Up: Contents Previous: CHAPTER XIV. INDIAN TROUBLES (Continued). Next: INDEX
Building Boom in Tucson — Leading Merchants—Indian Raids—A. J. Doran's Experience With Pah-Utes — Loyalty of Indians—Biography
of J. W. Sullivan—His Early Experiences in the Territory—Biography of John H. Marion.
About this time, 1867–68, S. W. Foreman made the first survey of Tucson, and, according to Fish, soon after this building
took a boom. Substantial and convenient houses replaced many of the old hovels. Kirtland built the first road from Tucson
to the Santa Rita mountains, and hauled logs into the settlement.
In 1866, according to Hinton, Handbook of Arizona, p. 266, several mercantile firms brought large stocks of goods to the place. Among the leading firms of the early days were
Tully, Ochoa & Company, the senior member of which, P. R. Tully, died in Tucson in the year of 1903. This firm did a very
large business. They were followed, after the removal of the capital to Tucson, and, with it, the opportunities of getting
fat contracts and legislation suitable to the governed classes, resulting in Tucson having quite a revival, by other firms,
among them being that of Lord & Williams. Dr. Lord, the senior member of this firm, was appointed receiver of public moneys
in Tucson. W. W. Williams, his partner, was born in New York, came to Arizona
in 1864, and died April 19th, 1907. L. Zeckendorf & Company were also among the leading merchants.
It required a large capital at that time to do business. Supplies came from California and from the Missouri river, compelling
the merchants to keep a stock of goods in transit, and a stock of goods in the store. Prior to this time, and, indeed, including
this time, the firm of Hooper, Whiting & Company were the leading merchants of the Territory. This firm had wholesale houses
at Yuma, and branches at Ehrenberg, Camp McDowell and Maricopa Wells, from which the adjoining territory was supplied. Merchants
were constantly harassed by roving bands of Indians, who captured their supply trains, often causing losses running into tens
of thousands of dollars.
The outlook for 1868 was not very hopeful, for the Indians on the Colorado and in the Apache strongholds were on the warpath.
Fish says that in the winter of 1867–68, there were forty-eight men, settlers, killed in and around Prescott and Walnut Grove.
The Navahos were quiet as far as Arizona was concerned; they made no raids but, occasionally, would steal stock. They, however,
made forays into Utah, murdering and driving off stock. Jacob Hamblin, who was the pioneer diplomat of the Mormon Church,
and who founded the settlements around Callville and in what was then Pah-Ute County, Arizona, was sent down to arrange a
peace with them, which he succeeded in doing.
Major Powell, in his explorations of the Colorado river, in speaking of Hamblin, says: ‘‘This man Hamblin speaks their language
well, and has a great influence over all the Indians in the regions round about. His talk is so low that they must listen
attentively to hear, and they sit around him in deathlike silence. When he finishes a measured sentence, the chief repeats
it, and they all give a solemn grunt.
Mr. Hamblin fell into conversation with one of the men, and held him until the others had left, and then learned more of the
particulars of the death of the three men. (Three of Powell's men lost in the first expedition. 'Kapurats,' as Major Powell
was called by the Pah-Utes, and his men were allowed by the Pah-Utes to travel unmolested in their country.) They, the three
men, came upon the Indian village almost starved, and exhausted with fatigue. They were supplied with food, and put on their
way to the settlements. Shortly after they had left, an Indian from the east side of the Colorado arrived at their village,
and told them about a number of miners having killed a squaw in a drunken brawl, and no doubt, these were the men. No person
had ever come down the canyon; that was impossible; they were trying to hide their guilt. In this way he worked them into
a great rage. They followed, surrounded the men in ambush, and filled them full of arrows.
That night I slept in peace, although these murderers of my men, and their friends, the U-in-ka-rets, were sleeping not five
hundred yards away. While we were gone to the canyon, the packtrain and supplies, enough to make an
Indian rich beyond his wildest dreams, were all left in their charge, and were all safe; not even a lump of sugar was pilfered
by the children.
I give other evidences of Indian loyalty: Major A. J. Doran, in his memoirs, which will be produced later in these pages,
recites a story of himself and companions entering a Pah-Ute camp when they were at war with the whites; joining in their
festivities, and then returning to their own camp about a mile away and sleeping in peace all night, and, in the morning,
after breaking camp and starting on their way, being passed by these same Indians and meeting with a friendly greeting from
them, although, a few hours later the Indians attacked and murdered another party of white men.
