Discovery: The Richest Acre On Earth

By Stewart Nash

In 1864, Pomp Dennis and Washington Baker, Confederate soldiers are captured. They are told they have a choice to make; either go to prison, or make a solemn promise they will not pick up arms against the Union again, placed on a steamer on its way out west.They and other prisoners elected to go west. They heard there was gold to be found in the newly formed Montana Territory. The boat captain asked Pomp and Washington to stand guard while the crew loaded firewood for the boiler, letting them use one of the newer rifles available.
Twelve weeks later, the two men reached Fort Benton. Here they purchased prospecting equipment and supplies, and at their first camp, met a grizzly looking fellow Confederate named, Wooly Johnson, who had knowledge of the goldfields. They formed a partnership and once entering the mountains, traveled along the east side of the Missouri River. Testing all streams they crossed, they finally found one that produced some color and made camp where the creek entered the mountains. Two days later, Jack Thompson and Alex Craig rode into camp, having traveled up the Yellowstone River and over the divide. They formed a friendship and while all were panning for gold, Indians raided their camp. The men fled further up the creek with gold pans in hand, where they formed up and waited for the an attack. No Indians followed and while Pomp snuck back to their camp for a look, Washington found a few small nuggets in the creek. Excited, the men prospected a few days, found decent gold, named it Confederate Gulch and called their discovery Diamond City, where they would build cabins. They sent Pomp and Jack to Helena, the Last Chance Gulch gold fields, to obtain supplies, file their claims, and recruit a knowledgeable man to set up the mining laws. When they left with a couple of pack horses, thirty hopeful miners tagged behind. Laws were soon determined and the five discoverers got first draws on the claims.
Miners worked up until the ground froze. Most left for Helena or Virginia City for the winter, to return in the spring. Pomp, Washington, Wooly, and Jack each made themselves a small cabin, and another trip to Helena brought back two small potbelly stoves, axes, and supplies. Nearly fifty miners stayed through the winter and a few worked their claim underground, saving material to pan in the spring. When the ground had thawed, three hundred miners and business men arrived. Small pieces of gold was found in the overburden material, and nuggets near bedrock. Thompson’s claim had the best result of the five by mid- summer, and nearly a thousand people were scattered for ten miles up and down the gulch. Diamond City grew: stores, saloons, gambling and dance halls, lined each side of the narrow street. Thieves and crooks found their way to the area, causing problems.
Alex and Pomp sold their claims the following summer. Pomp took a job as pony express rider. At the mouth of Montana Gulch, one man made a huge discovery digging down to bedrock to find large nuggets. Others quickly bought up claims alongside. Soon, Mr. Shinneman and Friedrichs were finding large amounts of gold on the Bar. At cleanup, flumes were often found to have gold by the hundred weight, and others observed nail kegs of gold. A couple of workers were getting nearly $1,000 per pan. The main reason they did well was due to a four and half mile long ditch from Boulder Creek, crossing the gulch with piping. Carl and William Shinneman were ready to take their four hundred pounds of gold and return to Germany, and did so by way of the Missouri River with a good plan to fool the thieves along the Missouri.
Newspapers started calling the Montana Gulch area, ‘The Richest Acre on Earth’, and it was estimated that $6,000,000 in gold, at $18 an ounce, was mined from the Montana Bar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stewart Nash
• Release date: Feb 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301805679

Stewart Nash

Mr. Nash is a professional land surveyor and has worked in most western states and B.C. Canada. His additional outdoor activities includes: hunting, fishing, hiking, and gold prospecting, all of which have given him a unique perspective when writing stories taking place in the wilds. He has one such book published in B.C. Canada, a bestseller in 2001, The Last 300 Miles, now available on e-books under G. Stewart Nash. He also has a recently published biography of a northwest 1853 railroad exploration and a 1858-62 military road construction across the Rocky Mountains, titled, John Mullan - Soldier, Explorer, Road Builder, found on Amazon. He truly enjoys the research involved in his works, which are mostly historical fiction filled with action and adventure. However, to qualify his book titled, Who Is - Jesus Christ, Stewart has been a biblical student for many years and served in churches as a deacon, a message presenter, and Sunday School teacher. He lives with his wife Sandy, for 32 years, and together they have six children, 13 grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. In 2017 he and Sandy had moved to northern British Columbia, Canada, to be closer to both of their immediate relatives. Nash currently has a few different books available on amazon.com,

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DISCOVERY

THE RICHEST ACRE ON EARTH

G. Stewart Nash

Copyright © 2006 by G. Stewart Nash.

