The Little Missouri area was a late bloomer in the cattle business mainly because of the clashes with the various Indian tribes and the lack of transportation shipping cattle to market. The defeat of the Great Plains tribes and their relocation to various reservations by 1879–1880 solved one problem: The Northern Pacific’s arrival resolved the lack of transportation in the Northern Plains, and opened the door to the cattle industry. When the economic panic of 1873 struck, triggering a six-year depression, many investors in the Northern Pacific Railroad exchanged their stock holdings for land rights along the proposed Dakota Territory route, leading to an influx of cattle investors.28
Investing in cattle during the early 1880s became the latest vogue for the rich in the East, and many Europeans, especially after an 1881 report claimed that an investor could realize a 33 percent return on their money. Such potential wealth led to a huge influx of capital from England.29 Most investors were absentee proprietors, or at best, infrequent visitors, leaving the daily operations to a knowledgeable foreman and the cowboys. While turning a profit from their investment was their main purpose, visiting their holdings in the far West allowed owners to hunt and ride (even though many were dreadful failures in both departments) to impress their equally well-off friends.
The open-range policy was an attractive incentive to invest in the cattle industry because much of the Western lands were not held in private hands, excluding what was owned by the government.30 Stories of fast profits while feeding cattle on “free grass” were an irresistible lure for investors—especially those who had come to the area first. Fences were virtually nonexistent in the West, although the creation of barbed wire in 1870 was a harbinger of things to come. While the open-range policy had its advantages, it was vulnerable to disaster. A rancher needed roughly thirty to forty acres for each head of cattle he owned for grazing purposes. A rancher with a herd count of 1,500 would need at least sixty thousand acres of grazing land, while an outfit with 2,000 head of cattle required a minimum of eighty thousand acres. By 1884, there were eighteen major cattle outfits operating in the Little Missouri region, most owning between 1,100 and 2,400 head of cattle per operation. (Theodore’s two ranches had a total of 3,650 head, which required 146,000 acres.) As big as the area was, it could not properly sustain a large number of cattle outfits without damaging the land. Overgrazing was, and still is, a problem. Too many livestock feeding in a region that cannot support the numbers simply denudes it. This leads to soil erosion, because the grass cannot recover and regrow in adequate time, which seriously impairs the land’s future ability to be productive. Areas that experienced overgrazing saw lush grasslands reduced to a desert, even in the Northern Plains, for many years.31 Investors paid no attention to how many acres were needed for their herds. They saw nothing but profits while living a fantasy as a Western cattle baron. Newspapers hawked the rich grass, mild weather (even claiming Dakota Territory winters were mild!), blue skies, and abundant water. As the Northern Pacific Railroad laid its tracks in the Little Missouri area, newspapers heralded the numerous hunting opportunities that were just a train ride away.
September 1880 saw the arrival of the railroad into the Badlands. Inching its way across the Northern Plains, the railroad required protection for its survey and construction crews from potential Indian attacks. Even though they had been subjugated and removed to reservations, many young men from various tribes felt the need to prove themselves. The crews became easy targets for an attack, and preventing such situations was left to the US Army. A detachment of forty to sixty infantry troops was assigned to protect the railroad construction crew. It was a colorless duty for a soldier, standing on both sides of the construction area in skirmish formation, watching for potential trouble that rarely, if ever, came.32 The biggest problem was boredom. Standing in the hot sun for hours, looking across the rolling plains or the barren landscape of the Badlands, offered soldiers little satisfaction.
Company B from the Sixth Infantry constructed a cantonment (a military compound) on the western bottomland side of the Little Missouri River, naming it the Badlands Cantonment. The location of the buildings was not a wise choice from the perspective of fighting strategy because the buildings were close to the nearby bluffs, allowing an enemy to fire down onto the compound from high ground. The eleven buildings, arranged around a small parade ground, consisted of company barracks, officers’ quarters, administration, hospital (holding nine beds), storehouse, blacksmith, two laundresses’ quarters, guardhouse, bakery, and icehouse, plus stables to hold twenty-two horses. To add a sense of comfort to the cantonment, trees were planted for shade, as was a garden.33
Whether it was the coming of the railroad, the arrival of cattle, or a sudden mining strike, towns were not far behind, literally blooming overnight to cater to the needs of hardworking men. The Badlands was no different. Aptly named Little Missouri, this town mercurially came to life in September to greet the railroad construction crew. Located on the west side of the river, it hardly challenged the plush establishments of Denver or Tombstone. Little Missouri (nicknamed “Little Misery” by some locals) nevertheless served a purpose, supplying liquor, gambling, and a few “sporting ladies” to relieve the workers and soldiers of their money.
