Alice Wilson Atcheson Autobiography 
 
 
	This letter, written by Alice Wilson Atcheson to her nephew Kenneth 
	Mason Wilson is a part of an unpublished paper written by Wilford  
	Murry Wilson, M. D., brother of Alice and father of Kenneth, 2 April 
	1929. 
 
	Letter submitted by Dr. Peter M. Wilson, petelois@bellatlantic.net 
	All rights reserved. 
 
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		AUNT ALICE GOES ON HER WEDDING JOURNEY 
 
Aunt Alice, at the time of which she writes, was twenty-seven years old. 
She weighed ninety-nine pounds. Some say that is a witch's weight, and 
some say it's a fairy's weight. I think that both weigh the same, for as 
a girl, she was both a witch and a fairy. Besides being light of weight 
she was light otherwise, - light hair, light eyes, light of skin, light 
on her feet, light hearted, and, sometimes I used to think, light 
headed. 
 
	The only thing heavy about her was her hair. When down it was one 
mass of shimmering, golden sunshine from the crown of her head to her 
heels. No wonder that the old Sioux Chief thought her a bargain at 
twenty-six hundred dollars in ponies and buffalo skins. 
 
	She was afraid of thunder - not of the lightning, but of the 
noise; afraid of a gun - not of the bullet, but of the report; afraid of 
a mouse; also of Indians, as she confesses. But she had that high 
bravery that faces real danger unafraid, and, with it all a sense of 
humor that ,made light of the hardships and privations of pioneer life. 
 
It is now nearly forty-seven years since she met her husband, Norman 
Atcheson, at Rapid City, South Dakota, that June morning in 1982, and 
together they took that wonderful ride through the heart of the Black 
Hills to their new home at Custer City. It is a long, long trail they 
have traveled together since then, and may God give them peace and quiet 
to the end of it. 
 
                                               Omaha, Nebraska, 1916. 
 
Dear	Kenneth (Alice's nephew): 
 
	Some time ago your father suggested that I set down for you some 
of the things out of my life in this Western country. The spirit moves 
me to write to-day. 
 
 
	Your uncle, Norman Atcheson and I were married at our old home at 
Espyville, Pennsylvania, on January 8, 1882, and on the following day 
left for the Black Hills. We stopped to see his people at Waterloo, 
Iowa, and later on visited Uncle Thomas Coble and family at Hampton, 
also in Iowa. His wife, my aunt Margery Coble (Margery Mason Coble) was 
your grandmother (Catharine Mason Wilson) Wilson's sister, and it was 
while visiting the Cobles a few years before that I met your uncle 
Norman. 
 
	It was mid-winter and the weather was very severe, so it was 
thought best for me to remain at Hampton until spring, particularly as 
the trip from Pierre, S. D. to Rapid City, where Norman was to meet me, 
165 miles, must be made by stage coach. So Norman went on ahead to make 
ready our little home in Custer City. 
 
	One bright morning in June, 1882, I said good-bye to the Cobles, 
and started on my way. Pierre, S. D. was then the terminus of the 
railroad. It is located on a gumbo flat, and, as it had been raining for 
several days, the situation was anything but cheerful. Besides, being in 
its boom days, it was filled with toughs, cowboys and Indians. 
 
	I went to the office of the stage company to inquire about a coach 
through to Rapid City, and was told that one would start at eight 
o'clock. It was then 6 p. m., and the idea of starting at that time in 
the evening did not appeal to me. So I decided to wait until the next 
evening, hoping that by that time I would get used to the idea. 
 
	When we finally started I found myself the only lady passenger 
among eight men, five of whom were foreigners and did not speak a word 
of English. Of the other three, one as a lad from Pittsburgh, going to 
the Hills to seek his fortune; a Mr. Bud Avery; from Spearfish, S. D.; 
and last but not least, a big, jolly Irishman by the name of Hickey 
McGuire, who, to my surprise and pleasure, when I told him who I was and 
where I was going, knew my husband as "Doc" Atcheson. Norman was a 
druggist and doctored folks whenever he had a chance which accounts for 
this handle to his name. Mr. McGuire was about 40 years of age and a 
widower. He had been to Chicago and was taking back a trunk full of 
finery for his daughters. Alas, for the finery! There were four horses 
to our coach. 
 
	Starting from Pierre, we were ferried across the Missouri River, 
then out onto the prairie we went, through he valleys, over the hills to 
the table land, then up and over the divide, only to descent again, and 
thus on and on through the long, evening twilight of that north country, 
the trail stretching out before us in a thin line toward he west, with 
not a sign of human habitation for miles on miles. 
 
