I, William Anthony, was born in Glasgow, Scotland, a long time ago. Our family consisted of my mother, brother Bob and I. Bob was two years younger than I. During my childhood we resided in Glasgow, Renfrew, and vicinity. It was while we were at Renfrew, at Grandma’s when I was about three years old, that I nearly set the house a fire. Grandmother had just died, and it must have been the winter season for the body was placed, on an improvised bier in front of and very near the large fireplace. I remember I was running around the room in dresses and in my journeyings I had found a large ball of grease that had been saved for some purpose. I took that ball of grease and creeping under the bier, I placed it on the live coals in the fireplace. In a moment and with a roar like thunder, a great blaze filled the fireplace. Just then a gust of wind came down the chimney and that blaze flew out nearly into the center of the room, enveloping the bier on which the body of my grandmother lay. The folks in the other rooms heard the noise and oh, how excited they were! Buckets full of water were poured on the fire until it was extinguished but not before the sheet was badly scorched. Knowing my guilt, all that time I was hiding, but when the room was tidied up again and I was finally discovered, I did not get the whipping I deserved.

Mother’s sister and her husband were in the United States and wanted us to emigrate and make our home with them. We boarded a coastwise steamer and went to Liverpool. There we disembarked and took a trans-Atlantic liner for the ocean voyage. I think it was, the Colorado. 

As soon as we were under way, I began to wonder what was making the ship go. I thought I could find out if I looked over the side of the vessel, but my mother would not let me. When we walked the deck it was with my hand in hers. I puzzled over the motive power of that ship for a long time. At length I concluded that there must be something down in the water in front that was pulling it, but still Mother would not let me investigate.

One bright moonlit night, when Mother and Bob were fast asleep, I sneaked out of bed and went on deck in my nightgown. The moon was full and about four hours above the west horizon. Like a ghost, I sped to the front of the vessel; but leaning over as far as I could, the point where the ship struck the water was invisible.Then I saw a pole about ten inches in diameter that extended from the front out over the water at about a thirty degree angle. I thought if I were out on that I could see under the steamer. I mounted the pole and worked myself forward until I was about ten feet from the body of the ship.

There for the first time in my adventure, fear struck me, so I lay down on the pole and reached my arms and legs around it as far as they could go. I was in a precarious position. If I dropped it would be into the Atlantic Ocean, which was probably more than a mile deep, and be whirled under that mighty steamer. I could not turn around and I was afraid to creep for the ship, going backward. All this while the vessel plunged forward, with awful speed and at the same time swung from side to side like a mighty pendulum.

I was getting the greatest shock of my nine years of life and was beginning to think I could not hold on much longer when I heard a commotion on deck and Mother’s voice saying, “Willie my boy, where are you?” I could not answer. At length a sailor spied me on my perch. He said, “Hang on little boy, don’t try to come back. I will get you in a minute.” He walked on that pole right out to me. I don’t know how he did it, but I think there must have been a rope above his head he was holding to. When he got a good hold of the nape of my nightgown he pulled me to my feet and after he had shaken me said, “You little son-of-a-gun,” only the word he said was much worse than gun. In a few minutes I was in Mother’s arms and that awful adventure was over.

We had a successful trip across the ocean and landed at Castle Garden, New York, about the last of August, 1868. While looking around in the new world, we spied a fruit stand. Mother said, “Look at those American apples, aren’t they pretty?” She bought a big one and divided it, giving each a third. We took a bite and that was enough. We threw it away. It was years after that before I could eat a tomato.

We entrained at Castle Garden for Ogden, Utah, and crossed the plains without an unusual incident, and arrived in Ogden early in September. Aunt Janet and the hired man were there to meet us. They had a linchpin wagon, a part of which was a high box with two spring seats on it, as a means of conveyance. We mounted this vehicle, started an eighteen-mile journey in a northerly direction and arrived at Three Mile Creek, where Uncle’s farm was located, that same evening. The threshers were there, so a feast was prepared for us and we settled down well pleased with the change from the old to the new world.

