time. The cabin remained a part of the "Demoin House"——so aptly named by Spofford——until the hotel was torn down, to be supplanted by the new Postoffice.
In 1852, the rush to California had become so great the County Commissioners decided to get some benefit from it, and established a ferry over Des Moines River. Sam. was employed to run the ferry. It was not uncommon to see a line of covered wagons from the river to Four Mile Creek, every driver clamoring to be carried over first, some offering him five dollars to break the line, but he refused, and made them take their turn. The county did a good business, for thousands of teams were carried, and the toll was twelve and one-half cents for man and horse, and thirty-seven and one-
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half cents for a wagon and two horses, fifty cents for a wagon and four horses, and five cents per head for loose animals.
While Sam. lived in that log cabin, his family got out of flour, and for twelve days had no bread. There was wheat and corn enough, but no mills to grind them. "Uncle Johnny" Dean had a small mill on Dean Street——now First——on the east side of the river, near where the casket factory is, but it was troubled with intermittent inertness, and they, as well as everybody, had to wait until flour could hauled from Keokuk.
In 1855, Sam. was nominated for the office of County Treasurer and Recorder by the Democrats, and, with Thomas H. Napier, candidate for County Judge, made a house-to-house canvass of the county. Napier was in many ways an original character. Sam. used to relate that one day they stopped at a farm house for dinner, and to grind their political axes, as it were. The good housewife set up a generous supply of "back-bones," a luxury well known to old-timers, together with other good edibles. Napier was hungry, and was making havoc with the "bones," not cleaning them very well, when he happened to see the mistress looking straight at him, with arms akimbo, whereupon he said, with all the suavity of the true Virginian, that he was: "Never mind, madam, I am in a hurry. The children can pick what I leave." The house was full of children, and the incident illustrated what the Judge subsequently proved to be, as boss of all county affairs, eminently practical.
Sam. was elected, for there were not enough Whigs in the county to form a Corporal's Guard. He served one term, and gave such satisfaction he was renominated and elected for a second term.
While he was Treasurer, he had to deliver the state funds to the State Treasurer at Iowa City, the amount sometimes being considerable. At one time, he and "Dan" Finch made the trip in a sleigh. It was extremely cold, the snow was deep, the roads were blocked, and they had to go where they could, much of the way over staked-and-ridered fences.
Although he owned property on the East Side, and resided there when the scrimmage over the location of the State House came on, in 1856, he was a non-combatant, for very prudential reasons. The
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West Siders would have made his second term a very uncertain quantity, for they were as mad as March hares over the result of the contest.
He was a cautious, conservative official, notable for integrity, high sense of honor, and was deservedly popular.
Socially, he was genial, big-hearted, ever ready to grant a favor or assist the needy, a generosity which overburdened him, for, like Alex. Scott, he became responsible for the promises and obligations of other who failed to fulfill them, so that in 1868, when he sold his property and settled his affairs, there was little left. He then removed to Kansas, and deceased in 1888.
He was an active and consistent member of the Presbyterian Church, an ardent friend and supporter of public schools, and all measures tending to promote morality and good judgment.
January Fourteenth, 1906
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JUDGE C. J. McFARLAND
 ONE of the most unique and noted characters of the very early days in Polk County and Des Moines was Cave J. McFarland, the second Judge of the District Court, who stands out the most prominent in the judicial history of the state of any man connected therewith.
A native of Ohio, he came to Iowa when in the full vigor of early manhood; was of strong, athletic physique,which made him especially attractive anywhere; was social, convivial, and of pleasing manner. He stopped in Lee County, opened a law office, and was soon after elected County Attorney.
In 1851, he was elected Representative to the Legislature from that county. During the session, P. M. Casady, Senator from Polk County, prepared a bill creating the Fifth Judicial District, and when it went to the Lower House, McFarland opposed it, declaring it was simply "a scheme to give some poor lawyer up at Des Moines a salary of a thousand dollars a year as Judge." The bill, however, passed. Polk County, then, for election and judicial purposes, embraced the whole northwest part of the state west of Hardin County. Under that act, William McKay was elected the first Judge in the district.
In 1853, McFarland went to Boonesboro, resumed his profession, secured a good practice, and became quite popular.
