The history of the settlement of the West is full of names like Jim Bridger, Kit Carson, and Miles Goodyear. History tells one story about them and legend often quite another. In his book, "The Forgotten Founders," Stewart Udall is at some pains to show that the West was settled by "wagon people who came, camped, settled and stayed," people who were brave and hardy and who raised families and established towns and cities and schools and churches.

Butch Cassidy came from a pioneer family, probably sent to southern Utah as part of Brigham Young's colonization scheme, but at a fairly early age, he seems to have had enough of "hard scrabble" and left for a easier life, commendable if that led him to praiseworthy accomplishments, but sad if it led downward. A report by a rancher in southern Utah tells of an encounter with someone possibly in the latter category: "We came suddenly upon the wildest-looking derelict I think I have ever seen. He was quite obviously lost and desperate with fear and hunger. His clothing was soiled with the ashes and grime of many camp fires, and his restless eyes were bloodshot from watching -- so I judged -- the horizons. The sharp lines of his hollow, unwashed cheeks were hidden by several weeks of dusty beard.

"When we came upon him, he was gnawing a bone, the bare surface of which, even at a middle distance, plainly showed the marks of his teeth. His two ponies were spent. Their unshod hooves were worn nearly to the hair by the sandstone of that country.

"The man's unconscious grace on horseback bespoke his calling to the saddle. His startled manner on sighting us told surer than words that back along his trail somewhere was the law. I knew his furtive breed and did not like it. Criminals are generally the same everywhere -- treacherous, cruel, cowardly parasites. Those who have guarded the range from their thieving raids, or have lost a loved one on his ambushed trail feel no sentimental urge to glorify the cowboy-outlaw."

There is a story of Butch Cassidy and his cohorts coming upon an isolated ranch house somewhere between Ephraim and Price. A widow rancher, at that moment not aided by family or hired hands, was treated to the whim of a gang with guns. The intruders began shooting at the widow's chickens, trying to hit only their heads. The widow, who depended on the chickens for part of her sustenance, came screaming from her house so outraged that the shooting stopped. In keeping with Cassidy's Robin Hood reputation, the story has it that he then gave the widow a gold coin for each chicken killed. Well, good. But what unimaginable sense of privilege allowed the shooting to occur in the first place? Would those brave men have launched their entertainment if it had not been known to them that a widow lived there? The story does not tell us how much trouble she had in replacing the chickens, nor what disquiet she may have suffered by reason of having her peace shattered that day. Perhaps the story has little basis in fact, but it is the kind of tale many can enjoy and retell, delighted to embellish in the process, unconcerned with anything of the widow's view.

My paternal grandfather had an encounter with Cassidy that reflects the same deletion from the outlaw's mentality of what constitutes normal human behavior.

A Run-in with the Wild Bunch

Israel Bennion

I suppose there are few mortals to whom a backward glance does not bring regrets of some sort, the pride-wounding recollection of certain mistakes of the past that would be rectified if it were possible. But if one could reach a correcting hand back into that land of painful memories, how really inconsequential would be the changes he'd probably make! If a general, for instance, were privileged to retouch an historic battle, would he right the mistake that cost a thousand lives, or would he do the thing that would save his face?

I once had a little brush with the famous outlaw, Butch Cassidy, and while I have no desire whatever to relive that scene again, I would change a thing or two about it if I could do so in safety and comfort.

In the fall of 1877, I was in Castle Valley, Utah, in charge of my father's cattle interests. [He would have turned 17 the preceding June.] We had moved our stock there two years before from the more central valleys of the state which were now fast filling up with our fellow converts to the Mormon faith. Our family, however, remained at the home farm in Salt Lake Valley, 250 miles away. My sole hired help in the handling of our 2,000-odd cattle was a youth of about my own age named Tom Simpers. Alone we branded about 700 calves every spring, and moved the herd twice a year between the high summer range on the eastern slopes of the Wasatch mountains and the winter range in the depths of the desert bordering the Colorado River.

It was a wild country into which few legitimate livestock outfits had yet penetrated, its stupendous gorges and colorful sandstone badlands being known only as the hiding place of outlaws -- the famed "Robbers Roost" of eastern Utah. I well remember Father's advice when handing over the weapons we thereafter carried constantly: "In case of trouble, be sure you shoot first." What an example of pioneer faith, this telling of 15-year-old boys to shoot first in contest with veteran badmen.

