Shorty Brannan

a real tale by my grandfather, Bee Knapp

The Missouri is a slow river and the ice freezes real deep. My cousin liked to load a sleigh full of folks and go to the UL ranch for a couple of days to dance. He had his horses sharp ice shod. He liked to drive four horses.

In June the water would come out from Three Forks and the Little Rockies. It would cover the ice. That which got under at rapids and waterfalls made a lot of pressure and the ice would blow. Ice jams would be heard 20-25 miles away.

One of the Missouri River ‘steaders was a little Irishman named Shorty Brannan. One time he got caught by a vicious hailstorm. There was a high wind and hail the size of goose egg.  The only shelter he found was a coyote den.  Brannan crawled in headfirst as far as he could go. He saved his life, but couldn’t sit down for some time.

Shorty had a homestead on the south side of the river. He had to boat to or swim to it in the summer. In winter he could cross on the ice.

The Missouri didn’t seem to dampen his spirits or interfere with his instinct to be a gentleman.  Brannan wasn’t sloppy.  He wore a suit, a white canvas suit. He kept it neat. Shorty rode a small, tough horse named Snookums. He kept the horse neat, too.

I was working for one of the Sun Prairie ranchers. That was the bachelor named Gus Tank. He homesteaded north of the river in the Lairb Hills. My father was a fine fiddler. Gus’s mansion was small, only one room, but the neighbors were aching for a party. Two of those pretty, half-breed Reynolds girls came down and said that they were going to have a dance and I was going to be the fiddler. They moved the bed and table outdoors and made a cake. The Sun Prairie people turned out with their jugs, and they danced all night. After breakfast the next morning some of the partiers had to get back to their own homesteads.

One girl, who had a homestead, was a “Blackdutch,” dark haired, single lady. I told her I’d get someone to ride home with her. Then I got Al McNeil aside and told him that Bertha sure needed an escort. The two left on what was the first step toward the hitching post.

Some of the others at the cabin decided they needed to stay around a little longer. They wanted to show off their riding abilities. Bill was a local cowboy who had taken a shine to my sister, Leone. He rode every bronc on the place and was chosen to bust out Gus’ six year old bull.

A couple of hands snubbed the big animal to a post and put a sursingle on him. Bill climbed topside and managed to stay there. The bull sunfished across the meadow but couldn’t get rid of his rider so he headed for the pond. He stopped in the middle of it. Only the bull’s head, hump and rider stuck out of the water. Bill was spurring and waving his hat but to no avail. He had the wettest boots in the country and was hollering for a pickup rider. The bull was in a balk.

Shorty Brannan went to the rescue. He bragged that Snookums could handle any critter on the prairie. Shorty climbed aboard, white canvas suit and all, and urged his horse into the pond. He threw the rope, a perfect shot over the bull’s horns.  Brannan dallied a hitch around the saddle horn. When Snookums pulled out the slack, the bull flipped his head sideways and upset the horse. Shorty came dragging out of there, by golly. His suit was in disarray. He washed his clothes down, got on old Snookums. The last we seen of him he was riding over the hill without saying a word.

Bill sort of tarnished his record as a bull rider. He come out wet and muddy. It was just as well. Later on Leone married Charlie Sherod.

A winter or two later, Shorty Brannan was riding Snookums across the river. They fell through a blow hole on the Missouri ice and washed down the stream under the Ice.  They didn’t find them until the spring thaw.  

Old Gray Mare

by my guest author, Robert B Ward

The senior citizen at the sawmill on the Sweetgrass was named Nina Bea after the Basin Creek School teacher. Her teammate was Dolly Grey. When Dolly died back in 39, the years started catching up on Nina – seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. That’s getting old for a horse, and the last years — well if you were part of a team, you’d know. The last years were lonely. When you’d stabled with your partner on your off side for fifteen years, pulled a wagon  with her on the off side, grazed together, keeping the same formation – then things just aren’t the same. Those younger ones didn’t have the memories, weren’t teammates. 

So it was Nina went into retirement.  

