(Contributed by the Thomas Tolman Family Organization. Excerpt from Judson Tolman: Pioneer, Lumberman, Patriarch by E. Dennis Tolman, Second Edition, 2004, pages 120-137).
(The following account on Margaret Eliza Utley was written by her daughter, Maggie Bell Tolman Porter).
Among the strongest characters of all time were those of our early pioneer mothers. Women who could lift their faces and smile even though tears of adversity and sorrow blinded their eyes. Margaret Eliza Utley Tolman was such a pioneer mother, indeed one of God’s noble women. Her faith in God was outstanding and supreme. She knew the true meaning of “Ask and ye shall receive.” Her lips were not too proud to say, “Father I thank thee.” When sorrow bowed her head in pain, she cried, “Father, Thy will not mine be done.”
BIRTH
Margaret Eliza Utley was born in Perry County, Alabama, April 25, 1835. Her earliest recollections were those of a southern plantation and of the watchful care of a Negro mammy. Her father owned and was the overseer of hundreds of slaves. His father owned the plantation. Little John Utley had brought his bride from north of the Mason and Dixon line to his southern plantation. Elizabeth Rutledge became so sad and unhappy because of the slavery and bondage of mankind in the South that her husband sold his slaves and plantation and moved north to Illinois. (Elizabeth Rutledge is believed to be a direct descendant of Edward Rutledge, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, but the connection is not yet verified.)
BAPTISM
After leaving the south, they heard and embraced the gospel. Margaret Eliza was baptized by Apostle Franklin D. Richards. Though just a child, she felt the sorrow and great loss at the martyrdom of the Prophet Joseph and his brother, Hyrum. She never forgot going with her parents to the Mansion House and viewing the remains of these two brethren as they lay in state. The power of God that was manifest when the mantle of the Prophet fell upon BrighamYoung, impressed her greatly. She received a testimony of the Gospel which never left her.
In Margaret’s words, “When I was nine years old, I was among the mourners who gazed for the last time upon our beloved prophet, Joseph Smith, and the patriarch, Hyrum Smith, at the Mansion House in Nauvoo, Illinois. A sob was heard to go up from those mourners which has echoed down through the years. I was also present at the special conference called to appoint a new leader for the young church. Sidney Rigdon, being Joseph’s first counselor, felt he should lead the Church. There was a terrible feeling when he told this to the congregation; but when Brigham Young, the President of the Twelve Apostles, arose and told the people that by order of the Priesthood he was to lead them; a sweet, holy feeling came over us. I along with the others testify that he looked and sounded like the Prophet; and many of us saw a halo about him.”
WINTER QUARTERS
It was when all nature was held in the grip of winter and a terrible blizzard raged through the land that the Utley family, with others, were driven from their homes in Illinois. At night they camped on the banks of the Mississippi River. During the winter of 1847, at Winter Quarters, the saints almost to a man, were stricken. Eliza’s father lay terribly sick. Brother Wilford Woodruff came into the tent and, wiping the face of the stricken man with the handkerchief given him by the Prophet Joseph, commanded him to arise and assist in administering to the sick. Brother Utley was instantly healed and went forth to assist Brother Woodruff. Here she realized the power of prayer and faith in the healing of the sick.
(Author’s Note: In consequence of the persecutions of the Saints, and the exposures to which they were subjected, many of them were taken sick soon after they arrived in Nauvoo. The Prophet Joseph had filled his house and tent and soon fell sick himself. July 22nd and 23rd, 1839, he proceeded to heal the sick in his household and yard, those along the banks of the river, members of the Twelve Apostles and all in his path. After healing the saints in Montrose and while waiting for a boat to return home, the Prophet was approached by a man from the West who had witnessed the healings, and asked if he would come and heal his three month old twins who were dying. “Joseph told the man he could not go, but he would send some one to heal them. He told Elder Woodruff to go with the man and heal his children. At the same time he took from his pocket a silk bandanna handkerchief, and gave to Brother Woodruff, telling him to wipe the faces of the children with it, and they should be healed; and remarked at the same time: ‘As long as you keep that handkerchief it shall remain a league between you and me.’ Elder Woodruff did as he was commanded, and the children were healed, and he keeps the handkerchief to this day.” Evidently Elder Woodruff still had the handkerchief of the Prophet on the occasion of healing Brother Utley in 1847 at Winter Quarters.)
Margaret continued, “I remember very well that winter the Saints spent in their crude tents, dugouts, and makeshift homes. It was bitter cold and hundreds of the saints were ill and undernourished. Many died, yes, thousands sickened and died! It was truly the survival of the fittest. The aged and the young suffered the most. I testify of miraculous healings which took place during that time.”
MORMON BATTALION
When the government recruiting officers came to raise the five hundred men for the battalion, the people did not feel much like supporting the idea because of the treatment they had received at the hands of those in authority—the murders and the depredations that had driven the Saints from their beautiful homes….But President Brigham Young had pledged his word that he would raise the quota if they had to send the women. Still they complained and hung back.
Brother Young went into his cabin, opened a chest, and drew forth the Stars and Stripes; and though messy and wrinkled, he shook it out and hoisted it upon a pole before the people. In just a few hours his quota was filled. President Young promised them that if they would serve the Lord they would never have to fight.
CROSSING THE PLAINS
If you will look on a map, you will find that Winter Quarters was where Omaha now stands. The Saints traveled the Platte River for several hundred miles. The waters of the Platte were not very good. The country was full of bog and alkali. Many times the entire company would become ill from dysentery. Even the true Asiatic Cholera broke out many times.
She realized fully and prized the price that was paid for her home in the mountains. Many times while crossing the plains, she helped untangle locks of long beautiful hair that had caught on the sage brush when coyotes had dug into the shallow graves and eaten the bodies. She gathered up the strands of hair while new graves were being dug for the bleached, scattered human bones. The pioneers learned to dig the graves deeper and cover them with sage brush.
