Back Window Adventures

The “Dirty Thirties” blew in more than prairie dust storms, drought, and depression. Those years also blew in death and brought mourning to the Brannin family in Sweet Grass Canyon. You’ve heard it said that deaths come in threes, but those depression years demanded more, claiming five lives from the heart of the Crazy Mountains.

Orval Briner, born in the spring of 1911, was the first-born son of Bessie Brannin Briner. They lived in Indiana though Bessie longed to be with her family in the Crazy Mountains. Every summer, she took the kids back to the Montana ranch. They lived there during the war. Bessie died shortly after, leaving behind three small children and a large family to mourn. The kids were still able to spend some time at the ranch. When the Brannin brothers transformed it into a Dude Ranch, Bill Briner brought the family out to stay and helped build the lodge.

It seemed fitting that “Ollie” was there. After all, he bore the first name of Bessie’s favorite brother, Richard, known as “Uncle Dick.” Ollie learned how to ride horses and bulls. He went hunting and fishing. Surely, he got extra attention from his namesake though none of the slew of kids who found their way to the canyon suffered from lack of love, care, or good-natured ribbing. Many of them spent part of their growing up years there.

At the age of eighteen, Ollie went to work on the ranch with the uncles. He was also employed by other ranchers in Melville. The 1930 census lists him as a “lodger” in the household of the Tronruds. He broke horses and was trail guide for the dudes. The teacher of the cabin school, Miss Egland, caught his eye, though Ollie did have a bit of competition from a youngster, cousin Buck, who nursed his first teacher crush. Ollie wore a black leather jacket and tamed Leo, the big bay gelding, to impress the teacher. Those years of youth, hard work, fond memories, and puppy love were soon overshadowed by dark clouds of death.

Granny Brannin was the first to go in the spring of 1930. She left behind an overwhelming legacy and generations who continue to retell her story. Maybe it’s fitting that she would soon be joined by others. She thrived in the company of her family, her arms always ready to embrace them in her circle of love. It was only three short months when her oldest son, Dolph, the most affectionate of her boys, joined her. I imagine when they reunited, he swept her across the dance floor. They both loved to dance and since his wife didn’t, mother and son were dance partners.

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The fall of 1931, fourteen-year-old Jack joined his Grandmother and Uncle Dolph. He had been diagnosed with an inoperable Pontine brain tumor in 1929. It was the egg money given to Jack’s mother that provided funds for their travel to the Mayo Clinic for treatment and prolonged his life longer than expected. Granny Brannin must have greeted him with open arms and introduced him to Uncle Joe and Aunt Bessie.

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A year later, another was added to the number. Orval, age 21, and a buddy of his, Orie Ortenson, went deer hunting on Porcupine Butte. They split up to track their game. When Orie saw movement in the bushes, he shot, not knowing that Orval had changed direction. Orval was struck in the back. Orie ran for help but when he got back with Stanley Lavold, Orval was already dead. That was November 5, 1932. The newspaper stated, “The Ostenson boy, in a pitiable condition from the shock and grief, is being watched carefully that he may do no harm to himself.”

In 1932, when the whole country wept from depression, there were tears flowing from the heart of the mountains. Grandfather Ward also joined the ranks of death that year. It was a bad year, but Jack’s Mama said that good things happen even in bad years. Sometimes you just have to wait to find the good that comes from such times. Jack’s little brother, Buck, thought maybe his Mama was right. Brownie, his Teddy Bear, fell in the outhouse in 1932. But his Mama pulled him out.

Winds of depression, sickness and heartache may blow across the parched land and we may think that nothing good can come of it. Sometimes you just have to wait…

A Tale of a Horse Trade – as told by my guest author, my Granddad, of his “batchin’ days.”