In late fall when the hill pasture was dried up, and the grass was short, the gray mare, now turned white, was put in the small field with better pasture, and then in the hay meadow after the hay was taken off. She gleaned with the milk cows until snow covered the ground, then she had her own rest home in the horse barn with fresh hay every night and a can of ground oats every day. That was the way a horse should retire after long years of service. Bud Ward kept her under special care. She whickered when she saw him and strolled toward the barn door in cold weather. Twenty years plus and heading for more.  

She’d been born black. Her father was a Percheron State Champion and a ton of horseflesh. First picture of Bud Ward’s team of mares shows Dolly brown and broad, and Nina, a rich dapple gray, some two or three hands taller. The dapples faded to white, and the white was whiter. That’s the way with dapple gray work horses.

Spring came, snow melting spring, not grass growing weather. Bud let the old girl in the barn and she ate the can of ground oats, walked out of the barn where she wouldn’t cause any disturbance taking her out, lay down flat and breathed her last. That was the right way to go. Bud Ward pulled the pipe out of his mouth and turned away. He felt like he was getting old, too.

The Crazies

by my guest author, Robert B Ward

For decades the land between the Yellowstone and Musselshell Rivers in Montana was the home of Crow and Blackfoot Indians.  They hunted in rolling hills carpeted with buffalo grass. They pitched their summer teepees in the shadows of snowcapped peaks which stretched fifty miles from valley to valley.

Today this range is spoken of as the Crazy Mountains.  The Indians had a better name.  They called them the Birdsong Mountains.  They believed that they were endowed with special powers.  Like the people of Old Testament times, the Redman turned to the mountains to seek spiritual guidance.  Young men fasted in sweat lodges by the shores of mountain lakes.  They climbed the highest ridges.  They climbed alone.  Night and day, and night and day again, they sat, without shelter and without food as they fought the elements to prove that they were men.  By day the wind blew upon them, and the sun beat down.  At night they stood on the spine of a mountain.  They stood amongst the stars.  Those on the far horizon were below them.  Above, beside and below – and their hearts leaped into their throats and out of their chest and rested among the stars.

The Redmen climbed Conical, Idings and Jack Rabbit Peaks – places where the wind only stops blowing to shift gears or change directions.  They scaled Crazy Peak topped by two pillars of granite 11,809 feet above sea level.  Here a Brave could have a vision which would shape his future.  “It is a great thing to believe in immortality,” Robert L. Stevenson said, “but first of all it is necessary to believe in life.”  On the crest of the mountain a Brave found a deeper dimension of life.

It was as if the Great Spirit stood astride the skyline and communed with those who seek him.  Northern neighbors (Pend ‘Oreilles) gave the Supreme Being a double name – Colon Suten; and the Absarokees (Crows) said “Ah-badt-dad-deah” (The-one-who-made-all-things).  The birds sang to his honor and young men searched for him hoping to discover what is and what ought to be.

In Biblical times long past, David, the shepherd boy from the Tribe of Judah, hard pressed by troubles looked to the heights and found a song.  “I will lift up my eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.”  Who can say but that music still echoes from mountain ridges for those with eyes to see and ears to hear.Mountains are for visions.  Not the visions of that which is hallucination, nor for the sight of that which is hallucination, not for the sight of that which is not, but for the voice of inspiration borne by whispering winds which say, “Be still and know that I am God”.  This is the vision of realness which underlies the visible world.

A Sacred Land

The side road between the Big Horn and Pryor Mountains abruptly came to an end. I cautiously stood on the precipice and peered into the Bighorn Canyon below thinking it could swallow me at any moment. 

Massive rugged walls of colorful layers of rock rose 1000 feet from the riverbed. Time and unrelenting forces of wind and water carved the canyon leaving stone sentinels to stand guard along the pea soup green algae water of the Bighorn River that winds through the curvy gorge. 