Margaret Eliza was now a beautiful girl of seventeen summers. She was blessed with a strong body and stood straight as an Indian. She had an abundance of dark brown hair which fell below her waist. Her skin was fine textured and beautifully fair. Her large hazel eyes held a serious expression far beyond her years. She never enjoyed that giddy, carefree age of young girlhood. She had seen too much sorrow and privation along with the responsibility of caring for the family that it seemed she changed overnight from a child to a mature woman. The keen sense of humor which she possessed kept her spirit sweet and fresh and free from bitterness.
THE YOUNG INDIAN CHIEFTAIN
The people were continually menaced by the Indians—not so much plundering and murdering, as petty robbery and begging. President Young told the Saints that it was cheaper to feed the red man than to fight him. They proved this to be true; nevertheless, these enemies caused them a lot of trouble by stealing the oxen and horses.
Margaret said, “One time in the Black Hills we were besieged by a party of young braves, headed by a handsome young chieftain clad in gala attire. He seemed especially interested in trying to trade with my father, John Utley. He and his party made several visits; so they had followed the party for a couple of days. They always seemed to single out our party.
“One noon the young chief led a very fine horse up and wanted me to ride it. Of course, I refused; I was frightened, although they were very friendly, jolly, young braves. One daring girl walked up and offered to ride the horse, but the young chief would not let her. He wanted me to ride. They left, but that evening when camp was made, they rode in with several pack horses loaded with furs and buffalo robes, beaded moccasins, etc., and wished to trade them to Father for me. He became angry and by signs let them know that white people did not trade their daughters. They left, and for three days the company put a double guard about the camp and placed my wagon in the inside of the enclosure.
“After the third day the men relaxed, thinking they were at last out of Indian country, for we had seen no Indians since the day they had tried to barter for me. At noon of the fourth day, the wagons were standing just helter-skelter, any old way, as the brethren did not think it necessary to corral and guard the wagons for the noon rest. I had climbed into the very back of the wagon to the pork barrel to get some meat. The barrel was right under the small opening where the wagon cover was pulled together in a tiny circle. While I was bending over, the light seemed to close somewhat. I thought I heard someone breathing very near to me. When I raised up to see what had caused the darkness, I saw the face of the young chieftain framed in the little opening. I let out one scream after another until the men all ran over to the wagon. Of course, the Indian had made good his escape. Some of the men jumped on their horses and rode up over a little hill where they could see many Indians making their getaway over the prairie, all mounted on horses. (After I reached the valley, married, and had children, and repeated these experiences, they would discuss what might have been their lot had the young chieftain obtained his prize. They could visualize their dusty skins and the exciting life they might have lived, much to my amusement and disgust.)”
RIFLES AND BUFFALO
“There was plenty of fresh buffalo meat for the whole camp. The white men had the old fashioned muzzle-loading cap-and-ball rifles. We kept one for many years. We molded bullets; they were round like a marble. These guns were the kind all the pioneers had. It never ceased to be a marvel to the Indians, who used bows and arrows, as to how the men would fire a gun and a buffalo would fall. The Indians were much afraid of guns, although a few Indians had rifles which they had taken from the trappers going through their country.
“Sometimes the buffalo would stampede and come right through our lines of march. It was terrible. The wagons would give space….between each other—but sometimes a lot of damage was done. They used to shoot the lead buffaloes which would sometimes turn the herd. We were told never to waste the meat. This displeased the Indians as they figured the buffalo belonged to them. So the Saints were instructed to kill no more than they could use.
CHOLERA
“I guess a sadder story has never been written than the one I am about to write. This happened not far from Independence Rock—how far, I do not know. It was on the Platte River. In the company was my oldest sister, Martha Utley Adams. She had a darling little girl, three years old, and was about to give birth to another child. The little girl took violently ill with dysentery, and in one night’s time she died. They emptied boxes and made a coffin and buried her. Her mother had been in labor all during the night her little girl was sick. They traveled on with poor Martha in that terrible agony (the child’s head was in sight). This lasted all day, traveling fifteen miles. That night, Martha died. There was nothing that the two mid-wives in the company could do for her before she died. She tore her long hair from her head in agony. Her hair hung far below her waist. I kept a lock that measured forty-seven inches in length. I remember it well. It was lost on our trip to Star Valley in 1888. They buried Martha that morning, just fifteen miles from her darling girl. There had been no cholera in the camp for two weeks. My mother was frightened of it. Whenever a case broke out in the company, my mother would have a nervous chill, and tell us that if she ever got it she knew she’d die. The great loss she had sustained was almost more than she could bear.
“At noon the next day (they traveled fifteen or sixteen miles), she said she was ill. We went on’ Mother (Elizabeth Rutledge Utley) was very ill. We had to stop because of the nature of the dreaded disease, cholera—that was what she had. It is a terrible dysentery, and the patient cramps in every muscle of their body. The water is extracted from all body tissues. The person never lives but a few hours. Their agony is unbearable!
“Mother’s (Elizabeth Utley) youngest child, Agnes, was seventeen months old. She was still nursing, and bothered mother terribly in her suffering. So she had me take the baby to the farther side of the camp to a kind sister’s wagon. The baby cried, “Mama Ninnie,” all night long. Just at the break of day she wore herself out and dropped off to sleep. I carefully crept out of the wagon; the sun was just rising over the prairie. The sky was streaked with crimson and gold. I hurried over to the other side of the camp where our wagon was. I saw a group of people standing out to one side. I pushed my way through, and stood at the open grave. My darling mother had died. There were no more boxes to make a coffin, so she was wrapped in a beautiful quilt which she had kept to have ‘when we arrived in the Valley.’”
“Just before she died, she asked that they sing ‘Come, Come Ye Saints.’ She asked for the last verse to be sung twice. She said, ‘It’s well if I live, or it’s well if I die. All is well, all is well.’ She so longed to reach The Valley. I derived some comfort from these last words. Mother seemed reconciled to go.