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. This book may not be copied in full or in part without the express written consent of the author.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Endnotes

Bibliography

CHAPTER 1

Confederate soldier, Fountain Dennis, lay asleep on the hard ground beneath the sprawling canopy of a large ash tree. It had been a cool night in 1863 and sleep came intermittently. It was almost breaking daylight when Fountain was startled by a hand placed on his shoulder. He started to rise but the hand held him firmly to the ground.

Shhhh, a voice said quietly. It’s time to go.

Fountain realized it was his friend, Wayne Bright. From the time he had lain down for the night just a few hours ago he had qualms of this very moment, and particularly the pending day. He didn’t know exactly why he felt uneasy, but knew the objective didn’t give him a good feeling. General Frederick Steel’s Union soldiers, he’d been told, numbered nearly thirteen thousand, many of who were black. So deep down, he knew those men who could be freed from slavery forever would be voracious fighters, willing to put every fiber of their being into what they believed in. He imagined they would become like wild men if engaged in hand-to-hand combat. He wondered too, if his own instincts for survival would bring him to the brink of savagery, to kill unemotionally by any means available. So far, he’d had no qualms about firing at the chest of the wearers of the dark blue uniforms. He intentionally didn’t try to keep a count of the number of men he’d seen fall from his rifle shot, like some of his fellow soldiers did. They were the ones who would tell of their accomplishments around the campfire at night. Most of the men in his company though were like he—knowing they would relive these moments for the rest of their lives. When they least expected it, a memory of the way a particular man had died, the way his face contorted, the agonizing, painful cry he emitted as he felt the bullet rip through flesh and his life leaving his body. Fountain knew so well those haunting memories, for they tortured him every night since killing his first union soldier.

It was seventeen months ago that he joined Major General Sterling Price’s Army in 1863, two years after Price’s great victory with his Missouri State guard in Lexington, Missouri, in which three thousand union soldiers surrendered. His mother no longer objected to his joining the war after her daughter, Aileen, died from an unexplained illness, believing she could manage the farm on her own.

Come on Fount, Wayne said in an admonishing way. We got to get some vittles in us while it’s hot. It’s gonna be another long day.

Fountain rolled onto his stomach and brought his knees and elbows beneath him, then slowly rose to his feet. I know Wayne, he said quietly, I was just daydreaming a bit. Didn’t sleep to good again.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I didn’t either, Frank whispered in a chiding tone. Most of us probably didn’t. Damn ground just don’t get any softer no matter how many times you lay on it.

There was little noise from the encampment: the bivouac’s orders were for quiet throughout the night as enemy scouts were thought to be in the area. General Price had ordered two companies to travel northwest of Camden as far as the Missouri River to obtain supplies while his main Guard worked their way toward Camden to assist Kirby Smith’s army. Fountain Dennis was among one of the foraging companies, the other was several miles to the northeast.

Fountain and Wayne stood in the chow line, their single spoon tucked in a pant pocket so it wouldn’t accidentally bang against either of the two metal meal cups: one for food, the other for drink. The cooks quietly dished food out of the pot. After hot tea water or fresh water was poured into the other container, the troops made their way back to where they had slept, most beneath tree canopies.