Not far away in this high dry country between the mountains, I walked along a trail where teepees once stood in the shadow of a rocky cliff. I looked across the valley and could almost envision the camp of teepees, fires burning, little ones playing and helping the women and men as the buffalo harvest was under way. Though the teepees no longer point toward the big sky, the stone rings that once secured them still remain, and so does their story. Wild mustangs, descendants of Spanish horses brought to the area by the Crow Indians, still make their home in the Pryor Range and stand watch over their homeland.

It is said that several hundred years ago, the Crow Chief was instructed in a vision to take his people and “find the mountain range where the sacred tobacco plant grows.” They eventually came to the Bighorn Mountains where the treasured plant continues to live. This area which includes parts of Montana, Wyoming, and South Dakota, became the historical homelands of the Crow Nation. Through this journey, they became known as the Apsáalooke. 

Through an exhibit, “Apsáalooke Women and Warriors,” currently on display at the Museum of the Rockies, we were able to walk through part of their journey. It was a fascinating trail exploring their beginnings in this historical homeland and traveling with them past works of art, and into modern times ending with contemporary clothing intricately designed. My mother would have been in awe of their artistic creations and seamstress expertise. 

The exhibit began with the story of how the Crow tribe came to the area. As I read their brief account, I was amazed to find that the place upon which I had stood among the teepee rings just days before in view of the Bighorn Mountains was in the land the Apsáalooke called home. My thought was, “It is indeed a small world.”

Several miles away from the site of the teepee rings, a baby boy was born into the Crow tribe at the-cliffs-that-have-no-name in 1848. His name was Chiilaphuchissaaleesh, or “Buffalo Bull Facing The Wind.” When he was just a boy he made his way with others to the Crazy Mountains, known to the Crow tribe as Awaxawapiia. The mountains were a sacred place to them. For four days, the young boy fasted and prayed for a vision that would strengthen and guide not only himself, but also the Crow people. He was granted his desire. Later, as the boy grew to a man, he was called Plenty Coups and he became Chief of the Crow tribe.

The Crazy Mountains are still considered a sacred place for the Crow nation as well as those who have lived in the heart and shadows of the mountains. It has been a place of refuge for some, a place to relax and reflect and enjoy beauty beyond description. Many still go there for guidance and to seek a vision.  One writer put it this way: 

“The Crazy Mountains overlook so much more than a landscape. They are keepers of the stories of the past, and they could provide keys for the future. Those who live in the shadow of the Crazies know of their beauty, and others, those who’ve experienced or heard stories of their power, can feel their presence from afar.”

And so it is in a sacred land…

You Can’t Tame Babe

Snowy peaks before him
the valley now behind 
wonder all around him – 
a scene he’d rarely find

The corral now before him
 rodeo in full swing
laughter, whoops and hollers
in his ears did ring

Dust was a’flying
tails waving high,
sunlight above the saddle,
rider’s hat raised to the sky

He knew he’d never tire 
of the beauty he did behold
The wilderness called his name –
True words he had been told

You can’t tame the mountains
You can’t hold back the streams
You can’t harness the wind
or live on yesterday’s dreams

You might shoe an untamed filly,
make a bucking bronc dance,
but you can’t tame Babe,
you dare not take a chance

Amidst all the commotion,
there across the way,
he saw an untamed filly
on which his eyes did stay.

Her braids were black and shiny
Her eyes were ablaze
Her olive skin did glow –
his heart now in a daze.

Like the mighty river
his beating heart roared
Like the eagle overhead
his smitten spirit soared

Surrounded by this beauty
little did he know
that deep into the mountains
his roots now would grow

You can’t tame the mountains
You can’t hold back the streams
You can’t harness the wind
or live on yesterday’s dreams

            He shod an untamed filly
            made a bucking bronc dance
            though he didn’t tame Babe,
             he dared take that chance.

Shall I?

Shall I walk upon
a distant shore
and write my name
upon the sands?

Shall I sail across
open seas
into 
foreign lands?

            Shall I climb to top
            of mountain peaks,
            reach up and touch
            the sky?

            Shall I write a poem
            or sing a song
            or hush 
            a baby’s cry?

                        Shall I walk through
                        fields of flowers,
                        marvel at
                        the setting sun?