Tom and I had just returned to our summer camp from Panguitch where we had gone for a horse, only to find that the animal had recently been stolen, along with a string of fine horses, by Butch Cassidy and his gang. We were now, on this particular frosty November morning, leaving camp again on a hurried two-weeks' trip to push what few straggling cows might still be hanging in the high country, down toward the winter range.

As we rode along, we saw something that brought us to instant caution -- eyes open, mouths shut. There ahead of us were fresh tracks in the trail. Two horses, one smooth-shod in front, the other making a slim, dainty track, shod all around with "corked" shoes, had very recently crossed the trail into the timber and rocks above the trail. We sensed the danger of obviously noting what someone very certainly did not want us to notice.

Though we rode as though at leisure and continued to make casual remarks about our search for the stragglers, all the while we were keenly studying. Why would anyone turn up that side hill, blocked as it was by a 25 foot ledge curving evenly around in the regular dead-level, uniform-thickness-habit of all Castle Valley ledges?

When got safely out of sight and hearing from the spot where the tracks crossed, we did our thinking out loud. I said, "Those two fellers had no business up that hill. There's the ledge. They either got out of the trail to avoid being seen, or else they got up there to watch something."

We became more and more suspicious, but were unable to find a rational motive for the presence here of anyone wishing to avoid contact. There were neither cattle nor horses on Red Creek at that time of year. When we reached the Fremont Trail and turned northwestward along its course toward Salina Canyon, we could stand it no longer.

Taking a short detour to our cabin, we arrived there two hours after we had left it. Everything about the campsite looked as peaceful and serene as ever. But in front of the cabin were the same shod horse tracks we had seen down the canyon, plus the addition of others which we later learned were made by pack horses.

Entering the little log cabin, we saw at once why the riders had needed to avoid us. Disaster had befallen us. Our "home" had been looted of everything of value. Our predicament was this: with winter approaching, we must immediately get over the mountains for fresh supplies of food, clothing and blankets before snow blocked the passes, or we must follow the looters and recover our stuff. Each knew without asking that the other wanted to follow the thieves, but our guns and ammunition were gone with the rest of it.

"Can't talk t' them cusses without rifles," was the way Tom put it.

We must have looked pretty forlorn as we gazed at those fresh tracks leading down the canyon.

Then I thought of going for help. "Let's go over to the Last Chance for guns and fresh horses. Maybe Dick'll go with us."

The plan meeting Tom's approval, we mounted again and took trail for Dick Netherly's Last Chance ranch. It took two hours to make the ride through the hills, and when we arrived we were dismayed to find that Netherly had "gone inside" -- that is, to Salina -- for supplies. We had counted strongly on Netherly's experience and leadership. We were only in mid-teens.

From the old man who was looking after the place we got a .50 caliber needle gun and an old muzzle-loading Jaeger, and a change of horses. From him we learned that a tall, handsome young chap and two others had been holding a bunch of fine horses down in the valley for several days. Hearing this, we glanced at each other.

"That's them two cusses we got so friendly with on Otter Creek," said Tom, referring to our meeting with two strangers on our way back from Panguitch. "I thought I had seen them horse tracks before." The tall young man had taught us to make a weir in a stream and to smoke the fish we caught in it on willow racks. He had been full of questions about our operations, the location of our camp, and other matters. As soon as we were busy catching and drying fish, the two left.

Netherly's horses proved to be high-spirited and strong but only partially broke. When we got started on the cutoff to the Fremont Trail, the short autumn day was about gone. A warm south wind had sprung up during the afternoon and already a scarf of dark fog was skating northward along the western peaks. By sundown the sky was full of clouds, and soon we were threading our way in thick darkness. It looked like storm before morning, and the fear grew that tracks would be rained out before we hit the thieves' trail.

Finally we felt the ground slope steeply down beneath us, and presently out horses swung into the Fremont Trail, at the point where it crosses Ivie Creek and turns northward through Castle Valley. A few brief showers of rain had already sprinkled the ground, but a match held in cupped hands when we dismounted showed the imprints of the same slim, racy track we had seen in the morning.

With a smooth road ahead of us now, we let our nervy horses out into a swinging lope that fairly ate up the miles. Occasionally we dismounted and struck matches in the washes we crossed, taking care lest we flash a light into the distance. The corked track showed plain every time. At intervals light skiffs of rain swept over us, gradually dampening our clothes.

After three hours' hard riding we crossed Muddy Creek, 30 miles north of Ivie Creek. Here a lighted match showed no tracks. Crossing back to the south bank, we found where the tracks turned off to the left.