As heretofore related, Captain Thos. J. Jeffords went into Cochise's camp; took off his arms, ammunition, etc., and handed
them to Cochise, and asked him to take care of them while he remained there a few days. Capt. Jeffords received only hospitality
at the hands of the chief and the friendship thus commenced lasted until Cochise's death.
W. H. Hardy, in one of his trips from Hardyville to Prescott, one evening, through mistake, rode into a camp of Wallapais.
Finding himself among them, he requested one of the Indians whom he knew, to take care of his horse and give him a place to
sleep for the night. Although these Indians were at war at the time with the whites, Hardy only received that courtesy due
to a brave man who had placed his life in their hands. The next morning he was permitted to
resume his journey without molestation from the Indians.
With all the prejudices that a pioneer Arizonan may have against the Indians, for, after I came to this Territory in 1879,
many of my friends lost their lives in Arizona and Sonora at the hands of the Chiricahuas, yet, in studying the record as
I have tried to do, impartially, I find that as much, or even more, treachery can be charged against the whites as against
the Indians. General Crook once said that the Indian never violated a treaty, solemnly made; that the white man never kept
one. This, perhaps, is overdrawing the matter, but still there is much truth in the remark.
Hon. J. W. Sullivan, is known as one of the most prosperous and opulent business men in the northern part of the State; a
man whose cattle graze upon a thousand hills, who is interested in mining, banking and other business pursuits sufficient
to occupy the mind of any energetic man, has his headquarters at Prescott and served as a member of the House of Representatives
in the Third Legislature of the State of Arizona, the only political position he has ever accepted.
Mr. Sullivan was born in Picton, Prince Edward's County, on the shore of Lake Ontario, in Canada, in the year 1844. He went
to Ohio in 1864, finding employment in a lumber camp where, for a time, he was employed in hewing railroad timbers and ties,
in charge of an outfit so employed.
From there he went South into Kentucky and Tennessee, and was employed in bridge building
near Nashville, as a carpenter, when the battle of Nashville was fought. After the assassination of President Lincoln, he
went into the oil regions of Pennsylvania, taking a contract from the Pennsylvania Railroad for furnishing railroad ties,
etc. After a few months he was employed by the Phelps, Dodge Company, who had large lumber interests, as a log scaler, whose
duty it was to receive the logs from shippers and scale the measurements for the company. After two years in their employ,
in the spring of 1867, he started West, employing his odd time as a carpenter and teamster. In May, 1868, he was sent in charge
of seven teams from Fort Union, New Mexico, which was then in process of construction, to Fort Craig and Fort Bowie, to deliver
a lot of cavalry horses and Government mules. After his return to Albuquerque, he assisted in moving the Navajo Indians to
their present Reservation.
About October, 1868, he met John Clark, who gave him glowing accounts of the mining prospects in Arizona, and organized a
party of sixteen, which started for Prescott about the 5th of November, 1868. His life in Arizona and the West, as told by
At that time there wasn't a white man between Albuquerque and Prescott. We didn't come through Fort Wingate, but came through
the Zuni Villages, through Navajo Springs, and struck the old Beale trail, struck this at Navajo Springs, and about the first
white man we struck on our trip was old man Banghart, Ed Wells' father-in-law. We finally landed in Prescott; had quite a
storm on the road coming out; where
Flagstaff is now, about twelve inches of snow fell; it was the latter part of November when we got into Prescott. I never
kept much track of the dates. Old Hance, who has been a guide about the Canyon, says we landed there on the 2nd day of December,
1868, so that is my history of the trip to Arizona in the early days.