The two friends ate in silence, the leftover stew from last night’s meal warming their bellies. Fountain didn’t care for the taste of tea and he always refilled his canteen with fresh water as often as opportunities presented themselves. He mostly missed the fresh milk from their single cow back on the farm and as he thought about the fresh taste, he recalled how many times old Bossy had kicked over the milk pail: not from orneriness but from Fountain’s fingernail’s irritating her teats. He would put a salve on the teat cracks but too often, a fingernail would find a crack, and Bossy would suddenly move forward a step or two, rarely missing the wood milk pail with her hoof. He would offer a curse word or two, but as she turned her head back to offer a look of consternation, he knew that he had caused her to make the move. He always felt guilty when he brought a nearly empty milk pail to the house.

Fount, I can tell you’re daydreaming about home again. You haven’t said a word in ten minutes, Wayne said to break the long silence.

Yeah, you’re right. Funny thing – I was thinking about fresh milk. I miss the taste. I hope Ma has better luck with old Bossy than I did, kicking over the bucket and all. And fresh eggs for breakfast instead of this warmed over stew, and a few fried taters. Yeah, I’m dreaming, ain’t I, Fountain said as he rose to his feet and started toward the small fire where the food was served to rinse out his two meal cups and spoon. He returned to the tree where he’d slept and slipped the items into his small backpack, then sat down and whittled himself a toothpick in the dim light of morning.

Fountain had turned 28 on his birthday last March. He was a quiet sort of man, slightly built, weighing 160 pounds. If he got riled up though, he wouldn’t back down from any man. Before his pa passed on when Fountain was only 12 years old, he’d taught his son how to fight and hold his own with other kids.

Before noon, Fountain’s company had come across three farms where they were able to purchase a few food items from each. The last farm owner told them that the town of Lexington was only a few more miles away, that they would have better luck at making purchases there. He also told them that he’d heard the Union army had been in the area just a few days ago. As they were leaving the farm, Fountain was ordered ahead as squadron scout, to relieve a man who’d had that duty throughout the morning.

Fountain liked scout duty. He trusted his own abilities and instincts in the woods. Most of the men selected as scouts had the same feeling about themselves, but there were a few that Fountain just didn’t have confidence in. He would observe different scouts whenever opportunity allowed—at bivouac chow lines, rest breaks, when the received orders to move out ahead, and when they made their report. He wondered why the company officers didn’t see the same things he saw in the selected men. They apparently saw something different, for different reasons. Perhaps, he thought, other scouts were observing him also.

Fountain moved quickly, silently ahead of the troop just out of their sight. He stayed close to trees and shrubs for cover, stopping every twenty yards to listen. Off in the distance ahead, he heard a dog bark and suspected he was getting close to Lexington village. A squirrel started its warning chippings a few yards ahead and Fountain knew he was the cause of the squirrel’s discomfort, but there was nowhere else to go that the squirrel wouldn’t see him. He knew the little creature would break into a chatter to warn others of his presence, as soon as he moved closer. He just hoped there were no union soldiers nearby, alerted by this forest sentry.

Passing beneath the squirrel, Fountain stopped and looked up. He saw the squirrel’s throat swell slightly as it made a guttural sound, the effort causing its whole body to move. He lift his rifle up and aimed at the squirrel’s head, then made a soft noise as if he’d pulled the trigger, recalling seeing many squirrels tumble to the ground from his shots to put meat on the table back home.

Did you get him, soldier, a voice suddenly said off to the side. Startled, Fountain jerked his head to the side and saw a lone Union soldier with his rifle aimed directly at him, only thirty yards away. Adrenalin surged throughout his body, knowing he was about to die. His mind raced, thinking of what to do; drop to his knees and see if he could swing his own rifle onto the soldier; lunge forward and hope the soldiers aim was off; just give up to save his own life; all these thoughts in a matter of seconds.

If you want to live, just keep that rifle pointing at the squirrel. I’ll shoot if you move, mister, the Union soldier said.

Fountain’s heart sank, knowing he did not stand a chance. He never believed an enemy would capture him, always thinking he would probably die in battle from a well-placed bullet. He wondered if the soldier would shoot, if he pulled the trigger on his own rifle to warn his men. He saw that the soldier was younger than he was and perhaps less experienced with handling a rifle. He felt the sudden discharge of his own rifle would panic the soldier, causing him to pull his trigger involuntarily.