The newly baptized hamlet wasn’t much to look at. The small railroad depot was just a rough shack in which to send and receive telegrams, and only a few other buildings dotted the area. “Captain” Moore, who had run the sutler’s store at the cantonment, was now the manager of a two-story building known as Pyramid Park Hotel. Moore, an abbreviated, squat man with a white beard and a nose bright red from sampling too much “whohit-john” (Western slang for liquor), was reportedly a former riverboat captain with the mouth and verbiage to prove it. Hardly the ideal person to offer “friendly” service, his demeanor and appearance matched that of the hotel. The bottom floor held a manager’s office with a roughed-out table and benches for feeding guests. The upstairs sleeping quarters weren’t much better. A stairway, which had no handrails, led to a large room with fourteen cots lined up in a row, each offering a quilt and a dirty feather pillow. Privacy was not an option. The cost for such luxury was two bits.
Not far from the hotel was Big-Mouthed Bob’s Bug-Juice Dispensary, a florid appellation for a saloon if there ever was one. This establishment provided the necessary drinks, gambling, and female company for any man with money in his pocket.
In the spring of 1883, Eugene V. Smalley’s History of the Northern Pacific Railroad was published. It was the perfect timing a press agent could only dream of, as the railroad would soon link Chicago to the Pacific Ocean. The book, which featured black-and-white photographs of the Little Missouri area, tantalized many an Easterner with dreams of seeing and hunting in the Wild West. Newspapers were extolling the abundant wild game available for hunting (there was no mention of any buffalo), while the recently abandoned cantonment buildings would become a hunting lodge. The Northern Pacific soon published its own brochure promoting travel to the area they called “Pyramid Park”—instead of the Badlands.
Image was everything.
His name was Antoine Amédée Marie Vincent Manca de Vallambrosa.
Tall and dark, with penetrating eyes, black hair, and a mustache with sharply waxed ends, he looked and acted like the aristocrat he was. Most people in the Badlands called him the Marquis de Morès, or simply “the Marquis.” He was born to blue-blooded French parents in Paris on June 14, 1858. The oldest of four children, he was proficient in French, Italian, English, and German by age ten.34 After graduating from Jesuit College in 1876, he enrolled in France’s elite military academy in St. Cyr, before entering the cavalry school at Saumur.35 Commissioned a first lieutenant in 1880, the Marquis joined a regiment of mounted cavalry near the Belgian border, and was then assigned to the Tenth Hussars, where he took part in putting down an uprising in Algiers. Returning to garrison duties, the Marquis resigned in early 1882, mainly due to a lack of military action. It had been reported that dur
ing his military tenure he was involved in two duels, killing both opponents.
Returning to Paris, and having reached legal age, he took the title Marquis de Morès et de Montemaggiore. Living lavishly, he invested his money in the Paris securities market, hoping to make a hefty profit. The market was experiencing unparalleled speculation, eventually leading to the burst of the financial bubble, which left the Marquis in debt.36 While visiting his father (who paid off his debts) in Cannes, he met Medora von Hoffman, daughter of Louis von Hoffman, a wealthy New York banker. They quickly fell in love and married on February 15, 1882. Moving to New York with his wife, the Marquis took a position in his father-in-law’s bank.
A visit from his cousin, Count Fitz-James, reawakened the Marquis’s desire for adventure. Having returned from a hunting trip in the Badlands, his cousin told tales of numerous animals just waiting for an experienced hunter. It is also likely that the Marquis read newspaper accounts about the Northern Pacific Railroad and the surrounding land being offered to cattle investors. At the same time, he crossed paths with Henry Gorringe, who was busily promoting his planned hunting lodge and expeditions in the Little Missouri area. Gorringe’s likely pitch to invest in the area— namely, in his venture—increased the nobleman’s desire to explore the possibilities. Like other moneyed men, the Marquis viewed the growing cattle industry as another way to increase his wealth. The Badlands area offered many promising potentials for a business. It was adjacent to the railroad (having the shortest run to Chicago or New York), and an abundance of water, ice (in the winter), and fuel (via lignite coal).