When we organized to come to Arizona there were only four of us had enough to buy riding animals, so we bought ponies for
the rest of the fellows as we had to have a large party for protection. We had a character called 'Dublin'; he was an Irishman
and claimed to be a first cousin of the great pugilist, Tom Sayers, an English prizefighter, and this fellow was somewhat
on the pugilistic order himself. We christened him 'Dublin Tricks' on the road. He afterwards started a saloon. After I got
into Prescott provisions were scarce and high. For instance, I had bought a batch of flour in Albuquerque. I traded for it
myself, and it was in 100 lb. sacks. When I got into Prescott I sold all my stock excepting a couple of ponies. A pair of
mules sold for $500; they cost me $40 apiece in Albuquerque. I had four big cavalry horses, and I sold one team for $400,
and the other for $450; horses and mules were very scarce on account of the Indians raiding the outfits, and getting away
with most of their stock, and draft stock was very high. I had a peculiar experience just a few days before I left Fort Union—this
reminds me of a deal I got into while we were organizing. One day at our camp outside the post, we heard an auctioneer hollering
out, calling for bidders for the extra stuff at the commissary yard. I
stopped in to see what was going on, and they had three great stacks of old rusty bacon, sow belly, and it was in piles of
fifty, fifty-five and sixty thousand pounds. It was claimed that in 1864 they had used this bacon for breastworks at Fort
Craig. It had been knocked around from one post to another, and was now being sold as condemned army stores. Some of it looked
like pretty good bacon, and I thought I knew where I could handle it, trade it off for stuff along the road, and I thought
I might load up with a couple of thousand pounds, and trade it off. The first pile offered was the fifty-five thousand pound
pile. I bid on it twenty-five dollars for the pile; others bid and I ran it up to fifty-five dollars, and it was knocked down
to me for that figure. The other two piles went considerably higher. A couple of days after I got to thinking I had a white
elephant on my hands, and a fellow by the name of Collier, who had a station, a Government station to look after the teams,
asked me what I would take for that bacon. I said to him that I wanted to take about fifteen or eighteen hundred pounds of
it. He looked it over, and said he would make me a bid on it; that he would let me take whatever I wanted of it, fifteen hundred
pounds at least, and that he would give me $125 for the balance. I told him the bacon was his; that I might be able to get
more of it, but didn't want to bother with it. The next day I sorted out my bacon and got a pretty good class of bacon. When
I got out on the road I used to trade the bacon for fresh mutton, vegetables, and so forth, and I traded some of it at Albuquerque
for about six hundred
pounds of flour, flour in 100 lb. sacks, and when we got into Prescott and split up, we disbanded there, Branneman and the
Hance boys were with us, I thought of going through to California, expected to clean up and go through; didn't expect to stop
here in Arizona, and a fellow by the name of Silverthorn, who was keeping a restaurant where the St. Michaels Hotel now is,
came over and asked if we had any flour, and I told him that we had about two sacks, but that I expected to go through to
California by way of Ehrenberg, and he said that he would give me sixty dollars a hundred for it; there was no flour in Prescott,
only a little cornmeal. They got a little from the soldiers at Whipple, who used to steal it and sell it at sixty cents a
pound. Old John G. Campbell ran a store at that time, and he came over to my camp and wanted to know if I had any bacon left.
I told him I had about two hundred and fifty pounds, but that I wanted to keep a little of it, twenty to twenty-five pounds,
and he went and looked it over and said: ‘‘Take ninety cents a pound for it—for what you can spare?’’ I had to ask him the
second time what he said; it kind of took my breath away. I said yes, so he told me to bring it down to the store, and I did,
and sold my rotten bacon at ninety cents a pound; so I cleaned up and sold everything I had except a little saddle pony; I
figured on going to California. An old fellow came to me, his name was Johnson; he lived about six miles south of Prescott;
he was a blacksmith; he was raised in Baltimore and came to California during the excitement in the gold days, and drifted
to Arizona, and he and a man by the name
of Zimmerman had a ranch, they raised potatoes, etc.; had quite a place in the hills at that time, and they had taken a contract
to make shingles for the Government, four hundred thousand shingles for Camp Verde. He wanted to know if I and one of the
boys who came with us knew anything about making shingles. This fellow with me had been in the lumber woods, but didn't know
anything about shingles or shingle making, but I had made them in Canada, my father used to make them and trade them for cattle,
etc. I thought the matter over, and thought that I might wait over that winter, and go to California in the spring, so I asked
him what wages he was paying. He said he was paying a hundred dollars a month to good hands. I told him that I thought with
my knowledge of lumber and working shingles I could earn more than that; that I would not mind taking a contract from him
for making shingles, but he said for me to come out for a week or two and let him see what I could do. He had about ten or
twelve men burning charcoal for the government too. He was hauling timber to the Sterling Mill, also; had quite a bunch of
men around there. So I went down to his camp and took a couple of men out with me to hunt shingle timber. I knew how to select
my trees, and I made such headway in three or four days that he had me come in. He had built a camp, with a log cabin fifty
feet in length, and he had three or four men working in the camp, working up the timber, and he was paying men a hundred dollars
a month and they were averaging about half a thousand shingles a day; they thought that was pretty big
work. The first week I worked in camp I averaged over eight thousand in one week, and the old man offered to pay me a hundred
and fifty dollars a month if I would take charge of the camp. We would work until ten o'clock at night by the firelight. So
I worked on that shingle proposition until about the first of June the next summer. The old man was quite thrifty and a rustler,
and he and his partner had taken a contract, a subcontract, for the cutting of a thousand tons of hay in the Williamson Valley
for the Government. There was an excellent crop of wild hay there, blue stem wire grass, red top, and one thing and another
of that kind, and they had located about four hundred acres of the land, taking it up as homesteads, etc., to cut hay on it.
