Chapter XVIII

MALCOLM CLARK.

A few years ago, Colonel Wilbur F. Sanders, President of the Historical Society of Montana, justly claiming my brother as one of the earliest pioneers of Montana Territory, requested me to furnish the society with a sketch of his life, feeling that without it, the records would be incomplete.

His career was peculiar, and in order that those who come after us may have a correct account of it, I insert here the substance of the sketch prepared at the request of Colonel Sanders:

My brother Malcolm Clark was the oldest child of our parents and their only son. He was born July 22d, 1817, at Fort Wayne, Indiana. When he was two years old our home was at Fort Snelling, where we remained for eight years. He was a handsome, bright-eyed, brave and venturesome boy, and soon began to develop a very decided taste for field sports of all kinds, becoming a ready pupil and prime favorite of Captain Martin Scott, widely known as the veritable Nimrod of those days. He was constantly running risks even in his plays, and had some miraculous escapes. But his fortitude and endurance of pain were very remarkable, and his great ambition was to bear himself under all circumstances like a true soldier.

One of my earliest recollections of him is seeing him mounted on his beautiful pony, riding without saddle or bridle, his arms extended, his eyes flashing, and his soft brown hair waving in the wind. This early training in daring horsemanship made him, as all who knew him can testify, a perfect rider. He was very quick to resent anything that looked like an imposition, or an infringement of his rights, it mattered not who was the aggressor. On one occasion, during the temporary absence of the Surgeon, he fell and cut his mouth so badly that it was feared the injury might be very serious.

Colonel Snelling, who had some knowledge of surgery, volunteered to repair the damaged feature, but when he attempted to use the needle, Malcolm, who felt he was not duly authorized, refused to let him touch it, shaking his tiny fist in his face, by way of menace. The Colonel laughingly retreated, and recommended sticking-plaster, which answered an admirable purpose.

A few years later I assisted the Surgeon in dressing a wound which Malcolm had accidentally inflicted on his own arm with a knife, and, although the operation of probing and cleansing it was perfect torture, he submitted to it patiently and without a sound of complaint.

He was a loving, affectionate boy, full of real chivalry and true nobility. Being next in age, I was his constant companion, and his kind, loving consideration of me is deeply impressed upon me. When for some years Cincinnati was our home, he attended a classical school in that city, taught by Alexander Kinmont, a Scotchman, somewhat celebrated as an educator of boys, and by his high sense of honor and his engaging manners he endeared himself to his teacher and fellow pupils. He had a real reverence for his female associates; indeed, his ideas of womanhood, in general, were very exalted. He guarded me most sacredly from anything which might offend my sense of delicacy, and was ready to do battle with any one who spoke slightingly of a lady.

At one time a young school-mate made some improper remarks concerning a young girl acquaintance of Malcolm's, who bade him take back his words. On his refusing to do this, my brother seized the fellow, who was larger and stouter than he, and gave him a pretty severe punishment, receiving himself, however, a bad cut on his head from falling on a sharp stone. But neither the pain of his wound nor the rebukes of his friends could make him feel that he had done anything more than justice, and he bore his sufferings with the spirit of a knight who had been wounded in defense of his "faire ladye." While at school he manifested a marked talent for public speaking, and took the highest rank in elocution in the Kinmont Academy, and I think that all through his life this gift of eloquence gave him a power over those with whom he mingled. I recall distinctly my sisterly pride in him when at an exhibition he delivered that wonderful speech of Marc Antony over the dead body of Cæsar; and when the terrible news of his tragical death reached me, I seemed to hear again the infinite pathos of his voice in the words, "And thou, Brutus!" The man who treacherously took his precious life had been to him as a son, had shared his home, and received from him nothing but favors. Well might he have exclaimed, "And thou, Ne-tus-cho!" as e'en under the protecting shadow of his own home the brave man fell, pierced by the deadly ball. At seventeen he was entered at West Point, where, owing to his early military associations and training, he stood well as a capable, well-drilled soldier, and was soon put in command of a company. In this capacity he acquitted himself in such a way as to win the approval of his superior officers and the confidence of his fellow Cadets.

But one of his company, who had been derelict in duty and had been reported accordingly, accused him of making a false report, and this in those days was an accusation not to be borne. Consequently my impetuous brother, with a mistaken sense of honor, fostered by the teachings and usages of fifty years ago, sent the young man a challenge. Instead of accepting or declining it, he took it to the Commandant, thus placing himself in a most unfavorable light.

The next morning at breakfast roll-call my brother stepped out before his company, and, seizing his adversary by the collar, administered to him a severe flogging with a cowhide. This, of course, was a case that called for a court-martial, the result of which was my brother's dismissal, the sentence, however, recommending him to mercy. It was intimated to him by some high in authority that by making proper concessions he would be reinstated. This he would not do, and took the consequences.