“This left me to care for a family of six younger children ranging from sixteen years to eighteen months. Mother appeared to me soon after her death, and gave me courage and comfort. I was lying back in the wagon on the bedding when my mother appeared. It was at noon time, and we were waiting for the company to start. My mother told me not to feel so badly about her going, and to cheer up and be happy. I asked mother if Foster, my older brother who had died with fever in the wilderness area, was with her. She said he had been, but had gone to hear the Prophet Joseph preach. She also said that her brother, Abraham, had been with her, too. When the wagons started up my mother disappeared.”
Later when the youngest child, Agnes, who was eighteen months old at our mother’s death, was six years old, she told our sister, Sarah, that her mother had come several times to her when she was out at play.
“What did Mother say to you?” Sarah asked.
Agnes replied, “Oh, she never said anything; she just looked like she wanted me to come with her. And I am going to go, too.” It was only a very short time until she was accidently shot with a heavy charge of buckshot and died.
HER MARRIAGE
“I was married to Cyrus Tolman in Salt Lake City soon after I reached the valley in 1853. I was his third wife. I had a hard life in those pioneer days. I never had a home of my own until I had given birth to four children. I was left alone much of the time to rear them as best I could.
“My first home was a log cabin on the creek just below the city of Tooele. My husband built the first cabin in what is now Tooele City. I moved into my cabin before it was finished. A cold November snow storm came up and I hung up a quilt to keep out the cold. I sent my oldest boy, Milton, to put something on the quilt to hold it from blowing out and letting in the storm. My cabin was the farthest out. The people were continually afraid of Indian attacks and I had my first Indian scare. I saw what I supposed to be a gun pointing at me from the window. It kept moving, and in the dim firelight I dropped to my knees and prayed until the wind dislodged the object and an ax tumbled into the room. Milton had placed the ax on the quilt to hold it down. What I had seen was the handle of the ax on the quilt, and it was being moved about by the wind.
In 1867 she, with others, were driven from their homes by the Indians. Leaving all their earthly possessions behind, she, with her family, moved to Rush valley where they lived until 1888, when they moved to Star Valley, Wyoming.
Margaret Eliza possessed a strong personal character and wielded an influence for good wherever she went. She inherited a strong love for her country. No less strong was her love for and devotion to the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Possessed with the gift of faith to a remarkable degree, her children were healed many times under her administration when no Elders were obtainable. At one time, her baby girl, was struck in the back by a plow drawn by a runaway horse. The child’s life was despaired of as the doctor said her back was broken and that in his opinion she would not live until morning. Little Maggie opened her eyes and said, “Mother, I’ll be all right if you will pray for me.” With an assurance that God hears the prayer of the humble, the mother anointed the little hurt back with consecrated oil and prayed over her. She repeated this whenever the pain would reappear. Within a week, the child was out of danger, to the astonishment of the doctor.
On many occasions, she was forewarned of danger concerning her children. One day she was preparing dinner for her family. Seating her little ones at the table, she left the room. Childlike, her little girl wondered what was the matter with mother, and followed her. As the child came to the bedroom door, she saw her mother kneeling by the bed. With tears streaming down her face, she pleaded with the Lord for the safety of her two sons. The child, frightened at her mother’s sorrow, asked what was the matter. The mother replied, “I don’t know dear, but Frank and John are in great danger.”
These boys were hauling ore from a mine in Dry Canyon to the railroad. At sundown, when they returned, she asked them what had happened about 1 P.M. The boys looked at each other; then Frank told her that they were coming down the mountain side along the long, steep dugway. He was walking on the downward side. Suddenly he heard a groan and heaving noise and the road and earth beneath his feet gave away. He said, “Mother, something held that wagon from falling. It would have dropped a good 500 feet. The wagon was suspended in mid air with only the back wheel on the embankment.” After we got the wagon safely back on the road again, an old freighter put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Boy, a lucky star shines over you today. Mother, how did you know?”
On one occasion, Margaret was thrown from a buggy and received injuries which most necessarily would have proven fatal had it not been for her faith in the Priesthood. At another time, the growth of a tumor on her shoulder was stopped by the administration of the Elders, after having baffled the skill of physicians.
After moving to southern Wyoming, Margaret Eliza proved a great blessing to the sick, as there were no doctors to be had in the entire area. She officiated at the birth of over 400 babies and never lost a mother or a baby. She was skilled in surgical work. She traveled for miles to set broken bones and taking as many as sixteen stitches to close one wound.
She was a faithful worker in all the auxiliary organizations of the Church, joining the Relief Society when she was just a young girl. Later in her life, she served for years as Ward President of the Association. Of all offices in the Relief Society, she felt that the office of Visiting Teacher afforded the greatest opportunity for service and advancement.
INDIANS
The Indians were on the warpath. The men were told if they had to go to the canyons, which they did, they must go in companies of as many men as they could get together. It was planned days ahead. The men would get out timber and the women and children would pick wild fruits, such as serviceberries, chokecherries, wild gooseberries, and raspberries. Mother said this time was looked forward to with glee by the youngsters and the oldsters as well. They would burn only mahogany wood in their campfires. This wood was not too plentiful, but the ashes were very good to make lye soap, so all of them turned to gathering the wood for the campfires. The children had a stint placed upon them before they were allowed to play.
On this special day, I, along with the women and the larger children had gone up on the hillside to pick berries. There was a large patch of very fine ones which the men had located. One of the women came upon huge bear tracks. They were the tracks of a grizzly bear. They were as large as a pie tin. Everyone was excited and wondered how long it had been since Mr. Bruin had been there. They were looking for more tracks when they came upon the excreta (dung) of the bear still steaming. There was a wild scramble for camp. Berries flew in every direction. The men had just come in for dinner, and they laughed at the wild story of the women, but before the dinner was over, they heard screams from the clump of brush—human cries—and our party was all in camp. Before they could decide what to do about it, a squaw came running through the brush with a bow and arrow in her hand wildly gesticulating and trying to make the men understand, which they did, that her man was being attacked by the bear. The men grabbed their guns and followed her. They killed the bear that was still standing over the dying Indian. It had torn all the flesh from one arm. He was bleeding fiercely. They stopped the bleeding and carried him to camp where they bound up his wound and he revived.