	The coach carried U. S. mail and express, and, of course traveled 
on a stiff schedule. Every few miles fresh horses were supplied from the 
corrals kept by the stage company. As we approached a station the 
Messenger, having charge of the mail, blew his horn, and when we drew up 
there were the fresh horses harnessed and ready to be hooked on. 
Sometimes coffee of a very black variety was passed around and then we 
were away again into the night. The Messenger and the driver as well as 
the men passengers wore heavy cartridge belts and revolvers. 
 
	The coach swayed and lurched so that it was all one could do to 
keep one's seat. Sleep was impossible. Mr. McGuire, to beguile the time, 
and, I suspect, to test the metal of us "tender-feet", the young lad and 
myself, began telling stories of Indian massacres, stage robberies, and 
hold-ups of the most thrilling character, and so the night wore away. 
 
	About 4 o'clock in the morning, just as the sun was beginning to 
streak the eastern sky, we met a coach going east. Our Messenger hailed 
it and asked about the river. I found out later on that it was the 
Cheyenne River they were talking about. Up to that time I had given the 
river no thought whatever, not even knowing that there was one to be 
crossed. The answer to the Messenger's question was, "We crossed all 
right, but it is rising. If you hurry you may make it." Then I began to 
take notice. 
 
	So the horses were urged to greater speed, and, as we neared the 
river I looked out. It certainly was one awful sight to me. But I had 
little time to think about it for we drove straight in. We did not go 
far, however, until it was apparent that we could not cross, neither 
could we go back. One of the horses was drowned right there. The 
Messenger and the driver jumped into the river, cut the dead horse 
loose, then, swimming to the heads of the others, succeeded in keeping 
them from going under. The coach, turning with the current, began to 
float down stream. Meanwhile the passengers were scrambling about trying 
to save themselves. 
 
	Mr. Avery's was the one cool head. He took charge and gave orders 
which were obeyed. He got all of us up onto the top of the coach. I 
stayed inside until the water was over the seat. The stage house was on 
the opposite side of the river, and we were to breakfast there. There 
were a number of people at the house and, when they saw us in trouble, 
they came down to the river, but they had nothing with which to help us, 
- no boats nor rafts, and the water was just rushing between us and the 
shore, as rivers do when out of their banks. 
 
	We kept drifting down stream, I think perhaps half a mile. I do 
not know how but we also drifted toward the opposite shore. When about 
30 or 40 feet from the bank the coach lodged and remained stationary. 
Mr. Avery then told some of the men on shore to tie ropes around their 
waists (every man in that country carried a lariat) and to come down 
into the water as far as they could, while the others were to stay on 
shore to pull them out if necessary. When all were ready we were to jump 
from the top of the coach as far as we could toward the men in the 
water. 
 
	Our foreigners and the lad with his coach dog were soon on shore 
for they could swim. There remained beside Mr. Avery, Mr. McGuire and 
myself. He was to go first. Mr. McGuire was a very heavy man. I should 
think that he would weigh 200 pounds or more. It was now my turn to 
laugh,for our story-telling Irishman was certainly scared.	There could 
be no doubt about that. He could not swim, and to jump off of the top of 
a stage coach into a ragging torrent of the dirtiest water you ever saw 
in your life, was quite enough to take the joking out of even an 
Irishman. He wore a linen duster over his cost, and I can see now just 
what a funny picture he made. He would swing his arms frantically, and 
make a big fuss, then his courage would fail him. I suggested that I say 
the old rhyme for him: "One, two, three, the bumblebee, the rooster 
crows, and away she goes", but he only grinned a twisted sort of grin. 
Finally Mr. Avery said: "Now Mac, the coach is drifting away from the 
bank and we must get this little lady off. You jump this time or I'll 
push you in", and his voice had a ring that Mac knew meant business. So 
Mac said: "Look out for me, boys, I can swim just like a stone." He made 
a big splash, but they pulled him ashore. It was now my turn. 
 
	I do not remember that I hesitated at all, just did what I was 
told to do. I jumped just as far as I could, and they fished me out. 
Certainly I was a sorry spectical for a bride! When I reached shore, 
McGuire still shaking with fright, put both arms around me and said: 
"Don't be frightened any more, little girl, we are all safe".  
 