In 1854, at the Judicial Convention of the Democrats, to nominate a successor to McKay, P. M. Casady was a candidate, and McFarland also turned up for that "salary of a thousand dollars a year." The Whigs renominated McKay. Casady was elected by a large majority, qualified and received his commission, but soon after was tendered the position of Receiver of the United States Land Office, by President Pierce, which he accepted and resigned the judgeship without holding a session of court, greatly to the regret of the people, and especially members of the bar, for, had he
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served, the unenviable notoriety and disgrace which came to the court would have been avoided.
Stephen Hempstead, of Dubuque, was then Governor. The Democrats unanimously recommended "Dan" Finch as successor to Casady, but the Governor, having Congressional aspirations, his term nearing its end, evidently wanted to get his fences in the best possible condition to corral the most votes, and he appointed McFarland, giving as a reason that in the convention which nominated Casady, he had the next highest vote, and was therefore the logical candidate. Whatever may have been the reason, Hempstead never got to Congress.
At the next Judicial Convention of the Democrats, Polk County voted for Curtis Bates; Marion County under the leadership of William M. Stone, for George May; Boone County for McFarland. The contest was protracted and hot, but finally resulted in the nomination of McFarland by a majority of one vote.
The Whigs nominated William W. Williamson, of Des Moines. The contest was a vigorous one. The northwest portion of the district was sparsely settled. Election precincts were indefinitely defined, or not at all. The voters of a settlement got together and fixed an imaginary line for a precinct, and then voted where they pleased. When the returns came in, Williamson was declared to be elected, by less than a dozen majority, and he was given his commission.
John Hull, a big politician in early days, in Boone County, and other friends of McFarland, contested the election, on the ground that it was void by reason of unlawful practices and gross irregularities in the proceedings. An investigation was made by the Board of Canvassers, and the votes were re-counted. It was shown that most of the returns were made on pages torn from blank books, on loose, variegated sheets of paper, unauthenticated by signature, oath, or otherwise, of anybody as judges of election, or in what precinct the votes were cast; that Williamson received several votes in Minnesota, or at least outside of the district; that the one majority vote which nominated McFarland was cast by proxy for an alleged county which had no existence. The Board threw out the votes cast for Williamson in Minnesota, and gave the majority
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to McFarland. Williamson's friends appealed to the Supreme Court, where it was held that, while there were irregularities in the manner of election, no fraudulent action had been shown; that the intent and purpose of the voter must be accepted, and the decision of the Canvassing Board was affirmed.
McFarland was one of the finest specimens of physical manhood——six feet in height, weighed nearly two hundred pounds, of symmetrical form, of gigantic strength, which he was ever ready to demonstrate if occasion required, dressed finely, and wore a heavy, black, glossy beard. He was fearless, dissipated, humorous, kind-hearted, sympathetic and reckless; had many faults, yet many virtues, which, with those knowing him best, outweighed his frailties. As a Judge, he was eminently just, ever inclined to disregard the letter of the law if thereby exact justice could be obtained. His sympathies were always with the weak. A client with a better lawyer got little advantage therefrom, for the Judge would find some way to overcome it and help the weaker side.
His faith in a jury was implicit. It was his rule to sustain them, and overrule all motions to set aside verdicts. He studied the case before him, and so soon as he was satisfied where the equities rested, to that side he gave the influence of the court. His decisions were rarely reversed. Exact justice was his dominant desire, regardless of technicalities, lawyers, and often the law itself. The lawyers of the district were loaded with proof of that.
Probably no one knew the Judge better than "Dan" Finch, one of the foremost lawyers of the state. They were strong personal friends, traversed the circuit in a buggy, stopped at the same hotel, ate at the same table, and slept in the same bed, which, supposedly would give "Dan" an advantage in court, but when on the bench, personal friendships had no weight, and "Dan" often declared that the Judge took especial delight in ruling against him. On one occasion, he was trying an important case at Marietta, then the county Seat of Marshall County, as attorney for the plaintiff. Important financial interests, as well as close points of law were involved. It occupied several days, running to the closing hours of the last day of the term. The trial had not progressed far before he discovered that not only four big lawyers, but the court, was
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against him. He finished his final speech to the jury about nine o'clock in the evening, when the Judge at once began orally to instruct the jury. The law then required such instructions to be given in writing on demand of either party. "Dan" concluded that the Judge's speech was more like that of a lawyer than an impartial Judge. He arose and called the attention of the Judge to the statute, and requested that the insturctions be reduced to writing, to which he replied: "Daniel, take your seat." "Dan" sat down, and the Judge resumed his speech. "Dan" arose again and repeated his demand, to which the Judge retorted: "Daniel, sit down, and stay there. Mr. Sheriff, if he arises again, take him to jail and keep him there until further orders." "Dan" was up in an instant, called the attention of the members of the Bar present to his demand, as he might need their affidavits in further proceedings, and sat down. A moment later, the Judge said to the Clerk: "Give me some paper, a pen and ink, and I will give that d——d young man more written instructions than he wants." The instructions were very short, and substantially told the jury to find for the defendant.