The Marquis quickly seized on the idea of owning a cattle ranch, as well as a slaughterhouse and packing plant, all in one operation. Most cattle were shipped to Chicago, where they were held in feed lots until slaughtered and dressed for markets in the East and West. The Marquis came up with a plan to own refrigerator cars which would ship the dressed beef directly from his plant to various markets, including his own meat shops in New York City. He planned to sell his product three cents a pound cheaper than his competitors, thus increasing his profit.
If nothing else, the Marquis de Morès was not short on confidence.
After discussing his ideas with his wife and father-in-law, the Marquis and his personal secretary, William Van Driesche, left for the Badlands in March 1883. The Marquis originally planned to base his operations out of the hamlet of Little Missouri, but he was not impressed with the area. He and his secretary rented horses and scouted the surrounding land on the eastern side of the Little Missouri River. Lunching on sardines, foie gras, potted meat, cheese, bread, and a bottle of white wine (chilled in the stream), the two men found the land charming, with the deep-sided ravines offering abundant food and winter shelter for the cattle.37 After several days of scouting, the Marquis chose a portion of land on the eastern side of the river. The six-acre parcel would become the town of Medora, named after his wife. (His land holdings totaled four thousand acres, as well as twelve thousand acres to grow wheat outside of Bismarck.38)
As he plotted out the new town’s site, the Marquis went ahead with building his slaughterhouse, also located on the eastern side of the river, and purchased sixteen thousand cattle. The Marquis also planned to launch a number of other businesses, including a tannery, a fertilizer-manufacturing company, a soap works, and even shoemaking. Many of the locals began to refer to him as the “Crazy Frenchman.” Loads of lumber and other building material arrived with each train, as did the craftsmen to build the various places the Marquis envisioned, including his chateau, located on a bluff on the western side of the Little Missouri River.39 For a brief while, the Marquis and Van Driesche lived in a large white tent on the town property, but he soon required more-respectable quarters, and rented a private railroad car from the Northern Pacific, placing it on a newly built side track.
On May 12, 1883, the Marquis, Herman Haupt Jr., and C. Edgar Haupt incorporated the Northern Pacific Refrigerator Car Company. Ranchers in the surrounding area, and in eastern Montana, were happy to sell their cattle to the Marquis, getting a very handsome price for each head of cattle. The Mandan Pioneer was quick to breathlessly promote the Marquis’s new venture, stating that his new company “[would] call for 2,500 to 5,000 cattle a month,” and “the value of this industry” would provide a market for cattlemen.40
Many locals viewed the new resident with a wary eye and deep suspicion. After all, he was a foreigner. Despite the fact that many would benefit from the Marquis and his deep pockets, these same people were equally quick to denounce him, especially when he committed the most unpardonable sin—fencing in his land. Ranchers in the Northern Plains were primarily “squatters” on government or railroad land. Few owned the land where they had built their cabins, stables, and other buildings, let alone the vast range their cattle grazed upon. Up to this point, both the government and the railroad had turned a blind eye, realizing that the cattle industry served a useful purpose. Very few ranchers staked a legal claim, other than placing a permanent structure on the land, because the open-range policy promoted an unspoken agreement among ranchers that a certain area was considered their land, even while all cattle could (and did) graze upon it, to the advantage of everyone.
While the Marquis did legally purchase and hold title to his land, his fencing it was a breach of this covenant in the Little Missouri area. His actions, along with his aloof manner, only exacerbated an already-uncomfortable situation. What the Marquis did not understand (or perhaps simply did not care about) was that fencing his land holdings also encumbered a web of trails that had been open to anyone who used it. Fencing such trails meant that riders, who were used to the open range, had to take detours, sometimes going miles out of their way. Cattle herds, which used the trails as shortcuts to the river or water holes, were now forced to take a longer route. Fences also represented the encroachment of civilization, an end to the free, open life many men had embraced for decades. Routes to the river that were blocked by the Marquis’s barbed-wire fences were cut. Men working for de Morès would repair the fences, only to find them cut again. It was a never-ending routine. The American West was peppered with numerous range war stories involving the fencing of land by other cattlemen or farmers. It was no different in the growing town of Medora, possibly because of the Machiavellian efforts of Eldridge “Jerry” Paddock.