Okay, Yankee, Fountain said reluctantly. You got me cold. Ease off on that trigger, and I’ll lay my rifle on the ground."

Do it danged slow, the soldier shouted. Any funny stuff and I’ll send you to hell.

Fountain did not notice the shaking hands of the young Union soldier and the loud voice in giving the order hid the fear the soldier, a fear he felt in the pit of his stomach. He too, was a scout for his company and this was the first time he had come across the enemy when by himself.

With his rifle lying on the ground, Fountain stepped back from it, his hands raised in the air. His eyes never left the rifle, knowing he had just given up his only chance of getting out of this alive, perhaps. He knew well of the harsh treatment he would encounter in a prison: the poor food, horrible conditions, treated as a captive animal, being among men with terrible diseases, ones that could kill hundreds.

The Union soldier moved forward unsteadily, his hands still trembling, wondering if the captured man would try to get away, or attempt to retrieve his rifle. He knew he would have to shoot if the man did anything like that, but he hoped he would not, he had never shot another man before.

All right, Reb, don’t be thinking you can get that rifle back before I shoot. You step back two more steps. Fountain did as ordered, shaking his head at himself for his stupidity of letting someone sneak up on him that close, for taking more notice to a danged squirrel than a potential enemy. Now turn around so’s I can see if you have a sidearm or a knife in your belt, the soldier ordered. Not seeing anything, he moved in even closer and pushed the rifle barrel into Fountain’s stomach. You’re my prisoner now, Reb. You got any soldiers trailing you. You a scout?

Fountain thought to try to fool the young man, to make him lower his guard some. No—there’s nobody with me. I’m just out here trying to get something to eat. That squirrel would have looked mighty good in my cook pot.

The soldier frowned. You ain’t got no cook pot, Reb. You can’t kill no squirrel either, by pretending to shoot him.

My house is just through the trees over there, Fountain said, pointing a finger toward the village. I always give the squirrels a chance before I shoot. I make a rifle sound first, and if that squirrel just stares down at me, then I let him have it for sure. Besides, I’m no Reb, like you said.

You’re wearing a Reb hat. That makes you a Reb.

Oh that, Fountain said, reaching up and taking his cap off. That’s my pa’s hat. He was killed two years ago and it’s all they brought back to me. I just wear it when I’m out hunting squirrels or coons. Those were my pa’s favorites to eat.

The soldier pushed the rifle barrel even harder at Fountain’s stomach. Then let me see your rifle. I’ll know if it’s yours, or if it’s an army rifle. I’ll just ease over to it. You make any sudden moves and BOOM; you’re a dead squirrel hunter.

The soldier sidestepped toward the prone rifle until he was alongside. He bent his knees and reached for the rifle without taking his eyes off Fountain. He picked it up and rose back up. Holding it out front, he glanced down at the markings and saw it was an army issue. It had the stamp of the same company who made his own rifle. Lying Reb! This is no squirrel rifle. You just got yourself a free pass to the stockade. There’s a few of your friends waiting for you there. Now put your hands behind your head and lock your fingers together.

Fountain knew there was no chance to trick the young man now; he would be all the more cautious. He reluctantly placed his hands behind his head, and lowered his head in shame.

Wayne Bright confirmed that the rifle lying on the ground beneath the oak tree was Fountain’s rifle: the two fresh nicks on the left side of the stock butt were plain as could be. Wayne was beside Fountain when he tripped and the stock hit a solid rock. There’s no way Fountain would leave his rifle like this, Captain, Wayne said while several men surrounded him. He was mad as could be when he tripped and made those two marks on a rock right there, he said pointing to the indentations. He always took real good care of it, sir.

The Captain looked around slowly, and quietly said, "Boys, if he’s been ambushed and captured without firing a shot, there just might be a bunch of them Yankees around. We’ll form a line on both sides here,’ he said pointing his arms parallel to their objective, the nearby village.