They were about to start for home as their loads were about completed. They didn’t know what to do with the wounded Indian, so decided to take him and his squaw home with them. They seemed willing to go. They trusted the white people, so the men decided to take them and care for the man until he was better.
Margaret said, “When they came to my cabin on the creek, the Indians made signs that was near enough to town for them. They refused to go any farther. It was my job to nurse and care for the arm and other wounds until the Indian was well. I became quite fond of them both. They were really two very intelligent, fine people. The men stretched a canvas to one side of the house to give them shelter. They carried straw for a bed and fixed up things to make them comfortable, so the Indians were delighted. I furnished them food to eat. Especially were they fond of milk and good baked bread. I had to cook on the fireplace and bake my bread in the bake oven. The arm healed; the Indian’s wounds were better; still they did not offer to leave. I wondered why. I soon found out. One early morning before the sun was up, I rushed out for water to wash. When I neared the creek, I heard what sounded to me like a newborn infant screaming, fit to be tied. I went to where I could see. The Indian was dipping a newborn infant into the icy creek; this was late in October. I had never even suspected such a thing. I asked the Indian why the cold water. He, in his broken English, let me know it was to make him tough.
“I rather missed those Indians when they at last left me to go to their own tribe. This wasn’t the last I saw of them, however. The next fall an Indian was seen leading a pack horse, coming right to our door.
Milton called to me, “Here’s Indian Jim, Ma.”
“Sure enough, it was Indian Jim with a fresh killed deer and dried or jerked meat of another deer. It was all mine. This act of kindness was repeated for years. He would bring bags of pine nuts and messes of fish many times. They say that an Indian never forgets. I guess this is true; it was in this case at least.”
JOHNSON’S ARMY
Johnson’s army was sent to destroy the Saints in Utah because of false rumors circulated in the East by the enemies. In 1857, many of the Saints left their homes with all they had and fled south with what could be hauled in a wagon. They drove their surplus cattle and other animals ahead of them. They left their growing crops with enough men to burn their homes—rather than let them fall into the hands of their enemies.
RICHFIELD, UTAH
Margaret Eliza recalls, “My husband settled me and my little family in a dugout—a hole in the side of the hill, crudely roofed over, in Richfield, Utah. Here in this little hovel, on a crude dirt floor and walls, the roof was covered with poles to support willows, then straw and soil. When it rained it leaked like a sieve. Others lived in similar dwellings.
“In this abode my seventh child, Martha Ann, was born. I made her layette from an old sheet Aunt Alice had given me. It consisted of two little gowns, two shirts, two bands, and ten diapers the size of a man’s handkerchief. I sewed these with ravelings from the edge of the sheet for thread. I packed all of them into a shoe box. Things were simply impossible to get in those days. There was nothing to buy. I had to wash two or three times a day.
“We had left our chickens at home as we could not haul them in the wagon. We left perhaps thirty or forty hens and their consorts (roosters). We were gone almost a year. We, the women, imagined we would have a lot of young chickens when we returned as the hens would sit on the eggs, there being no one to gather them. When we returned there were eight hens all claiming one small chicken, but tubs full of spoiled eggs. So our raising poultry in the raw was not so profitable.”
RUSH VALLEY
“In later years, just prior to my youngest daughter Maggie’s advent into the world, my husband purchased a farm in Rush Valley, about forty miles south of Salt Lake City. It was a good country, but a scarcity of water existed. The land was rich. Sagebrush grew to be twelve feet high. Timber was nearby. The foothills were covered with cedar ten or fifteen miles away.
“Our nearest town was Ophir, a beautiful little mining town nestling in a lovely canyon some four or five miles from our home. I can still see in my mind’s eye the beautiful autumn colors as we drove up the canyon to do our marketing. I can remember the purple elderberries dipping and nodding in the creek as it gurgled by the roadside, the flashing maples, the wild flowers that grew on every side. I can still remember the ruins of a house by the roadside a mile or two from the town. I showed Maggie the blackened ruins and told her how the mother and father locked their two little children in the home and then went to the town and both got drunk. Their home caught fire and their children were burned to death. Maggie was always saddened at the sight of those ruins.
Maggie saw her first pansy blossoms in that little town. I had taken her to call on a lady who used to buy butter from me. I walked around the house and there was a bed of gorgeous pansies. She just stood spellbound, unable to speak, they were so beautiful. The lady asked, then, if she liked them; Maggie began to cry. She was about eight years old at the time. The lady placed her arm about her and told her she could pick every blossom if she wanted to. Maggie did, but wept when each blossom faded. She was a little girl starved for beauty on a bleak, dry ranch where we could scarcely get enough water to drink the last five years we were there.”
THE TEMPLE CALF
I remember one little calf that came one cold, stormy day; it was almost dead. They carried it into the house and it seemed about done with life. My mother promised the Lord if He would let the calf live, she would donate it to the temple. It lived, and we called it Temple. When he was three years old, Mother sold him. Mother was in need of a coat. The boys, John especially, told her when she sold the calf, “Now, Ma, take the money and buy yourself a coat.”
“No, I should say not,” was her stern reply. “That steer belongs to the Lord; he is going to help build the Salt Lake temple.” And he did.
This kind of example gave me a foundation of faith that is worth more to me than houses and lands or flocks or silver or gold. Of course, Mother got the needed coat. “Seek Ye first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness and all things will be added…” Mother believed that with all her heart and she proved it to be true.