They were to get eleven dollars a ton, put in shock, so it could be loaded on wagons. George Bowers and C. C. Bean were in
together. They were getting thirty-five dollars a ton for that hay at Fort Whipple, and they made a contract with Zimmerman
& Johnson to cut this hay at eleven dollars a ton, they to furnish two mowing machines, hayricks, etc. They got after me to
go in with them and take a third interest in the cutting of this hay. It was a very dangerous proposition. The Indians were
very bad those days, the Wallapais, Tontos and Mohave-Apaches were very bad. They had driven me out of the woods a couple
of times the winter before. I remember once fifteen of them came on to where we were one morning just after we started work.
We had quite a time getting out of the way. We got back to camp and armed
ourselves. The snow was on the ground and we struck their trail, and they went south on the Hassayamp. We took after them
and killed two of them, and the others got away, and once afterwards we came very near getting killed. I knew this was a dangerous
proposition, but I went in with them, they were to give me a third interest, and I was supposed to take all the chances and
do all the work, which I did. We got out there about the 8th of June that year, and started to cut hay. Zimmerman went out
for a few days, but he used to go on a drunk and didn't amount to much. Old man Johnson was kind of feeble and he stopped
at the camp to look after the boys. I had two men, one to rake and one to bunch up the hay, and a Frenchman to cook. I ran
the mowing machines myself. I had two machines; in case one gave out I had the other ready to keep right on to work. I would
get out at daylight in the morning, take one team until ten o'clock, and another team until two, and then work until dark
with the first team. We put up about eighteen tons of hay a day. There were Indians on the hills all the time. I used to carry
a gun strapped across my breast and two six shooters on me. We were all armed in about the same way, we always kept within
hailing distance of each other, and we had a couple of dogs, the best scouts I ever saw. I depended on them more than on anything
else. We kept those dogs scouting around and in that way I guess we saved our lives many times that summer. There were eight
or ten men killed between Williamson Valley and Prescott at what was called the Divide, that is nine miles from
Williamson Valley. About a month before we got through with our hay contract there were two big freight teams driven by a
fellow of the name of Buchanan, which was one of the best outfits that there was there at that time. Buchanan came from Nevada,
and some parties said that he had stolen the teams. There was another fellow by the name of Wood, Cap Wood, who came through
as a sutler with some cavalry outfit to Fort Whipple during the summer, and he had a team of ten mules. The government had
a lot of corn at Camp Wallapai, and was short of corn at Fort Whipple, and these two fellows, Buchanan and Wood, got a contract
to haul that corn from Wallapai to
I had a little experience myself the first ten days I was at Williamson Valley. We had our headquarters at a little spring
at the edge of the valley, about two miles from where the crossing is at the present time. A fellow by the name of Jim Fine
had taken up a little ranch at the crossing, and he had a fellow working with him, cutting hay for a livery outfit in Prescott,
they were using the old fashioned scythes to cut the hay, and the Indians came up on the ridge above them and fired on them,
and killed this fellow who was working for Fine. Fine had
a horse three or four hundred yards below where he was, and he jumped on it barebacked and rushed down to our camp; our camp
was about a mile and a half below, and he told us what they had done. We turned out, three men besides myself, and hitched
up with all our stock; daren't leave anything there for fear the Indians might get away with it, and went to the place where
the fellow had been killed. We put blankets around him and dug a hole about three feet deep and buried him. It was mighty
hard to dig; it was in June, hot weather, and after we buried him, Jim pulled out at night and went into Prescott and was
away two days. The Indians were watching us, and as soon as he pulled out they knew he would bring a crowd. They had taken
this fellow's clothes, leaving him naked, and between the time that Jim pulled out and got back, they had come back, dug up
the remains and dragged them down to a little well near the cabin and dumped them in the well. Jim found the trail where they
had dragged the body and followed it up to find the grave empty. He came to our camp and stopped all night with us, and told
us what had happened, and I sent a man up with him the next day and they filled up the well, threw in some dirt, and covered
it up, and dug another well some little distance away. There was a government express ran between Wallapai and Whipple, and
the next day after they had dug up this body and thrown it into the well, this bunch of Indians met the express party, caught
them on the divide, and killed the soldiers and got away with the mules.