John Sherod and I got hold of some pretty good flat land in the eastern part of Montana and decided to put it into wheat.  We had a fourteen inch gang plow and four work horses for their summer fallow work. This wasn’t enough horsepower to break up eighty acres of new ground.  But luck came our way. My brother, Buster, was looking for a pasture for a herd of horses. Buster’s horses were not notoriously gentle when they were broke.  Most of these were unbroken. John and I tied into breaking horses. We were breaking rigging too.  Finally we created two teams of eight horses each. These included our own horses. 

Dust raised over the prairie. John plowed half a day in the morning. I took the afternoon shift. Some horses worked out good, but a few stayed green around the edges. One, on John’s string, was a mean eyed, Roman nosed booger. “Geeraff” John called him. Geeraff was a long legged horse who was short on disposition. He was tough and had harness marks, but he was difficult to handle. We took to harnessing Geeraff in the chute. He kicked and fought and raised cane, but we fastened him in the middle of the eight horse team. After being dragged a few times he gave up laying down and got on his feet and pulled like a gentleman. But, by golly, you had to watch him. He was always ready to make trouble. 

Some old timers believed that for every tough horse there was someone who could train him. Claude Gray was one such a fellow. Gray had another flatland farm. His was a prosperous place complete with a wife and a poultry yard which contained a goose to provide down for the lady’s pillows.  One day Gray came by when Geeraff was in the chute being outfitted. 

“How long you been doing that?” Gray asked. 

“Too damn long,” John replied. 

“Why I could have him working in two weeks.” 

“Give me a trade and you can have him,” Sherod challenged. He was midday cook and wanted a break.  “I saw a goose on your place. I’ll let you have Geeraff for a goose. Just have your wife cook the goose for dinner and Geeraff is yours.” 

A horse for a goose dinner was a good trade for a couple of fellows who were batching. It was especially a good trade when the horse was Geeraff and belonged to another fellow.  A couple of weeks later we went to collect our dinner. The meal lasted all afternoon. 

“That was a fine dinner,” I said. “But tell us, how is old Geeraff working out?” 

“He’s just like the goose ‑ eat up. Couldn’t do anything with the long legged outlaw, so I fed him to the hogs.” 

Gray shook his head. “Run me out of my own corral, and when I lost my hat the son of a gun grabbed it with his teeth. Then he stomped it into the ground. Lucky I wasn’t in it.” 

I don’t know what Geeraff did for the hogs. But with him out of the way we finished the job in jig time. I made the final round and headed for the barnyard. My eight horses were hooked to the plow and a thirty foot drag log with stub limbs was fastened behind the plow for leveling the ground. 

When I went to open the wire gate, one of the horses spooked.  The others took the challenge. They stampeded through the gate with the tree drag chasing them.  The corral and barn were ahead. A log outhouse was to one side. When the horses flew by the corral the drag log was getting airborne. As they rounded the barn on the way back the drag swung wide, hit the outhouse and sent logs flying though the air like match sticks. The horses ended up in a glorious wreck ‑ plow, logs, match sticks, and harness. 

I had one tame horse. He was on the bottom of the pile. 

We were most of the afternoon cutting the horses out, and the next day we started sewing the harness back together. The field was plowed. I asked John, “Now what shall we do?” 

“Head west,” came the reply. 

We hitched up our horses and headed for the mountains. We reached the Big Hole Basin two weeks before haying time. Rainbow welcomed us. “Glad you came early,” he said. “I’ve got some green horses that I need to break so we can get in the hay fields.” 

John had spent several winters working in the Big Hole Basin for Rainbow. This was on a big cattle and hay operation. Someone in Seattle owned this. Rainbow was the ranch manager.  His wife, Blanche, was a good manager herself. She’d borrow me for her special chores. Sometimes mowing Blanche’s orchard took precedence over the nut grass in the meadows.

Blanche had an old horse that was full of miseries and on his last legs. One of my special tasks was putting the old horse out of his miseries. 

(Note: Sometimes Mr. Bee speaks of this ranch as the Huntley ranch)

Big Timber Pioneer, July 31, 1930, page 3

Going through Daddy’s books can be a bit overwhelming, but it also offers its rewards.