	We landed in a half-flooded, gumbo cornfield, and had to plough 
through that awful mud to get to the ranch house where we were to 
breakfast. In the excitement I never thought of my trunk, but only that 
when I had changed my muddy, wet clothes for others, I would be all 
right. But alas, my trunk with its bridal finery was a complete ruin. It 
had been stowed underneath the coach, and was in the water all the time. 
So I dried out my hair and the clothes I had on the best I could. They 
gave us very little time to get dry and eat our breakfast, when we were 
off again. I rode the rest of the way without shoes but, as the lad from 
Pittsburgh let me put my feet on his coach dog, I kept warm and took no 
cold. At Rapid City I found Mr. Atcheson waiting to take me to our new 
home at Custer City in the heart of the Black Hills. 
 
	When Mr. McGuire came to say good-bye, he complimented me highly 
on my bravery. He said that he could not understand why I showed so 
little fear in so dangerous a situation. I told him that I hardly knew 
myself, unless it was that I thought that eight big men ought to be able 
to save one little woman. He said that he had not thought of it that 
way. But he told your uncle Norman that he would give $1,000 for a wife 
as brave as I was. This puffed me up wonderfully, so I wrote home about 
it, and your father, who was then a boy like Wendell is now, and going 
to college with a very lean pocketbook, wrote back that he would like to 
take a contract to furnish old maids as good looking and as brave as I 
was, in car-load lots at $1,000 a head.  
 
	I wish I could describe for you the Black Hills as they looked to 
me. The distance from Rapid City to Custer is thirty-five miles as the 
crow flies. Norman had driven over with a light rig, and we had a most 
delightful trip through those wonderful hills with their strange 
formations, such as I never had seen before. Arriving at Custer City, I 
found the little town nestled at the foot of Harney's Peak, and the 
beautiful valley in which it lies all dotted over with little homes, all 
of them of crude construction and many of them of logs. My own, which in 
time was one of the largest, consisted of two rooms, but it was all 
right with me. We were young and hope was strong, and our confidence in 
the future was unbounded. Custer City was like one big family. The court 
house was the center for all social activity. It was only through the 
mail that we caught any glimpse of the outside world. 
 
	fter we had gotten our home nicely fixed up, one day Norman came 
in and said that he had the contract to put up a store building for the 
Government at the Pine Ridge Indian Agency, about 100 miles from Custer 
City. As it would take him probably two or three months to complete the 
job, I begged to go with him. So he added another tent and I packed my 
things. 
 
	We started out in a "Prairie Schooner", our party consisting of 
two men, who were carpenters, Norman and myself. We were three days 
making the trip, sleeping on the ground at night. The men seemed always 
to know just where to find good water and, as they did all the cooking, 
all I had to do was to make myself agreeable. When we neared the Agency 
and began to meet the Indians, I confess to a trembling of the knees. 
There was a fear within me of those people that I could not throw off, 
reason as I might. When we arrived at our destination and Norman did not 
find things ready for him and had to go out several miles for some 
material, he left me at a tavern, kept by a Mexican and his wife, to 
await his return. The other men of our party were busy with their work. 
 
	I was afraid to be left there alone even in daylight, but was 
ashamed to say so, particularly as I had begged to come. I wanted to 
show that I was game, so I sat down and tried to make the best I could 
of it. In no time at all or so it seemed to me the word was passed 
around that a white squaw was in town, for the Indians, squaws,and 
pappooses came literally in droves to see me. I think the whole Sioux 
tribe was there and maybe some of their friends. They would come right 
up close to me, and jabber and laugh. I knew that they were talking bout 
me, although I understood not a word they said. I kept pushing my chair 
back until it was against the wall and could go no farther. They 
followed right after me, and continued to look me over, my clothes, my 
shoes, my hair, which seemed to interest them most. 
 
	After a while one of the men who came with us came in or a drink 
of water. After several ineffectual efforts to speak to him, I found 
voice enough to say, "Jake". Turning he took one look at me and burst 
out laughing. I could not see the joke, and I said, "Jake, I'm going 
wherever you go. I can't stand this". So I tagged around with him until 
Norman came back. The men had considerable fun about this at my espense, 
but even now, after thirty-five years, I still fail to see the funny 
side of it. That evening we set up our tents, and thereafter enjoyed 
some privacy. 
 