18 FINE ANIMALS DISEASED
My brothers, John and Frank, and younger brother, Orson, were the ones at home. Because of the drought they had ceased farming and had gone into the freighting business, hauling ore from the mines located in Bryce Canyon to the smelters in Stockton. They were also in company with other men who imported a blooded stallion that cost them four thousand dollars. The man, the co-owner of the horse, was a sheepman. He stood and cared for the animal. He had not owned him long until a horse buyer came and offered John six hundred and fifty dollars for a fine span of greys, his finest freighting team. John refused it. When he told Mom about the offer and his refusal, she said, “John, you should have taken it. It was all that team was worth….” He said, “I know it, Ma, but I just don’t want to sell it.”
The boys used to come home on Saturday nights. They listened to Mother enough to know that they shouldn’t work on Sunday, for if they did they had so much bad luck they lost more than they made. As John was driving the big heavy ore wagon by the place where the blooded horse was kept, the man came out and told him that the fine blooded horse was dead—that he had something terrible. They had sent to Salt Lake City for the best veterinary they could find, but he died regardless. “Four thousand dollars gone to the dogs,” John said as he told us of the loss. “And I had to drag him off. Mulliner never had a team on the place,” he said.
Just ten days later the fine grey team he had turned down the six hundred dollars for were both sick with the same disease. We got a veterinary, too, but they both died. Then one horse after another died, among them the fine colt whose mother was killed. There were eighteen fine animals—all valuable, big work horses. No one else lost any horses. They even changed the highway so they would miss our place by miles. They called the disease a pestilence.
After all that loss, my brothers decided to go and look for a new home. My mother rejoiced exceedingly, although the loss had been tremendous to us. She felt the Lord had answered her prayers. John and Frank bought a pair of fine saddle horses. They never even brought them on the place for fear they would take the disease. The boys were somehow drawn to Star Valley, Wyoming. It was a new country just coming up for settlement. We left for our new home in September of 1888. Our Father, Cyrus Tolman, came from Goose Creek, Idaho, to help us make the move.
Margaret wrote, “Our boys built corrals and mangers, etc., a mile away to keep the teams as they purchased them. They fumigated harnesses, boiled bridle bits, fumigated saddles, etc., before they ever took them near the new teams. They were in mortal fear when they drove up to the house to load in our belongings. They unhitched from the wagons and rushed the horses off the premises immediately. Then when all was loaded, they hooked up again and rushed off as quickly as possible.
“I will never forget our feelings; no one had been near the place for months. So we practically gave the place away to a man for a band of horses—thirty head to be exact. There were six hundred and forty acres of as fine a land that ever was, all level as a table. The place seemed cursed.”
THE MOVE TO STAR VALLEY
The trip to Star Valley was very hard and even after they arrived Margaret’s life was filled with sacrifice and endurance. She knew very little comfort, but she possessed a superb faith to help her under the most trying circumstances. She had prayed continually that her family would leave that country and go where there was a branch of the Church, and her prayers were finally answered.
My brother, Frank, was the one who came back to move us. John stayed in Star Valley and gleaned hay (wild hay) along the river and helped some of the old ranchers put up hay for a share. He also built a cabin for himself and his wife and one for us—a one room cabin about sixteen by eighteen feet with a fireplace. His wife, Jane, came with us. She drove her own team.
Of course, our houses were crude with dirt roofs, but we did have a wood floor. Many of the cabins had only dirt floors. The worst thing about them was the way they could leak when it stormed, and that was often. We used to shovel off the deep snow every time a new fall came. When the summer rains came, we just shoveled out the mud after the rain ceased. There is one instance that happened on our way to Star Valley that I should mention.
We went through Logan, Cache Valley, on our way to Star Valley, through Logan Canyon, and on to Bear Lake Valley, Idaho. We had relatives there; my mother’s sister, Millie Maughn and family lived there. Uncle Joe Maughn tried to get us to stay there for the winter, but we could not do it, as John was expecting us every day. In going through the narrow canyon it was quite dangerous with a big load and a four-horse team to pass the long lines of wagons hauling lumber. Frank drove the big wagon. He was a young man about twenty years old at the time. Father drove the carriage we rode in, and Aunt Jane drove her wagon. Emery Barrus drove his and my sister Martha’s wagon. They were married on the way out there. When they got to Logan they were married in the Logan Temple. She was my only sister, ten years my senior.
That morning after camping in the canyon, Orson went on driving the cattle ahead. Frank started with the big load ahead of our buggy as we were clearing up the camp. Just ahead a few hundred feet was a very narrow dugway. Frank met four or five loaded teams hauling lumber. He had the upper side which was his right. The men demanded that he pull onto the lower side next to the river. He refused. They had words, as he was only a boy alone with the outfit, they demanded he pull down. He left his outfit standing on the upper side and ran back to camp for his rifle. He was not going to move his team. Mother would not let him take the rifle. While they were arguing about it, the team of lumber drove by. They had moved Frank’s outfit down on the lower side and had left it standing with the bank crumbling away under the hind wheels. When Frank returned, he could see the danger his outfit was in. A man drove up and tried to help him. The outcome was that our load of furniture was upside-down in Logan River.
Mother was praying that no harm would come to Frank. He had removed the lead team and was on the lower side, driving. When he spoke to the horses they moved the wagon and he said the whole bank gave away, but it seemed the wagon hung in mid air long enough for him to jump to safety. We lost most everything we owned in the way of furniture. The trusty old New World cookstove, the only stove my mother had ever owned, was smashed and lay visible in the river with our crockery for some ten years. So when we arrived in Star Valley, Mother had to cook on the fireplace for a year before we could find another stove. Baking bread for a family of six in a bake oven is no snap. It was hard work, too, bending over so much.
Mother said that at one time when she was praying she told Him (the Lord) that she was willing to sacrifice every earthly comfort if she could get her family among the Latter-day Saints. He seemed to take her at her word. We simply had nothing left but a Singer sewing machine which was not paid for. It had been taken to pieces and packed in a box for the trip. The box broke and Frank would stoop down and dive under the clear water and pick up each piece and pass it to the bank where Mother dried the pieces carefully not daring to hope that all parts would be found, but they were. Not even a bobbin was missing. She dried and oiled the parts so carefully they never rusted one particle. She again thanked the Lord.