I pulled some books off the shelves (that no one seemed to want) to donate to a ministry. The rule when going through Daddy’s things is to look for notes. He kept scraps of paper and a pen in his pocket just in case something struck his fancy. Whether at church, riding in the car, sitting on the bench at the store, or relaxing in his chair at home, he pulled the paper and pen from his pocket and scribbled notes often accompanied with a giggle.

Before I placed the books in boxes, I first thumbed through the pages. I found bookmarks, a piece of fabric, a few photos, bulletins, notes, a piece of cardboard, a wedding invitation, an obituary, a letter or two, a note from the couple that housed Mama when she was teaching school, and a bunch of scribbled on scraps of paper that are pretty much illegible. The oldest dated paper was from 1964.

In the process, I found a word of wisdom:
“We never get too old to learn some new way of being stupid.”

I also found this little jewel:

Mama, Mama, can you see
A stripped chipmunk by that tree?

Sonny, Sonny, are you drunk
That’s not a chipmunk, that’s a skunk.

A skunk mama? How can you tell?
Some folks know him by his smell.

Opening a book can transport you to anywhere. You have the world at your fingertips and can experience places you’ve never been, visit unknown worlds, learn great truths, or step back in time. Who knows, you might just uncover a hidden jewel not written on the pages of the book, but on a random scrap of paper stuck between the leaves for whatever reason.

If the early settlers in New Mexico Territory thought they would conquer that beautiful, harsh, wild land, they were mistaken. Many were killed or run out of the country by Indians who defended their homes from the invasion of the white men. As Indians were driven from their lands, another wave of settlers made their way into the territory.

The new settlers were a different class of people. They brought in small herds of cattle and started farming or ranching on a small scale until they could increase their herds. With more and more Indians removed to reservations, the settlers no longer had a common foe. The small-time ranchers quickly tired of one another. They displayed their own savagery as they increased their herds at the expense of others, stealing cattle and killing neighbors who got in the way of their enterprise. That time of lawlessness was one of the driving forces for the Brannin family’s move to the tamer wilds of Montana.  

Brothers by the name of Grudgings moved into the area and built a cabin in 1885 near the Gila cliff dwellings. The Grudgings brothers were known cattle rustlers and flashed their weapons with little conscience. Tom Woods, a former peace officer turned prospector, ranched on the Middle Fork of the Gila River northwest of the Grudgings ranch. He was aware of their rustling. The Grudgings boys were afraid he would inform the local ranchers so decided to do away with him.

Tom Woods, a pioneer who came west from Iowa, generally made a trip by way of the Gila Hot Springs to Pinos Altos or Silver City to get supplies. On the morning of October 5, 1892, instead of Tom going for supplies, he sent his fifteen-year-old son Charley accompanied by Francisco Diaz, who had been living at the ranch and helping hew logs for a barn. The trail that followed the ridges and curvature of the Black Range was not an easy one. It was not a quick jaunt to town, but rather a journey that took several days. On their return trip from Silver City on October 10, they passed close to the Grudgings cabin in the evening. The Grudgings brothers watched the two pass by with their five burros loaded with supplies and knew the travelers would camp in Grave Canyon just west of the Zig-Zag trail. The brothers followed. 

That night, after Charley Woods and Diaz laid down to sleep, they were shot to death. The Grudgings brothers mistakenly thought they killed Tom Woods. Charley suffered gun shots to the head and hands, possibly as the hands tried to shield the barrage of gunfire. There was also indication of blows to the head. The bodies were discovered the morning of October 11. 

At first, the crime was said to have been the work of Indians or Mexicans. That was quickly dismissed because nothing in the camp was disturbed. All the supplies, the wagon, burros, guns and ammunition were still there, and the camp was completely intact. That meant one thing, it was a deliberate cold-blooded act. Rain in the night “destroyed all signs and trails.” When Tom Woods walked into the camp, he took in the scene, then recovered the single action model Colt .45 he had given to Charley. Tom Woods believed he would find enough evidence to take matters into his own hands. And he did – one year later. 