The Judge and "Dan" then went to their room at the tavern, to wait return of the jury, and sat down. After a long silence, the Judge said: "'Dan' don't you think you made a d——d fool of yourself?" to which "Dan" retorted: "I know you have," which made the Judge mad. He declared he would mash "Dan's" head, and started for him, when the Sheriff appeared and announced that the jury had agreed upon a verdict. They returned to the Court House, where the verdict was found to be for "Dan." The defendant's attorney mad a strong appeal for a new trial, where-upon "Dan" simply reminded the Judge of his rule respecting verdicts. The Judge hesitated a few moments, and then said: "The verdict is a d——d outrage, but I will stick to the rule; the motion is overruled." Returning to their room, the Judge said: "'Dan,' don't you think we both mad d——d fools of ourselves?" to which "Dan" retorted: "The jury did not say I have." "Well, let's take a drink and say no more about it," said the Judge.
On another occasion, at the first court held in Webster County, in a new, incompleted log building, without a door, windows or roof;
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a rough pine table had been provided for the court and lawyers, and slab seats for the jury and spectators. A new Sheriff had been elected, who was present——a well dressed, portly individual, topped out with a plug hat, which he placed on the table beside "Dan." Being wholly ignorant of court duties, he asked the court for instructions, which were written out respecting opening court. He folded them carefully and placed them in his hat. The temptation was to Dan was too great. Purloining the paper, he wrote another and put it in the hat. At the proper time, the court directed the Sheriff to open court. He went to the opening for a door and roared out:
"Hear ye! Hear ye! All who have grists to grind in this mill, bring them in forthwith."
"Hold on, there, Mr. Sheriff. What in h——l is that stuff you are reading," roared the Judge.
"Your Honor, it is the paper you gave me," replied the Sheriff.
The Judge turned to "Dan," who was diligently looking over his papers, and said: "'Dan' Finch, that is some of your d——d work; I know it is."
On another occasion, the court was in session at Marietta, in a log cabin. A lawyer named Wood, or "Old Timber," as he was known all over the district, and noted for his fog-horn voice, was making his speech, when a man rode up, and hitched his mule near the open door. "Timber" was reaching the climax of his argument, when the mule burst forth with unearthly hee-haws. The Judge roared out: "Hold on, there, Timber; one jackass at a time is enough for this court."
On another occasion, at Newton, Harvey J. Skiff, a well-known old-time lawyer, and a Captain in General Crocker's regiment during the Civil War, was vigorously contesting a motion, when the Judge ordered him to sit down, which he did not do, whereupon the Judge ordered him to be fined. "Fine and be d——d," retorted Skiff. The Judge then ordered the Sheriff to take him to Des Moines and commit him to jail until further orders, but he soon discovered there were not enough officers in Jasper County to do it, and the matter was dropped.
With all his faults and frailties, the Judge had a warm heart. His sympathies were easily aroused, were deep and abiding. He
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was confiding, and thus liable to be deceived. As an instance, a young fellow giving the name of Isaac Francisco had been indicted in Dallas for horse stealing. He was a stranger, without money or friends, quiet, genteel, appeared the picture of innocence and the victim of untoward circumstances. The court requested "Dan" to defend him. In his own defense, the fellow told so plausible a story and so impressed the jury that, although they gave a verdict against him, the recommended him to the mercy of the court. When the Judge called him up for sentence, he said, with tears rolling down his cheeks, he wished he had the power to save so manly appearing young man from the penitentiary. He then sentenced him to the penitentiary for one day. Immediately, the Judge, Grand Jury, Petit Jury, and every lawyer present, signed a petition to Governor Grimes for a pardon. The Judge then directed the Sheriff to go via Burlington and present the petition to the Governor, which was done, and the Governor pardoned him. Three years after, a man charged with a heinous crime committed in Hardin County was brought to the Des Moines jail for safe keeping. He sent for "Dan" to take his case. He was a fine appearing fellow, well dressed, said he had money coming to him, gave his name and residence. "Dan" looked him over carefully, and decided to sleep over it. During the night, he concluded the fellow was his old Dallas County client, over which the Judge had shed his tears. The next morning, he accosted him with: "Good morning, Isaac." He replied that his name was not Isaac, but "Dan" quickly convinced him that he knew him, whereupon he confessed the whole matter. That night he broke jail, and was never heard of again.