We camped for three days repairing things before moving on. Uncle Joe Maughn wanted us to sue the lumber company for damages, but Mother’s hatred of going to court prevented it. During that second night a big grizzly bear came sniffing about the camp and walked right over our bed. We told the men that were repairing the road and helping us and showed them old Bruin’s tracks. They killed him just above our camp. It was the largest bear they had ever seen, and the only one we had ever seen.
FIRST WINTER IN STAR VALLEY
I shall always remember that first winter in Star Valley. We arrived late in the fall. We knew no one. I remember Fred Brown who later we learned to love as a good neighbor. He was plowing out a small patch of potatoes nearby. He was alone. Mother asked me to go up and offer to pick up potatoes. I was a husky twelve-year old girl, but was timid with strangers. We were very hungry for potatoes and there were none within forty miles that we could buy. I worked like a veteran. We soon had all the patch picked up. He loaded my apron full, and I felt mighty proud to lug home all I could carry. He piled them until I could carry no more. I felt like a million dollars when we had baked potatoes for supper.
The next day Mr. Brown drove up to the house and unloaded six big sacks of potatoes to pay for my helping him, he told Mother and me. Of course, he knew we had no potatoes for winter, but now we had enough until we could get more.
That winter was a hard one. The snow was high over the fences. We could sleigh ride right over the fences when the snow crusted. Our little store of hay was soon gone. The boys took the horses up on the mountains and moved them about on the south side of the hills when the snow could melt.
The canyon to Montpelier was impassable because of the deep snow. Mail was carried on snowshoes, so it was impossible to haul feed for the animals. We made one trip eighty miles for grain before the canyon was closed. That, however, never lasted long enough. The boys would walk up the nearby canyons where they were trying so hard to keep our animals alive. We had quite a bunch of fine horses from trading the place in Rush Valley. Besides, we had four teams of good horses and ten or twelve head of cattle. One after another succumbed and three or four other horses. Among them was Old Doll, Mother’s buggy horse. We had traded for a buggy.
It looked as if the canyon would soon be open for freighting although our team was too weak and poor for such a trip. But we might be able to buy feed soon; so we took heart.
One day as John came by, Mr. Allred stood weeping like a child. All his cattle were dead but thirty-two head. He told John that if he, John, would take them away where he could not hear their cries for food, that he, John, could have every one of them. This gift was too much for John to refuse, so all that were able to walk he brought a mile to our place. Some were too weak to move. But he had not one pound of food to give them. We had only one sack of oats left for that team and buggy horse and the cow that still remained. But John thought that somehow he could feed thirty cows more.
The elk and deer were so near starved to death that at one time Orson, while up Spring Creek moving the horses from place to place, even shoveling away snow, found a deer so weak that he killed it with a club and pocket knife and carried part of it home. We literally lived on boiled deer and elk meat and bread. We did have flour, and it was an occasion when we had potatoes. There wasn’t one speck of fat on the meat—even the bones had no marrow in them. So it was nothing to get all the meat—such as it was—that we could use. For months at a time we did not have grease enough to grease a dripper. Mother used flour (dry) to keep the loaves from sticking.
The next morning, after John became a “stockman,” nineteen head were dead. They kept my mother awake all night bawling. In three days there were none alive—all dead. Thirty-two head of dead cattle and no way to get rid of their carcasses all right near the house! It just about drove Mother crazy.
Still, things looked brighter. It was early March and a chinook set in and melted the snow on the south side of the hills. So it looked as if spring was just around that proverbial corner. On the ninth of March it began raining in the evening, and our one cow that was left was due to freshen at any minute. Believe it or not, we were messing her with soup and boiled deer meat and she loved it! We added a little oats and some straw from under the carpet.
When we awoke on the morning of the tenth of March, we could not see out the small window. The rain had turned to snow and forty inches of fresh snow had fallen—almost four feet! There were only twelve to eighteen inches the evening before with no snow on the sunny slopes of the mountains.
The men dug their way to the stable where Old Rose was kept. Mother had her stew prepared. They found she had a little calf, and of course it was alive, so they had to kill it. I cried when they killed it. The mother was so weak she could not stand, but that undying faith of my mother told us she would live and give us milk. And she did. For months she was so weak she could not bawl, just go through the motions, with no sound. She would come to the door and beg for her stew and try to bawl. We were so happy when she could get up without being helped. It was the first of June when she could do that. She gave us four to six quarts of milk each day during her days of recuperation.
About noon on the tenth of that March we saw a dark object wallowing through the snow up at the top of the field. Snow was up almost to a man’s armpits. We all had a guess as to who or what it could be. The sun was shining brightly and it really was a warm day. The snow was melting as fast as possible.
Some said the object was a man; some imagined it was a horse. It came very slowly, staggering and lunging along. John was watching. “It’s old Maud!” he exclaimed. “As sure as the world!”
And so it was—one of the horses of our only team left. A fine sorrel mare she was, ready to foal any time. She walked right up to our door and whinnied. She was so weak she was trembling. I think that was about the first time in my life I saw John really weep. He put his arms around her neck and we all cried. Mother went to one of her straw beds and pulled out some straw so nasty and dusty that she moistened it with salted water to settle the dust. Old Maud ate every straw. I carried her some stew that was prepared for the cow and she ate that, too.
They took her out to the stable and put her in beside Old Rose. The next morning when John went out, she had a lovely little sorrel colt. The colt was walking around, but the mother could not get up. John came in and told us. He said he’d have to knock the colt in the head, and how he hated to do it. But the mother was so weak, the only possible chance for her life was to never let the colt nurse her. And there is where I come in. I set up the biggest howl you ever heard. I promised to give the colt all the milk that would be my share. Of course, in the end, John gave me the colt.