I had another experience the next summer. I took a contract to make shingles for the Government and contracted for four hundred
thousand shingles, part for Camp Wallapai, and part for Camp Date Creek. I had four men in the camp and about once a week
I used to go down to town to get supplies. We had been down there about two months and were getting along finely, and one
day I started about four o'clock in the afternoon, in March, and had my two six shooters strapped on me. The road to the Ashley
Sawmill passed our camp over on Groom Creek, about a quarter of a mile from Granite Creek, and I followed on down the road,
which struck west and then north at Granite Creek, and after I struck the old Sterling road on Granite Creek, about three
miles and a half from Prescott, I saw some Indian tracks, across the road. In those days we were generally on the lookout
anyway, and I saw where the Indians had travelled fifty or a hundred yards along the road and then dodged off, and then crossed
back. I got along about half a mile further—a little further down the main road there is a hill, Red Hill, and right below
is a canyon across the road, and just as I got to the top of the hill above the canyon, I saw something in the brush about
a hundred and fifty yards below me. There was a pine stump there about three feet high, and I dodged behind that stump and
kept watch, and in a few moments an Indian dropped down into the road, came off the ridge, and directly came another and another
until there was five of them there. The first one that dropped down into the road had on a long buckskin shirt which
looked to be about six feet in length; it looked like a nightshirt. They had seen me coming and got down there to cut me off.
They had got on a high point and watched me coming. That was their game. I thought I was in for it, and they blazed away at
me. I kept my head very low behind the stump, and I would reach up and get my gun on the top of the stump and shoot, but they
were much lower and they soon discovered that I was overshooting them, and they came closer and three of them had those old
Henry rifles, and two of them had bows and arrows, and they kept coming closer and closer, and I fired eleven shots at them
over the top of that stump, and I was down to my last cartridge, cap and ball cartridge, and I thought I had better break
for camp. By cutting across through the brush I could strike my camp much quicker than by going back on the main road to Prescott.
Just as I jumped from behind the stump they shot me with an arrow in the neck. I have the scar yet. I grabbed it and broke
the wooden part of it off and left the point in there. I had to run across the road, and when I jumped up the pistol, which
still had one cartridge in it, fell out of the holster, my right holster, which was loose on the belt. The pistol fell out
and dropped in the brush, and if you ever saw a man run, I did. I had on an old fashioned white hat, and they put a bullet
through that. Clothing was scarce in those days, and I was wearing a soldier's blouse, and they fired at me from behind, and
one of the bullets went right under my arm pit, cutting through the blouse, and I thought I was bleeding like fury from the
of that bullet. I was bleeding freely from the wound in my neck. They followed me about three hundred yards and then let up
and shouted and hollered like fury. How I did run until I struck three men working for me, about four or five hundred yards
from my camp, and I fell right over in a heap, loss of blood and exhausted, of course. My men picked me up and took me to
camp; got the arrow head out of my neck, and stopped the bleeding, and while I was not cut very deep, it made quite a wound.
On Sunday, a day or two afterwards, a couple of men from the sawmill were going to town, and I went down with them, and when
we came to the place where I had had my fight with the Indians, I looked around and found my pistol. The Indians had run right
over it and never saw it, and I picked it up as we went down to town two days afterwards.