The same night Charley was murdered, he made a “visit” to the Brannin ranch on Sapillo Creek forty miles from Grave Canyon. Charley was a friend and occasional guest at the Brannin ranch. Whenever Charley was there for an overnight visit, he slept in the barn with the Brannin boys. He always slid down the pole that leaned from the loft to the ground. On that particular night, the night of October 10, Dick, age 11, and Gus, age 6, slept in the hayloft in the barn. Normally Joe was with them, but that night he had an earache and stayed in the cabin. In the middle of the night, the boys woke up to see someone in the loft with them who struck a sulphur match on the pole and slid down. It was Charley. The next morning, they wondered about Charley’s visit. Both of the boys swore they saw the “person” and there was the mark from a sulphur match on the pole. It didn’t take long before word spread to Sapillo Creek that their friend Charley had been murdered that same night. As the story of Charley’s ghost has been retold through the years, captivated listeners experience cold chills running down their spines.

That is not the end of the story. A year later, on October 8, 1893, Tom Woods lay in wait for the Grudgings boys in a willow thicket below the Grudgings cabin. The brothers came riding up the trail beside the old rail fence. Woods shot and killed William Grudgings instantly. Tom Grudgings ducked down on the side of his horse and hid behind the rails. Woods shot but missed his moving target. 

Tom Woods gave himself up to officers at Cooney and confessed he killed William Grudgings in retaliation of his son’s murder. Though many thought he administered justice, he was found guilty of murder and committed to Socorro County jail without bail. While being escorted to jail, he escaped. The story is that a man by the name of Barrett who accompanied Deputy Fred Golden, went with Woods up the creek for a nature call and was told to “light a shuck,” which Woods did. He wasn’t seen again for some time. 

With his Colt on his hip, he trailed Tom Grudgings all the way to Louisiana and determined that a man by that description would cross the river at daylight in a canoe. Woods hid in a canebrake near the canoe early and sure enough, a man appeared. Tom Grudgings had a front tooth out and it was his habit of spitting through the gap. The man spit as he neared the canoe. Woods immediately recognized him and said, “Hello, Tom.” Grudgings swirled around to see the Colt leveled on him. Woods shot him in his belt buckle. Apparently, he was not killed, for records indicate he died in What Cheer, Iowa in 1946 at the age of 75.

After two years of the murder of William Grudgings, Tom Woods was acquitted. The Las Vegas Daily Optic, Las Vegas, New Mexico, dated June 2, 1896, states, “Tom Woods was acquitted of the charge of murder, for the killing of William Grudgings, near Gila Hot Springs, Grant County, four years ago.”

If you happen to find yourself at the old Brannin Ranch site on Sapillo Creek and hear a rustling from a breeze in the old apple tree and smell the faint odor of sulphur, you might just see a faint wisp of a fifteen-year-old boy by the name of Charley Woods.

The Grudgings cabin was near present day Gila Cliff Dwellings National Monument. The cabin was a tourist attraction for many years until it burned in 1991. Visitors still visit the grave site of William Grudgings whose tomb stone is inscribed, “Waylayed and murdered by Tom Woods Oct. 8 1893”

Before Tom Woods died in 1925 he showed 14 notches on his gun. He said he wanted to get 15 notches on his gun but never got to do that.

According to an article posted in 2014,
https://thewesterner.blogspot.com/2014/02/the-saga-of-wf-co-colt.html,
the Woods pistol is held in safekeeping.

Please allow me the liberty to imagine how Guadalupe may have felt as she took one last look at her home on Sapillo Creek.  I have only met her through the treasure chest of stories passed on to us by our ancestors as well as the values and examples lived by her children.