I fared fine until Old Rose’s milk was fit for us to use. But Mother felt a lot the way I felt, in fact, they all wanted the colt to live, which she did! She was soon eating everything I ate. I even divided my bread with her. She liked stew as well as her mother and Old Rose. It never made any of them sick.
We emptied the straw ticks, and we slept cold and the slats just about broke our backs. I moved out onto the floor and let them empty my tick entirely. Also, we fed them all the straw from under the carpet. In two or three weeks we were able to buy a little grain to feed them, as the whole valley turned out and broke the road through the canyon.
FRANK, THE BIG HUNTER
I missed one little incident that happened in Rush Valley. I think you will enjoy it. It was late in the fall, two or three years before we left. Water was very scarce. It seemed two deer wandered down in the valley and were hunting water. They smelled the water in our cistern. Frank, a boy about eighteen years old, happened to look out the window and saw the two deer. He rushed and grabbed his old muzzle-loading rifle, with powder and ball and cap, and loaded it. He ordered the family to stay inside and he crept out into the high sagebrush and took aim over a fence pole and fired. The deer were standing side by side, broadside to him. He aimed for the heart and the ball went through both deer. One fell; the other ran for a half mile, then it fell. He got them both. The first deer he ever saw, and killed them both with one shot. I always thought that was quite a record. I doubt if any man living ever killed more game in a lifetime than your Uncle Frank. He always got his meat.
In Star Valley years later, every hunter wanted to go with Frank. He was very lucky, and had some hair-raising experiences, especially with bears. I can’t attempt to tell all of them here, but I will tell you of one experience he had in Star Valley down on Grey’s River.
LOADING THE BULLETS
Frank was a young man about twenty or twenty-one years of age. In those days they would reload their copper shells several times. I remember how my brother Orson and I would load shells when Frank was preparing for a hunt. We would first melt lead bars into liquid, then pour it into bullet molds. Our molds held six bullets. After the bullets hardened, we would open the molds and drop the bullets out onto the rock hearth of the fireplace. We soon learned it would take thirty minutes to an hour for them to cool. While they were cooling, we would cap the shells. I would place the cap in place and Orson would place it onto a sort of mold and pull down on the lever to press the cap firmly into place.
Many times it would explode the cap and maybe burn Orson’s hands a bit. And with that fear ever present, it was exciting to say the least. The next step was my job. I had a tin measured about the size of a thimble. This I filled with powder which I poured into the shell, then Orson pushed in a wad and then the bullet, and again placed it into a sort of a mold and pressed it firmly into place. This was rather dangerous. He always held the mold out away from any of us. Just once, however, did the shell go off while pressing the ball into place. It did no harm because of our Guardian Angel’s watchful care. Mother always taught us that if we served the Lord our Guardian Angel would have care over us.
I remember a picture that hung on the wall. It was of two tiny children walking near a precipice; their Guardian Angel was standing between them and death. These angels were pictured with wings. Mother told us angels never had wings; we, of course, thought the artist did not know as much as our precious mother, and it made us proud of her.
BIG, BAD BEAR HUNTER, FRANK!
Well, now for the bear story. Sometimes if the shells were reloaded too many times they seemed to stretch out and occasionally stick in the gun. This happened once and almost lost Frank his life. He and two companions were hunting big game down on Grey’s River. It seems that as Frank used to relate it to us, that it was nearly sundown. The older men wanted to wait until morning before leaving camp.
Frank described the little valley to be some two miles wide and six or seven miles long. He said there was a little creek running down the valley, and about a mile and a half away from where they were making camp was a dense grove of pines. He said he picked up his rifle and told the men he was going to look the country over and would be back by dark. He made his way up the little creek; just as he got into the grove of pines he heard a splashing in the water. He sneaked up through the brush to where he expected to find a beaver at work. Instead it was a large cub bear wallowing and splashing in the water. He thought what a fine little rug his hide would make and shot him. He immediately set about skinning his prey. The sun had gone down; it was almost dark. On his way back to camp, just a few hundred feet from where he had killed and skinned the cub, he saw another cub playing in the water. He shot it. Fine, two rugs. Not bad for just a little evening stroll. He knew he must hurry if he was to get this little bruin skinned before it was too dark to see. Frank began to feel uneasy. Some unseen power told him that danger was lurking nearby. So he carried his gun right up to the cub and laid it down beside him. He said the brush was quite dense near him and he thought he’d better drag the bear into the open where he could see him better. He had just pulled it out of the creek when a terrific crash and a growl made the fact known to him that he had company—an enraged grizzly bear. She was not more than ten or twelve feet away as she crashed through the brush, walking on all fours. Then she raised on her hind feet, and with a snarl, sprang toward Frank. Of course, he drew his rifle, snapped in a new shell, or tried to, into the magazine, but the old reloaded shell hung into the gun. He had no time for anything. He dropped the gun and sprang for the nearest tree, not nearly large enough, but the best he could make; and that was not quite good enough. As he shinnied up, Madam Bruin took out the seat of his pants and riddled what remained until they scarcely hung on him. As a last token of souvenir, Mother Bruin got the sole of one shoe.
I guess it is absolutely impossible to vicariously live those few minutes, but we can imagine a little of what Frank went through. He and his companions had agreed on a signal that if they were ever in need or in danger, they were to fire three shots in succession.
Frank was in need all right—in danger, too—but he could give no signal. Mrs. Bruin could almost reach his perch. To guarantee a little more defense, Frank broke a limb from the tree and when she got too near, or near enough for him to reach her, he would pound her on the nose. A bear’s nose, so they say, is very vulnerable. She would let out a growl and go away for some time, but never left her prey far enough to allow Frank to get his gun and extract the shell and reload. Meanwhile back at camp the men ate supper. They were very tired, and both fell asleep while they were waiting for Frank to return. They figured that he had gone farther than he should have, and darkness had overtaken him before he could find his way back.