That evening that they got me on the run, there was a superintendent named Baker in charge of the old sawmill, the Sterling
Sawmill, over on Groom Creek, and he had a magnificent riding horse he brought over from California; he had been away from
there for about three months, and after the Indians had given me this chase, they went up the road about three quarters of
a mile, and old man Baker, he came along from Prescott, going out to his camp, and they jumped him there, shot his horse;
the horse dropped, and the bullet that killed the horse went right through the horse and struck the old man on the ankle,
kind of a spent bullet, and he got off and started to run to Johnson's camp about a mile and a half away. Johnson had an old
log cabin there with a dirt floor. The first log
formed a sill across the doorway and you had to step over it to get down in the cabin. Baker rushed to the door, struck that
log, and fell over, and didn't come to for three or four hours. Johnson's outfit got back next morning. He told them what
had occurred, and they went to the place where the Indians had shot the horse. All they found was the tail and the mane of
the horse; everything else was gone.
In the spring, in February, 1871, I started for California, in fact, I started for Puget Sound, Washington Territory. I had
been rustling pretty lively for the Government, cleaning up eight or nine thousand dollars in a couple of years; made thirty-five
hundred dollars out of the hay; and the next winter I made four thousand dollars out of the shingles, and in March, 1871,
I started for California and for the Sound country. At Wickenburg I fell in with a couple of men who were going to South America.
They told a story of a fellow having mines in Peru, and they wanted me to go with them. By the time we got to San Francisco,
we went to Los Angeles first and then took a steamer to San Francisco, they talked me into going to South America with them.
So we took passage on a sailing vessel to the San Blas country. I made the trip into the mines with these fellows, stopped
there about three months, got disgusted, thought it wasn't the place for me as I wasn't a miner, and I got so disgusted that
I came back to the coast. Took a roundabout way to get back to the coast; spent about six months travelling around to get
back to the coast. Finally got to the Sound country. I went over to New Westminster,
now a suburb of Vancouver, and spent about two weeks over there waiting for an expedition going about three hundred miles
up the coast, and while there I met some fellows who had been there the year before and they told me what hardships they had
undergone going in and coming out. They told me that there was about two hundred and fifty miles of lakes, etc., to travel
over, and everybody had to pack grub, etc., and I gave that up. On my way back I took a steamer to Seattle, at that time a
town of about seven hundred inhabitants, and on the steamer I struck an old California miner, and I was inquiring about farming
interests and land interests there in the Sound country. I got acquainted with two fellows, and one of them had a big claim,
and he wanted to sell out. I went down to look at his property which was about twenty miles from the present town of Bellingham.
It was tide country, like Oakland. I finally made a deal for it and spent about nine months filing on it under the old pre-emption
law. Lived on it long enough to make final proof. The land was surrounded by a slough, and the water would back up when it
was high tide, on the land, and I had to throw up a levee about five feet high; each one of us around there had to do his
share. I had about a hundred and seventy rods of levee to build. I went to work and got mine completed, and the others were
a little slow, and were not ready to join me, so, after I had made final proof on the property, I thought I would come over
to Portland, over into Oregon, so I came over there in the fall of the year, and the old railroad, now the Southern Pacific,
building at that time, and there was an outfit there, they were putting in pile drivers, and I came up there and took charge
of the crew for the winter.
After I got through there I decided I would go into the cattle business, and I came over to Eastern Oregon, had a young fellow
with me, and we went up there looking for a cattle ranch. It was a fine country for that purpose. That was the spring of 1873.
I spent about four months there, then came over to the Grand Round, from there to Spokane, and went clean up to the British
possessions, travelling around looking for a cattle ranch. We located about twenty-five miles from the Columbia, about sixty
miles from the Dells, and then we came back and I bought a bunch of cattle. I didn't expect to stick to them myself very long,
but I put this young fellow to work. When I left Arizona I left about two thousand dollars in money uncollected. C. C. Bean
owed me about $1700, and he was to send it to me, but, 'out of sight, out of mind,' and the money didn't come, so I left this
young fellow in charge of about fifty head of cows with calves, and about a hundred and fifty head of yearling heifers and
steers, and I came back to Arizona, and found there was but little show of collecting this money from Bean at this time. Before
I left Arizona, however, I had sold Bean the possessory right to some land in Williamson Valley, and he had just got title
to it when I got back, so I took a mortgage on the proposition. I knocked around for six months, took a contract for jobbing
for the Government, putting up buildings, and remained in
Arizona for about three years before I got things straightened out, and then I went back to Oregon, and drove the cattle I
had there over here to Arizona. That was in 1877, and I have been here ever since in the cattle business.