"Camped," was Tom's remark. "They'd sure turn up fer feed 'n' wood."

The south wind had died down and a steady drizzle of fine rain drummed on our hats as we stood in the road, undecided what to do. Suddenly the wind turned around from the north, bringing a slashing squall of hail that soon turned to fine drifting snow. The temperature dropped 20 degrees in less than five minutes, stiffening our wet clothes. Winter had set in -- in earnest. Concluding that it was best to leave decisive action for daylight, we cast about for a sheltered place to spend the rest of the night.

In Castle Valley, the streams cross at right angles to the lay of the valley, seemingly in violation of the law of least resistance, and cut straight through a series of breaks as the country steps off down to the Colorado. The canyons, therefore, deepen as they proceed eastward from the Fremont Trail. So we led our horses down the stream a short distance, and, tying them in the shelter of a clump of willows, made a fire under the overhanging north wall of the shallow box canyon.

Soon the storm passed and the stars came out sparkling clear. Two blankets afforded little protection from the icy wind that sucked down the canyon. By morning both of us were numb with cold. Shortly after daybreak, we heard shooting up the creek. The thieves were evidently trying out our new guns.

I remember how rueful Tom's voice sounded. "That's my Gallagher," he chattered as he rolled out of his blanket. "Wisht I had it 'n' that sun-of-a-gun had this ol' Jaeger."

Most of our courage and determination had oozed out while we lay freezing in our blankets. The hazards attached to the accusation of theft and the recovery of stolen property in a lonely wilderness were fully sensed in the cold light of morning. Gritting our teeth, however, we swung frosty saddles on the shivering horses and with numb fingers tugged at the stiffened latigo straps. Nothing in the world can create such wretched discomfort as a cold snowy morning and the pride that won't permit backing out of a dangerous situation. When we mounted, both horses restored circulation by bucking viciously.

Short, scattering willows afforded the only cover as we rode up the creek toward our objective. We were seen at once. Three men stood about a campfire silently watching our approach. Two horses were picketed near by. At 200 yards came the ominous challenge.

"What you fellers want?"

Until this moment we had been approaching simply because our horses were walking in that direction. Our minds were in a state of utter confusion. It takes a seasoned general to coolly plan shrewd strategy in tense moments. But fear of flying lead now pointed compellingly at the right thing to do.

"Lookin' fer cattle," I yelled.

At the same time we swung our horses northward as casually as we could over the low clay bluffs lining the north side of the creek bottoms. The result of this move was pure luck. Just over the ridge which had so opportunely afforded a barricade against possible bullets were 15 head of fine horses.

"That's my horse!" exclaimed Tom excitedly. It was true. In the band was the handsome, snip-nosed bay we had made the fruitless trip to Panguitch for. Sight of the horse brought instant comprehension to our minds. This was a band of stolen horses! I am sure we turned several shades paler, the skin drawing tighter across our cheekbones and baring our teeth as we sized up the situation in light of this discovery.

"Say, lz," and this time more than cold made his teeth chatter. "This ain't no small outfit we're up against. These are crack horse thieves. Been holdin' out down in here to rest up their horses. Two of 'em slipped back to pick up our gear. They'll be hittin' fer the LaSal Mountains now."

Foolishly, we dismounted to stamp our freezing feet and warm our hands, blue with cold from holding rifles and reins. An acute realization of our inexperience -- of our total unpreparedness to cope with resourceful enemies, smote our minds and made us distrust any plans our befogged wits devised. The sense of imminent disaster was paralyzing. But, in spite of physical suffering and this torture of confusion, we were still doggedly determined to get back our stuff or take an awful licking trying it. The idea of bringing the outlaws to justice, or even of taking the horses from them, hadn't entered our heads.

At that moment one of the outlaws rode up over the ridge from the creek bottom and came toward us. Sure enough it was the tall young fellow we had met on U M Creek. He carried no rifle. At a hundred yards he called out cordially, as if to strangers: "Hello, fellers!"

Tom stepped behind his horse. As the outlaw continued his apparently unconcerned and innocent advance, I was wondering whether the fellow was uncertain, on account of our having changed horses, as to the identity of his unwelcome visitors, or was thinking we were simply continuing the search for cattle we had told him about when we met him earlier. Then it suddenly occurred to me that whatever the bandit's thoughts might be about our identity and motives, he was certainly endeavoring to approach past the point where the rifle looses its advantage over the pistol.

"Git 'im, Tom," I whispered.