                        Shall I gaze into
                        the starry night
                        after the day
                        is done?
sa

Hindu Divide

backing packing over the Crazy Mountains, 1974, as told by my dad

The year before our youngest child graduated from high school, we were having a good summer.  Six refugees from Dixie moved along the ridge as we trudged eastward on our trek from Shields River to the Sweet Grass.  We were at 10,000 feet altitude and above timberline.  We were also above the cloud line.  The sky overhead was blue, but behind us, and below us, a storm was building.    

Black clouds caught on the tops of the forested mounds by the Porcupine Range Station. They climbed through the valley behind us rapidly growing in size. Then in a sudden fury, the storm boiled out of the lowlands and crossed the glaciers.  Lightning jabbed into the barren ridges.  The clouds which engulfed us became fire breathing dragons and chariots for the armies of Mars!  Explosions surrounded us and thunder echoed through narrow gorges.             

We huddled beside an outcropping cliff huddled together taking courage from one another as cold rain slapped our faces.  When the rain ceased, we shivered our way along the crest of the divide.  It was dark and misty.  Then, for an instant, the fog lifted.  From the cliffs below us, valleys branched off like fingers from a hand – Grace Crowell’s blue distances calling like a song.

Ten miles away, to the north, a tiny thread of a highway showed us the route to White Sulphur Springs.  Behind us, dark clouds still hovered over a quilt top of meadows and farmlands.  Southward, a narrow canyon wound into a valley.  Then we reached the end of the ridge and looked down into the headwaters of the Sweet Grass drainage.  A mountain lake came into view.  Campfire Lake, the forest map told us.  But I knew it more by another name.

“Hindu Lake,” Barney Brannin said.  “When you get there, just look at the jagged ridge around the lake and you’ll see why.  There’s a rock on the ridge that looks like an India Indian with a turban on his head.”

“One time,” he said, “two men from India came up the Yellowstone with a party of Englishmen.  These two got put off the boat, or else they left it somewhere between Greycliff and Livingston.  They saw the mountains on the north side of the river and headed for the peaks looking for gold.  Some say they found it.  One of the Hindus returned for supplies but met with foul play before he could get back to the mountains.  His companion, the prospector in the Crazy Mountains, is still on the ridges, waiting for his companion to come back.” 

We looked above the lake toward the southwest.  I caught a glimpse of the Hindu before the mist wiped him out.  Then the rain hit us again.  We were cold, wet and weary when we arrived at the edge of the water.  But there had been a moment that we would remember – a high moment measured by the heart and not by a clock.  We had found a place for seeing – a place for finding oneself. William Stidger put it this way:

“Each soul must seek some Sinai
some far flung mountain peak
where he may hear the thunders roll
and timeless voices speak.”  

Barney Brannin was right.  In this same range Plenty Coups sought wisdom to lead his people. Plenty Coups, Chief of the Crows, could have said it with us.  “Mountains are for visions.”  

Listening for God

an excerpt from a sermon preached on July 30, 2006

Today, my parents would have celebrated their 76th Wedding Anniversary. Sixteen years ago, after their return from celebrating their 60th, Mama came through the back door grinning from ear to ear. That was not my mother’s usual look, but on that particular day she beamed like a smitten teenage girl. She went on and on about what they saw, everything they did, and all their meals. I didn’t recall ever seeing her like that. Little did she know that they had celebrated their last anniversary together. In less than a month, her life was taken prematurely. 

Just a few days after their return from their trip, Daddy filled the pulpit for a pastor friend. His message was entitled “Listening for God.” The following is an excerpt from that message: 

“This week we celebrated our 60th wedding anniversary by going to Helen, GA.  Here’s a story I picked up about old times from those Georgia Blue Mountains” —

“On those mornings when the old wooden bridge would be covered by heavy frost, the sight of his bare footprints would make us hurt all over. He would cross the bridge first, then we would cross. The cold prints of his bare feet would appear as though they had been burned into the planks of the old wooden bridge. The girl would carefully scrape away all signs of his bare footprints with her shiny, expensive little shoes, as if that would make his feet warmer, but when we got to school his feet would still be blue from the cold. I never knew him to own or wear a pair of shoes.