Mr. Sullivan is an old bachelor, and is passing the evening of his days in the State to whose prosperity and advancement he
has contributed the best years of his life. He is among those pioneers remaining with us who braved the dangers incident to
the early settlement of Arizona, "in the days that tried men's souls," when he carried his rifle on his machine while mowing
hay, to protect himself from the incursions of savage foes.
John H. Marion was a man of great force of character; of bulldog tenacity, exceptional ability, and great perseverance. He
was born in Louisiana in 1835; came to California in the later fifties, and, being a printer by trade, was employed for some
time at Oroville, Butte County, on a weekly paper there. He came to Arizona about the year 1865, being attracted here by the
reported rich gold discoveries. He spent a year or two in prospecting; had several brushes with the Indians; finally located
in Prescott and became part owner of the Prescott Miner about the year 1866. He continued as its editor for about ten years.
When party lines were drawn in the Territory in 1870, he aligned himself with the Democratic party, and was always an able
exponent of the principles of Democracy as held by the party to which he gave his allegiance. He was a public spirited man;
nothing calculated to build up Prescott or the Territory ever failed to find in him an advocate. He was a good neighbor; a
kind friend, and a bitter enemy. Especially was he devoted to the old timers of whatever creed or nationality, who had shared
with him the trials and disappointments incidental to the early settlers of the Territory. He was a great admirer of General
Crook, because Crook had subdued the hostile Indians in Arizona, particularly those around Prescott. He was an original character;
could write a very humorous article, full of wit and sarcasm, yet had no sense of humor. He was never governed in the selection
of words by any dictionary. When he wanted a word he would coin one, and the word itself would explain its meaning.
Personally he was about as homely a man as ever stood upon two legs. In speaking, even in a public address, which, on rare
occasions he indulged in, he spoke in a monotone, and his utterances seldom failed to bring down the house because of his
originality. In 1883, at a banquet extended to General Crook by the citizens of Prescott, at which many ladies were present,
Marion was called upon for a speech. It ran somewhat in this wise:
‘‘We have had many generals here to fight the Injuns, but Crook is the only one who ever succeeded. We had Stoneman; Stoneman
was a good fighter, he built a good many roads, and did a good deal of work, but he couldn't fight Injuns. Wilcox had a big
reputation as a Civil War soldier, but he couldn't fight Injuns; he had the piles; and so it was with the balance both before
and after Crook came. When Crook come he made the Injuns hunt their holes, and we've had peace in northern Arizona ever since.’’
When T. L. Bullock undertook to build a road from Ash Fork to Prescott, John Marion was his ardent friend, and supported him
in every way possible, not only through the columns of his paper, but also by money contributions, and when the road was completed,
he, of course, was among those who had a general jubilation meeting in Prescott, welcoming the arrival of the first train.
Among other things Marion said: ‘‘I was here when two men right across Granite Creek were killed by Injuns, and when we had
to sleep everywhere on our guns, and when it took a lady's stocking full of gold dust to buy a sack of flour, and everything
else in the same proportion. They tried to get my scalp, both the Injuns and the white men but, damn 'em, I'm still here.’’
He sold his interest in the Miner about the year 1876, and a few years thereafter started the Prescott "Courier."
He was loyal to his friends, and particularly loyal to his home and his home people. Having lived a great part of his life
in Prescott, endured all the trials and hardships of an early pioneer in that locality, he laid aside his party prejudices,
being a strict Democrat, and numbered among his friends and associates Republicans who, like himself, were pioneers. It was
his custom after closing his office, and when going to his home, to spend an hour every day with Judge Fleury in talking over
old times. "Old Grizzly" and Col. H. A. Bigelow, both strict adherents of the opposite party, were his warm
personal friends. When Cleveland was elected in 1884, and Zulick was inaugurated the first Democratic Governor of the Territory
in 1885, he gave the influence of his paper to the cordial support of his administration until, in 1889, at the beginning
of the session, Zulick signed the bill to remove the Capital to Phoenix. Thereafter the "Courier" could not be numbered as
among his political friends. He did not fail in his editorials to criticise in his rough and homely manner the course of the
Governor, for with him, in this instance, the duties of a citizen were paramount to party.
John Marion died July 27th, 1891, the records of the Masonic Lodge at Prescott showing that he was, at that time, 56 years
of age. His death occurred in the morning. He had gone to the well for a bucket of water, placed the bucket on the porch and
fell dead from heart disease. He occupies an unmarked grave in the Masonic cemetery at Prescott. Peace to his ashes.
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