Instantly Simper stepped out from behind his horse, and the surprised outlaw looked along the barrel of a .50 caliber needle gun, straight into Tom's steel-blue eyes.

"Hands up!"

Just a tremor of hesitation -- that nearly cost him his life -- and the outlaw's hands went up.

"Take the stuff that belongs to us, lz."

"You bet," I said. "But crook that trigger finger quick if he moves or makes a sound."

As I approached, the outlaw tried to cover his alert watchfulness with a friendly smile, but the shame of his uplifted hands and contempt for his trembling, white-faced captors twisted it unpleasantly.

"Unbuckle that belt and drop it!" I gritted as I stepped beside him.

The startling harshness of my voice knocked the tinge of contempt out of the handsome outlaw's look, and made me feel a foot taller. The outlaw complied.

"Move your horse a step east."

Again the command was obeyed, and I picked up the pistol. Then boots, socks, overcoat and quirt were stripped off the thief.

The excitement of the game worked wonders. Freezing hands and dread of the showdown were alike forgotten in the first thrill of victory. Cool self-possession was restored. Having stripped the outlaw, whom we now knew to be Butch Cassidy, of our belongings, we unhorsed him and made him run barefoot through the snow northward from the horses [and away from his camp]. Then we rode back over the bluffs to take the rest of our stuff.

As we came in sight, one of the men remaining at the campfire dived out of sight into the willows. He took no further part in the argument. It developed later that he was just a runaway boy trying to follow Cassidy. The other man remained sitting at the fire, apparently reading a paper. It was no easy matter to force the two half-wild horses, shivering with cold and fear, to walk up to him, and at the same time with numb hands hold our rifles ready for instant action.

We could have done better with pistols than with rifles this time. But we had to use the rifles or drop them, since neither saddle was equipped with a boot. Handicapped as we were, we should have held up the outlaw at a distance, as we did Butch Cassidy. But -- we were too confident now. We rode up to within 30 feet of the man before ordering him to put up his hands. At that instant the outlaw's paper dropped -- and he had a pistol in each had and was shooting!

Several things happened quick as lightning. At the first movement and sound of that paper, our scared horses jumped sideways so quickly and so far that had we been any less skilled as riders, we would have landed on our heads in the snow right there. We not only stayed with our horses, but Simper managed to fire a shot at the outlaw as the horses jumped. Our horses ran bucking through the short willows, circling away from the outlaw, who sent a hail of bullets after us. Neither of us was hit, although we could see and hear the bullets clipping off the tops of willows at our sides as the horses ran.

At this moment, Butch Cassidy came running back over the bluff yelling, "Give it to 'em!" and, grabbing up a rifle, commenced firing too. Nothing saved us but our crazy horses. The fine horse picketed near the camp, he of the race track, took fright at the shooting, and jerking up his picket-pin, ran with us.

As soon as we could control our horses, we squared away to give battle. But the outlaws, perhaps fearing that the sound of battle might bring allies to our rescue, left camp and ran for their horses. These had been driven so long that they yielded at once to their drivers. The whirl of a lariat, and the whole cavalcade was soon a black line against the snow, streaking eastward toward the LaSal Mountains.

And thus we threw away a sweet chance to capture several thousand dollars worth of fine horses. Why did we so dumbly and hypnotically ding to that single idea of getting back our grub and camp gear? Why didn't we whip that hidden band of horses into a run the moment we stumbled onto them? We could easily have gotten away with them. In that land of knife-like canyons and narrow trails, one of us acting as rear guard could have held back a pursuing army.

True, it was a very serious matter to be caught in Castle Valley without food or the necessary extra clothing in winter. There were two or three other camps in the valley, but none would contain a sufficient surplus to carry us through until spring.

But if we had been quick-witted, we would have realized that the best way to prevent the outlaws from carrying off any considerable cargo was to get away with the horses.

It may seem unreasonable that both horse thieves did not come riding and shooting after us when we fortuitously came upon their horses. But it was afterwards clear to me why they didn't. They must have realized that any hostile gesture on their part would have impelled us to do the very thing they wished to prevent -- our running away with the horses. In contrast with our stupidity and indecision, they unhesitatingly did the only thing to do. They gambled everything on Cassidy's disarming friendliness to get within safe pistol shot before arousing our suspicions. What might have happened to us that day if blind luck or a kind providence had not been on our side?

But after all, we didn't come out of the scrimmage so badly. We got their best horse in place of our snip-nosed bay, and all our own stuff, besides that of the outlaws.