“Oh, he can build a fire and keep warm till morning,” the Bishop reasoned, for he and Frank had been hunting many times together and they had done that very thing. “Old Frank can look after himself. When daylight comes he’ll get his bearings and be in camp.”
This was Bishop John Dewey, the first bishop in Fairview, Wyoming, and the second bishop in Star Valley. They were very familiar with that part of the country as they had acted as guides many times for Easterners on hunting trips.
Frank told us that as daylight came, the old mother bear seemed to be much interested in the dead cub. She nuzzled it and whined. Then she seemed to scent the other one up the creek. She left, growling and sniffing Frank’s tracks. She came upon the skin where Frank had dropped it, and rubbed her head on it and whined and growled. Frank said she displayed all the sorrow a
human mother might have shown.
This was Frank’s chance. When she was out of sight, he dropped from his perch and grabbed his gun. He took his knife and pried the shell out. He opened a new, fresh box of shells he had never shot (he carried them in his jacket pocket); and after expelling all the cartridges, he reloaded with fresh shells. He said he had hardly made ready until he heard the old bear returning. He waited until she was very near. She reared up and came toward him with open mouth. He took a bead and hit her full in the mouth, but still she came. Next shot hit her heart –this time she was very near to him. He said when she fell, she was only a few steps from his feet.
So we had three fine bear rugs for our cabin. Later Frank sold the large one for fifty dollars to our merchant, Mr. Roberts.
I might add that Frank’s trousers were a sight to behold. He had cut rawhide thongs from raw deer hides, and patched them with canvas, using a pocket knife for a needle. They should have been kept as a souvenir.
After Frank had related the above story, my dear mother added as always, “Well, Son, your Guardian Angel was certainly near.”
“Yes,” he laughed, “but he failed to watch over my trousers and the sole of my shoe.” Frank came home with one foot swathed in a piece of deerskin.
Frank’s life was miraculously saved many, many times. I feel in my heart that our Father in Heaven was ready to receive him into His Kingdom when he met his death at the age of seventy-six years.
Grandmother Tolman, Old Doll, and the Peep Stone Woman
by Luella Barrus Balls
One spring when school was out and they got ready to drive home to Star Valley from Logan, the family couldn’t find “Old Doll.” Grandma Tolman was with them and it was her old mare. They figured she had started home, but couldn’t find her anywhere. Finally they went to the “Peep Stone Woman.” I had better explain what that is. Some people had a gift, and they would put this stone in a hat, put something dark around them, and look into the stone. They would be able to see things and help people. Dad said everyone had their own special stone if they could find it.
Anyway, Dad went to this woman and she looked into the stone and said, “Brother Barrus, I can see a mare and she has her head straight out and her tail straight out.”
Dad told us, “I know she could see that old mare of ours because I hadn’t told her how she looked, and no other horse looked like Old Doll!”
The old lady said, “She’s standing by a little creek that winds around and around.”
When they found Old Doll she was standing by a little creek called Worm Creek. This woman didn’t know the folks at all, but she had some kind of power. I know the Church doesn’t encourage anything like that now.
Grandma Tolman (Margaret Eliza) was glad to get her old mare back. When there wasn’t something special to do at home, someone would hitch “Old Doll” up to the buggy and Grandma would go visiting. Different ones have told me how they remember seeing her drive around with a purple dress on that had puffed sleeves. She would visit her children and relatives and friends and it was probably the happiest time of her life because she had such a hard early life. Uncle Cot (Orlando Tolman Barrus) told me on his last visit how he would go with her when she went to visit. He seemed to be a favorite of hers, and would go along to tie the horse up for her and help her in and out of the buggy. She was quite a heavy woman.
One day Old Doll had the colic so they hitched another horse on the buggy. Cot got in, then something spooked the horse and it ran away with him. Grandma immediately went back to the house, knelt down by the heater stove, and prayed that the little boy would be safe. He wasn’t thrown out of the buggy and it didn’t tip over, and someone was able to get the horse stopped. He could have been killed, but the little white-haired boy was safe. That’s why they called him “Cot,” because his hair was the color of cotton.
When Grandma got older she got a lingering illness of dropsy (heart trouble) and wasn’t able to lie down at all. She had to spend all her time in a chair, and finally she felt her time had come. By her own hands she made her complete burial outfit. She displayed it to her friends and neighbors as proudly as a young bride would her wedding garments. During her last illness and while suffering extreme pain, she never failed to obtain relief from administration. She realized the end was near and finally said that was the day she wanted to die. She asked all the Primary children, in which organization she labored for years, to come to the house and sing the songs she requested, (“Little Children Love the Savior.”), then she seemed happy and content. (Some family accounts say that just before her death she called all her grandchildren to her bedside. Nineteen were present. She had them sing, “Little Children Love the Savior.” She bid each farewell and selected all the musical numbers to be sung at her funeral. Then she said she was very sleepy, and lay back on the pillow and fell asleep without even a flinch of a muscle….to awake in the Spirit World. She had Dad (Emery Freeman Barrus) dedicate her to the Lord, and it wasn’t long until she died on May 18, 1903. She was living at my parents’ home (Emery and Martha Tolman Barrus) at the time. She died as she had lived, true to the faith. Though greatly afflicted, she never complained. She bore a strong, powerful testimony to her children.
Fanny Brown told me that she was a young girl when Grandma Tolman died, and she and her brother asked their mother if they could go to the dance.
Sister Pead, the dear old blind woman who was our neighbor, replied, “Oh, you wouldn’t go to a dance with dear Sister Tolman lying over there dead. On, no!” That wouldn’t be respectful!” So they didn’t go to the dance.
Martha was buried in the Fairview, Wyoming Cemetery.
Visit FamilySearch to learn more about Margaret Eliza Utley, Also visit the Thomas Tolman Family Organization to find out how you can get more involved in family history.