Paddock, who had been living in the Little Missouri area since the 1860s, worked as a guide for hunters. A man with broad shoulders and a black mustache that was reportedly so long he could tie it under his chin, he was one of the most feared men in the area. He had been arrested twice on murder charges (in both cases he was found not guilty), had been accused of receiving stolen property, and had committed extortion and cattle rustling. Most locals described him as sneaky, conning others to do the dirty work while he reaped the rewards. He was known as a dead shot with a gun and was not hesitant to use it to settle arguments. One man who owed him money had been found, in a questionable manner, to have been “kicked to death by horses.” Often described as “cold” and “quiet,” Paddock was not one to let an opportunity slip by him. He quickly befriended the Marquis de Morès, working his way into becoming something of a confidant.
Fencing the land led to hard feelings between the Marquis and three hunters—Frank O’Donald, “Dutch” Wannegan, and Riley Luffsey. One of the fences blocked the only way from the hunters’ camp to the hamlet of Little Missouri. As many times as the hunters cut the fence, the Marquis repaired it. Hard feelings quickly took root. The three men resented the land being fenced, claiming that it infringed on their rights to go where they pleased. As American citizens, they found this particularly galling because the person fencing the land was a foreigner. Paddock supposedly started spreading a rumor that the Marquis would force the men off the land, certain that the word would reach O’Donald’s ears.
It did.
O’Donald told Gregor Lang that whoever tried to jump them would “jump from there right into his grave!”
41 On June 21, 1883, the three men rode into Little Missouri. Drinking copious amounts of who-hit-John, the trio soon launched into a tirade about the Marquis and his fences. Over the next few days, they continued to consume ample amounts of liquor, cursing the Marquis, and launched “a perfect reign of terror . . . firing promiscuously” into various buildings.42 Many heard O’Donald threaten the life of the Marquis, including Paddock, who relayed the threats to his new friend, the Marquis. Paddock also claimed that O’Donald had threatened him and another employee, Dick Moore, if they continued to work for the Frenchman. Adding further fuel to the fire, Paddock stated that O’Donald bragged he would shoot the Marquis “like a dog.”43 With no local law or judicial enforcement in the area, the Marquis left the following morning on the train for Mandan. Hoping to find the local sheriff to swear out a warrant for O’Donald’s arrest, the Marquis was disappointed to learn he was out of town on business. He then sought advice from the justice of the peace, Martin Bateman. After explaining the situation, Bateman simply commented that the Marquis should shoot back.44
Returning to Medora, the Marquis had dinner at his new home with Van Driesche, Frank Miller, Dick Moore, and Paddock. Soon the house was rocked by gunfire, with the Marquis and his men returning shots. By sunrise, the attackers had left. “Armed Desperadoes Are Making Matters Unpleasantly Lively in Little Missouri” splashed the headline on the front page of Bismarck’s Daily Tribune. The article went on to note that “Everything points to a desperate state of affairs up there and some startling news may be expected this morning.”45 De Morès sent a telegram to his lawyer in Bismarck, urging him to send Sheriff Harmon and an armed posse “in shortest possible time.”
The following day, Deputy Sheriff Henry Harmon and his posse arrived by train. (The posse ranged from three to twenty men, depending on who was telling the story.) Greeted by O’Donald, Wannegan, and Luffsey, rifles at the ready, Deputy Sheriff Harmon announced he had a warrant for O’Donald’s arrest, but the man refused to be taken. “I’ve done nothing to be arrested for, and I won’t be taken,” O’Donald replied. The three men rode off, and no effort was made by Harmon to follow the men.46 The Marquis had suspected the three men would refuse to be arrested and ride out of town. Taking the advice from the justice of the peace, the Marquis, Paddock, and Frank Miller chose the likely route the three men would take back to their camp, where the trail and railroad narrowed and curved to the left around steep bluffs opposite the cantonments. As the three men rode along, shots rang out, hitting their horses. Taking cover behind their fallen horses, a gunfight began. At one point, Luffsey raised his head to get a better shot when a bullet struck him at the base of the neck. “Wannegan, oh, Wannegan!” he reportedly cried out before dying.47 O’Donald was hit in the thigh, while Wannegan had only bullet holes in various areas of his clothing. A coroner’s jury ruled that Luffsey died from shots fired by the Marquis, Frank Miller, and Dick Moore. (Paddock, typically, managed not to be seen or implicated by the deputy sheriff.) Warrants were issued for the three men, and they were bound over for a hearing by Justice of the Peace Bateman, the same jurist who had advised the Marquis to shoot at those threatening him. All three men were acquitted of the charges, citing that they fired in self-defense.48 Two days later, the Marquis, Miller, and Moore were once again arrested on murder charges. After another hearing that lasted twenty-six days, under Judge Daniel Collins, the charges were once again dropped.49
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