She was the prettiest girl in the whole valley and her father owned one of the largest and finest farms. His family lived back in the mountains, and his father sold moonshine whisky.  He believed that was the reason he had built the wall between the girls and himself.  It was an invisible wall, and Grandma said that was the hardest kind to get rid of.  It was as if he were doing penance for the wrongs of his father by his own suffering.

The war came on. The boy enlisted, and we never saw him gain.  It was the girl’s mother who told Grandma about them seeing the boy for the last time. They had been in Atlanta and were on Peachtree Street.  Everybody stopped so a company of soldiers could march by. Somebody in the crowd said they were going overseas to fight in the war. At their front was a big strapping first sergeant, who except of his uniform and his fine army shoes looked like the barefoot boy from the mountains.

When they reached the girls and her mother, the first sergeant ordered the soldiers to halt.  There they stood, not 10 feet apart, and when he turned and looked into her eyes, the invisible wall came tumbling down with a roar like thunder that must have been heard way back to the valley.  With all those people looking on and hearing what he said, the mountain boy, who had never spoken one word to the girl in all his life, said the three words she most wanted to hear.

He only had a one-way ticket to the hell of France, and she would never see him again. She came back to the valley.  Grandma told us that you would see her come out of the house in the evenings and walk down the road as far as the old wooden bridge. There she would stand for a while, staring at the worn planks as if she hoped to see those bare frosty footprints, even in the hot summertime.”

Now, both of my parents are gone. When I visit the prairies of my mother’s youth or walk in the mountains of my father’s younger days, even then I look for their footsteps. Though I can no longer see their footprints, I often think I hear their faint voices in the wind.

Eyes of the Storm

The Montana sky over the small town of Melstone grew dark as green clouds boiled over the prairies along the Musselshell River. Impregnated clouds unleased balls of hail as the storm swept through the countryside. The Knapp’s grain crop was completely destroyed but even that did not dampen their spirits for their firstborn baby girl made her appearance. That was July 18, 1927, and the newborn was my Mama. 

Her eyes were like green hail clouds, and just like the gathering storm, sometimes my mom was a force to be reckoned with. She was a strict no-nonsense mama who had expectations for her kids and grandkids. Sometimes she was even a bit scary. Those cloudy green eyes could burn a hole right through you and peel back every layer to expose what lay beneath. She held the utmost of values and encouraged others to attain the same heights.

This girl from the prairie came from a long line of survivors, those who traversed across the country and forged new trails that opened the west. At a young age during a time of drought, Mama and her sister saw the countryside from the back of a covered wagon as they made their way from Montana to Idaho in search of good grass and relief from the dry barren land. The family later moved back to Montana where she and her sister attended prairie schools. When she graduated and received her teaching certificate, she taught in a one-room schoolhouse on the prairies of Montana. 

Covered wagons made the trip from Montana to Idaho

Though she loved the prairies, she had a greater love for her little Man of the Mountains and made the Crazy Mountain wilderness her home for a time. Living in the heart of the mountains was no small feat. With harsh winters and few necessities, Mama made a home for her husband and their Montana born children. Encouraging her husband “Buck” to follow God’s call into the ministry, they gathered up their family for the trek South. They added another child, their “Georgia peach,” to their collection of kids and there, she finished her days.

winter in the mountains

Mama was an industrious lady. She made most of our clothes and excelled as a seamstress. She was an artist, calligrapher, homemaker, quilter, made her own bread, canned her own produce, and managed the household. Her home was always a place of open hospitality. Idleness was not an option in her home and any spare time was used in her love of reading. 

Had Mama lived, she would be 95 years old today. Her journey had been a long one from the Montana prairies to the wilderness to the deep South. She lived those years well. Though her life ended abruptly sixteen years ago, I can still see those cloudy green eyes of a storm. Her love of her family and her giving spirit continue to rise over us and bathe us with memories of a gracious lady.