Apache Hill, as they called it, rose from the valley floor where the Brannin Ranch stood. The wagons were loaded and as they made their way up the hill, Guadalupe looked back at the ranch below. She shuddered a bit.  With a clear vision and the taste of fear, she could almost see the Apache scouts riding down the hill into their yard. Though that had happened years before, it was a day that lived in her memory and evoked a longing for the place of refuge she sought.  She could still see little son Dick run out of the house, blonde head bobbling on the wiggling little boy. The other children had dark skin, thick black hair, and black eyes to match, but Dick had the coloring of Guadalupe’s father, called “Goldie.” That day, the braves she had provided with food stopped eating at the sight of the little gringo. “He Texicano!” They would lift his scalp! 

Guadalupe’s Spanish blood and a mother’s fierce protection immediately went into action.  In spite of her fear, she reacted instinctively, “He is mine. He is like my father!” That was not a lie. By the looks of Guadalupe, she could pass for an Indian.  When they questioned her parentage, she claimed to be the daughter of Old Chief Victorio, a revered Apache chief.  That was enough for the braves!  There were stories that Victorio wasn’t an Apache but had been a little Mexican boy taken by the Indians and raised as an Apache. The Indians, known to detect a lie, believed her story. The scouts said no one would bother their place or their family again. At that, they mounted their horses, rode off and true to their word, the Apaches never bothered them again though they passed often and sometimes camped nearby. 

As the horses disappeared in the distance, Guadalupe’s knees went limp. It may have been out of fear, but there is a chance it was because she told a lie. 

That incident was not the first encounter they had with Indians, nor the last. On one occasion, Guadalupe ran to escape being seen by an Indian brave. She and little Ed, age two, went in search of her saddle pony. She walked up the bank and not more than thirty feet away, an Indian chewing a cornstalk sat on a rock, finger extended in front of him, counting freight wagons across the mesa. Turning quietly, she grabbed the little boy, put her hand over his usually talkative mouth, whispered, “Indians,” and fled back to the settlement where they were staying while the menfolk were gone. When she reported to one of the men left to guard the families, he said she had to be mistaken. Surely an Indian would not be so close to the settlement. He went to investigate only to find the remains of a cornstalk, horse tracks, Guadalupe’s footprints, moccasin prints near the rock where the Indian sat, and the imprint of the butt of his gun. 

The Brannin family won the respect of the Apaches. The Indians camped on their property from time to time and occasionally even stayed a few days. Once when they were camped, they decided to cut their hair. Some of the braves went to the Brannin cabin and asked to borrow scissors. They brought the scissors back and before long another came along and asked to borrow them. It seemed as if all of them had made it to their door, but they always returned the shears. Surely just the thought of that brought lighthearted amusement as Guadalupe thought back to that time.

Not only did Guadalupe earn their favor, they also had great regard for the patriarch of the family. He was known to be fair and generous with them. One morning, he heard the Apaches were coming through. It is said that Victorio, the chief, and his son Nana were among the number as they were being escorted through the country by an Indian agent. Stanton rode out to check the herd of cattle when he heard a shot. He spurred his horse and galloped in the direction of the sound. One of his three-year-old steers lay on the ground kicking. He put the steer out of its misery as ten Apaches popped out of the brush. A young brave admitted to the deed saying he didn’t know there were any ranches nearby and thought he would get some fresh meat. The agent was furious, but Stanton told them they could have it. He had meat hanging at his house and couldn’t use anymore. That one act of kindness went a long way and earned him the title of being a big-hearted man. In a country where many families suffered loss of possessions or life, the Brannin family was spared. They didn’t treat the Indians as savages, but as people without a home.

As the wagon wheels left tracks behind in New Mexico Territory, Guadalupe’s hope of a place of refuge drew closer. Maybe as she took a final look, her mind was flooded with thoughts of the place they called home for many years. She didn’t leave everything behind for she carried those memories with her, moments that had quickly turned into heroic memories. Though she faced other hardships and loss, she did not face them alone. 

The story of Guadalupe’s only lie as recorded in family history along with a plethora of other memories continues to echo through the years as it travels from generation to generation. Now, we are responsible to share the family legacy.

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