In the light of the great improvement in public sentiment with regard to such matters, the young man's course must be condemned, but great allowance must be made for the code of honor in force at that time, and nowhere so strenuously insisted on, as in military circles. Several duels had been fought between the officers at Fort Snelling while that was our home, and Malcolm had heard with delight and awe of the prowess of his hero, Captain Scott, who, as already narrated in these records, had soon after his appointment in the regular army given a final quietus to a young West Point officer who had snubbed and insulted the Green Mountain boy, whose career opened in a volunteer regiment in the war of 1812, instead of at the Military Academy. These influences account for, and in a great measure excuse my rash brother's conduct in this affair. We deeply deplored this event, which changed the whole tenor of his life; and yet, there lies on my table as I write, his defense before the military tribunal, and I confess to a thrill of pride as I read the manly, fearless, yet thoroughly respectful and courteous document, and I feel very sure that a most efficient, high-minded officer was lost to the service, when my brave, true brother suffered the penalty of a boyish folly.

Soon after this he started for Texas to join the desperate men there in their struggle for independence.

During his journey to the "Lone Star" State a characteristic incident occurred which may be worthy of mention. On the voyage from New Orleans to Galveston, the Captain of the ship refused to keep his agreement with his passengers in regard to furnishing ice and other absolute necessaries, thus endangering their health and making their situation thoroughly unendurable. After unsuccessful efforts to bring the Captain to reason, my brother took command himself, placed the Captain, heavily ironed, in close confinement, and thus landed in Galveston. Then he released his prisoner, and repaired immediately to General Sam Houston's quarters to give himself up for mutiny on the high seas. His story had preceded him, and, on presenting himself, the President exclaimed: "What! is this beardless boy the desperate mutineer of whom you have been telling me?" And, after inquiring into the affair, feeling thoroughly convinced that, according to the laws of self-defense, my brother's conduct was justifiable, dismissed him, with some very complimentary remarks on his courageous behavior. The young hero was loudly cheered by the populace, and borne on their shoulders in triumph to his hotel.

He soon after received a commission in the Texan army, where he served faithfully till the war was ended, and then returned to Cincinnati, at that time our widowed mother's home.

While in the Southwest, he was one day riding entirely alone through a wilderness, in some part of Texas, I think, when he saw in the distance, riding directly towards him, his old West Point antagonist, who had so far lost caste at that institution as to be obliged to resign about the time of my brother's dismissal. He had learned that Malcolm was in the country, whither he also had drifted, and had threatened to take his life, if ever he crossed his path. My brother, knowing of this threat, of course, concluded that when he met his enemy there would be a deadly encounter. Both were heavily armed; Malcolm had two pistols, but had discharged one at a prairie hen a short time before, and had forgotten which one was still loaded. It would not do to make investigations in the very face of his foe; so with his hand on one of them, and his keen eye firmly fixed on the man, he rode on, determined not to give one inch of the road. Thus they approached each other, neither yielding; my brother's steady gaze never relaxing, till just as their mules almost touched one another, his enemy gave the road, and Malcolm went on, feeling that very probably his foe would shoot him from behind, but never looking back, till, by a turn in the road, he knew he was out of sight, when he drew a long breath, and felt that he had been in a pretty tight place. The next news he had of his adversary was, that he had been killed in a drunken row in some town in Texas.

Failing to find in Cincinnati, business congenial to his taste, my brother obtained, through our father's life-long friend, Captain John Culbertson, an appointment in the American Fur Company, and went to one of their stations on the Upper Missouri. At this time he was just twenty-four years old; at the time of his death he was fifty-two, so that more than half his life was spent in the Indian country. The story of his life in the Far West is full of incident. Soon after his arrival in the Blackfoot country he won the name of Ne-so-ke-i-u (the Four Bears), by killing four Grizzlies one morning before breakfast, which remarkable feat gave him high rank in the estimation of the tribe. How he traded successfully among these Indians, in all cases studying their best interests; how he came to be looked upon as a great and powerful chief; how he identified himself with them by marrying among them; how, by his deeds of daring, his many miraculous escapes, his rare prowess and skill, and his wonderful personal influence over them, he obtained the dignity of a "Medicine Man," in whom they professed implicit faith and confidence, are facts well known to all who knew him.

And, how, when the eager, grasping whites encroached upon their territory, seeing before them the fate that had befallen all the other tribes among whom white settlements had been opened up, these Indians feared that this man, whose hair had whitened among them, would take part with his own people against them, and made a foul conspiracy against his life, treacherously stilling the heart that had beat with kindness and affection for them, are grievous facts in the history of his beloved Montana, on which I need not and cannot dwell.

In sketching the record of this life from early childhood to its tragic ending, I seem to see again before me my beautiful, bright-eyed brother, a boy of whom I was very proud, and who was, to me, the embodiment of everything brave, and manly, and true. I follow him in his eventful life, and while I realize that his impetuosity sometimes led him to do things which were not wise, and which he afterwards regretted, yet above all these errors and mistakes, rises the memory of his unswerving integrity; his fidelity to his friends; his high sense of honor, between man and man; his almost womanly tenderness towards those whom he loved; his rare culture and refinement; his affable, genial and courteous manners; his hospitality and large-heartedness,—all entitling him richly, to