The Judge was rigidly opposed to unnecessary and useless court expenses, and cut them off wherever possible. In Marion County, a petition was filed by a man for a divorce. When the time came for the hearing, the man, his lawyer and a score of witnesses were present. The Judge, looking over the aggregations, asked the lawyer what he wanted of so many witnesses. "To prove the allegations in our petition," was the reply. "Take your decree; I know the defendent," said the Judge.
At another time, a fellow had been captured at Fort Dodge with a horse in his possession he had stolen. The Judge happened to
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be at Homer, the County Seat, and was told of the arrest. It was not court time, but he directed that the prisoner be brought to Homer at once, with the witnesses, which was done. He then directed the Sheriff to call in the Grand Jury. An indictment was found, when the Judge called him up and said to him: "Now, young man, if you plead guilty, I will send you to the penitentiary for only one year, but if you don't, and put the county to the expense of trying you, I will send you to the 'pen' until your hair turns white." The fellow pleaded guilty, received the sentence, and served the time.
Such a proceeding would probably not be affirmed by our present Supreme Court, but a little of it nowadays would be beneficial in many ways. It would save a vast amount of money and expenses, and secure swift punishment of crime. The summary methods of dealing with horse thieves and claim-jumpers by pioneer settlers' Vigilance Committees put a quietus on that sort of rascality, for the culprits, if caught, knew what was coming to them.
The Judge was chairman of the Iowa delegation to the National Convention which nominated Buchanan for President. His fine personal appearance, athletic physique, and heavy, glossy beard made him a conspicuous mark. A press correspondent describing the personnel of the delegations wrote of him as "a man with a flourishing crop of whiskers, whose luxurious growth doubtless exhausted such a large proportion of nutriment as to greatly affect the nerve center of the brain." When the Judge read it, he was furious, and declared he would wipe the streets with his d——d carcass" if he could find him, but he did not find him.
The Judge was patriotic. Immediately after the Spirit Lake Massacre, rumors came that the Indians were returning and murdering the settlers on their way. The settlers at once began organizing militia for defense, the Governor sending guns and ammunition therefor. The Judge joined a company of one hundred mounted men from Boone County, armed and equipped for battle. Arriving at Webster City, they were met by the entire populace, when the Judge, arising in his saddle, exclaimed with his loudest voice: "The Boone Tigers are here. Bring on your Indians, and we will lick h——l out of them."
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Seen upon the street, in a black frock coat, the skirts of which connected with high-topped boots, a stove-pipe hat, covering a big round face, of changeable color, the Judge was sure to arrest the attention of a stranger, and elicit the query: "Who's that?" to be answered: "Judge McFarland, of the District Court."
He was a good judge of whiskey, and, good or bad, could never "pass it" without "turning it down," and, when overloaded, it developed that keen sense of humor which inspired the many incidents related of him. It would be unjust to his memory, however, to omit mention of his many good qualities, which, to those who knew him well, offset his uncouth ways and unfortunate habits, for he was really a man of social instincts, and manners of a gentleman. His virtues were all extrinsic, his faults intrinsic, and in combination so strong as to be rarely found in one individual. I know of no person who ever questioned his integrity, whether on or off the bench. What he lacked in legal acquirement, was compensated by intellectual capacity, stalwart common sense, and love of exact justice, with which he was as well qualified to give as correct a guess——Iowa jurisprudence being then in its infancy, and precedents few——at the law and equities of a case as the average university lawyer of to-day. While appeals from him to the Supreme Court were innumerable, he was rarely reversed.
He died a horrible death, as the result of his bibulous habits.
January Twenty-eighth, 1906.
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