	One Sunday evening while we were sitting in our tent an old Indian 
suddenly appeared. His name was, Captain Long-Dog-Not-Afraid-Of-Thunder, 
a Chief of the Sioux and Ogalalies. He wanted to know whose squaw I was. 
Norman gave him to understand that I belonged to him. He said, Wa-ap", 
meaning "Swap". Norman asked, "How Much?" He held up two fingers and 
said, "Ponies." Norman shook his head, so up went more fingers. This 
continued until all the fingers on both hands were up. When this offer 
was refused the he began to add buffalo skins; how many, I do not know, 
but after a while it seemed to dawn on him that, somehow or other, he 
had made a mistake. The money value of his offer totaled about $2,600. 
 
	Although he had failed to make a purchase, he continued almost 
daily to hang around our tent, until Norman, fearing that he might take 
it into his head to kidnap me, asked the Agent for a guard. After that 
we had an Indian sentinel outside our tent until the end of our stay. 
 
	We became well acquainted with this young Indian, and afterward he 
came often to our store at Oelrichs, some twenty miles from the 
Reservation. His little son sold to Norma a bow and arrow, which I still 
treasure. (Norma was Aunt Alice's little daughter. She died during an 
epidemic of Diptheria which nearly depopulated the town of Oelrichs of 
its children in 1889). 
 
	This little lad used to wear a jacket, all covered over with Elk's 
teeth. If we had it now, it would, doubtless, be much prized by some of 
our friends., belonging to the Benevolent, Protective Order of Elks. 
 
	One day the Episcopal Minister at the Agency called and said that 
on the following day the Government would issue beef cattle to the 
Indians; that if it would interest me he would be glad to take me to see 
it. Of course I was glad to go, as I wanted to see everything I could. 
 
	The next morning early the Indians began coming to the Agency. 
They were dressed for the occasion, or rather undressed, for they were 
naked, except for breech clout and feathers. All the men were mounted on 
ponies; the squaws could look out for themselves. There were perhaps 300 
of them, and a fierce looking lot they were. 
 
	We drove out about four miles to a big corral where the cattle 
were bunched. There was a high covered stand at the entrance of the 
corral. It looked much like a band stand. The Government agents whose 
duty it was to award the cattle occupied this stand. Each animal was 
awarded to a group of Indians, say ten or twelve, whose names were 
called out just before the gate was opened. The Indians were allowed to 
do as they pleased with the animals issued to them. The Indians, mounted 
on their ponies, drew up in two lines on either side of the gate, so 
that when the gate was opened the animal had to pass out between the 
lines; only one ran the gauntlet at a time. 
 
	When all was ready, the gate was opened and the wild and 
frightened animal, terrified and bewildered by the shouting and the 
prodding, rushed out between the lines of howling savages and, clearing 
them, struck out over the prairie at the top of its speed, the Indians 
following prodding it with spears and shooting arrows into it. This was 
kept up until the animal was exhausted and no longer able to furnish 
excitement. Then it was killed, and turned over to the squaws, who 
seemed to enjoy the horrible spectacle quite as much as did their 
wonderfully brave men. How they divided up the meat among the members of 
the group or how they finally got it to their teepees, I do not know, 
but they got no help from the men. 
 
	It all seemed very wicked and cruel to me. I have since heard that 
the practice has been discontinued. 
 
	While at the Agency we were often very much disturbed at night. 
The Indians were compelled to bury their dead in a cemetary, like 
Christians. The cemetery happened to be near our tent. Always there were 
some of them out there, pounding on drums and howling and moaning all 
night long. To sleep was impossible. The minister told me that they 
really enjoyed it; that they luxuriated in grief, as he put it. To me it 
was perfectly hideous. 
 
	The minister invited us to attend his church, but told us to be 
very careful to conform to all the forms of worship - set a good example 
for the Indians. It was indeed, a strange experience, but I stayed 
through it all. Frequently I had to pinch myself to make sure that the 
person in the midst of these curiously strange surroundings was really 
I. 
 
	Not long ago we attended.a moving picture show and saw Pine Ridge 
as it is to-day. Stately buildings have replaced the crude structures of 
a former time, and the landscape gardener has done a something for that 
barren waste. 
 
	John Brennen of Rapid City, an old-time friend of ours, now 
retired, was Government Agent there for many years. His work among the 
Indians has not been barren of results, for not since the battle of 
Wounded Knee, in 1890, has there been any disturbance of note. 
 
	If these things interest you, I shall feel well repaid. 
 
Omaha, Nebraska                               Alice (Wilson) Atcheson 
	1916 
 
(Aunt Alice died, 5 P. M. March 26, 1929 at The Fontenelle Home, 
Fontenelle Boulevard, Omaha Nebraska; age 74 years, 1 month and 15 days.