This farm home was to an extent isolated and one night about a year after our arrival, we had an experience that I will always remember. It had been rumored for some time that Indians south of us were making raids and causing trouble.

There were some camped in our village but they were very friendly; we did not feel alarmed. One night about 12 p.m. we were awakened by a terrible racket outside. A band of about thirty Indians, seemingly intoxicated, were marching around the house screaming, yelling and cursing and firing their guns in the air. Such a racket I had never heard before. It was hideous. They must have marched around the house ten or twelve times keeping up that awful din. Then they congregated at the back door, beating upon it with the butts of their guns, and demanding admittance. Uncle had arisen from his bed, taken down his Spencer rifle, loaded it and filled the magazine and was seated on an old chair near the door. There he sat, where, if they opened the door an inch he could fire into the crowd.

At length they left the back door and marched around to the front door. They pounded on the door and threatened as before. Uncle happened to think of a friendly Indian called Jim, who spoke English well and who might be with the gang to keep them from doing anything atrocious, so he called out, “Jim, are you there?” “Yes,” said Jim, “I am here trying to keep these fellows from doing what they will be sorry for, but they are full of firewater and won’t listen to me.” Well, you tell them I am sitting here by the door with a loaded rifle and plenty of cartridges and if they force the door I will shoot every man that steps inside, and I will shoot to kill.” We heard Jim, talking to them in their language. Soon they left the door and marched around the house again. This they did until daylight drove them away. I shall never forget that night.

I think it was the same year that Bob, two of our cousins and I went to Willard to celebrate the Fourth of July. We listened to the program in the forenoon and took in the sports in the afternoon. About 3:30 we went to the home of our cousins, which was about a mile from ours, and continued the sport of celebration in our own way. Behind the house near the well was a large pond two-thirds full of water. On the water we placed an inch thick board a foot square, and on this board we put a sheet of paper. It was on this paper that we poured powder from a heavy brass powder can, taking turns pouring the powder and carrying the can fastened to a string around our necks. How that board did dance every time the powder flashed. My, what fun it was! The sports were an entire success. After a time I went home to do my chores, leaving Bob and our cousins to finish the celebration. I had been home about a half hour when I saw a little boy running along the railroad toward our place and crying as hard as he could. I knew it was Bob and ran to meet him. When I was still one hundred feet away, he saw me and called out in a voice full of anguish, “Willie, I’m dead, I’m dead.” I knew that he was not dead, but I could see that his face was terribly burned. Aunt covered his face with a thick coating of molasses to take out the fire. He had been handling the powder can and thinking to set it off without a match, had poured the powder on a piece of paper that was burning. The fire ran up the powder stream into the can which burst into a thousand pieces with a report like a cannon. It was lucky that Bob did not lose his eyesight and have his face cut all to pieces.

When we had been in Utah several years, Uncle bought a farm on the higher ground near the mouth of Three Mile Canyon and it was not long before we left the home on the bottom. After we were established in our new home, it was decided that I would take a team of colts that we were breaking to Mantua where there was a sawmill and get a load of slabs. Mantua is about five miles east of Brigham City, in a little valley east of Brigham’s mountains. To get there, you have to go entirely through Box Elder Canyon. As we planned, I hooked the half-broken colts to the running gear and started to Mantua. I reached there safely and put a big load of slabs on my wagon; some of these green slabs were six inches thick. The road you take from Mantua Valley into Box Elder Canyon is a dugway about a mile long, very steep and having one very sharp turn or curve. That was the road I had to take with my load of slabs. I reached the top of the dugway, there I should have rough-locked, and I had no brakes. I should have known that not even an old work team could hold that load, but I did not, so I started down with a firm grip on the lines. We had not gone far before the team was on the run and the curve was just ahead. When we jumped from the dugway onto the side of the hill, I was sitting on the front end of the slabs with my feet hanging. I knew the wagon would tip over so I turned till my legs hung between the back and front wheels on the upper side. If I dropped and the wagon did not tip over as I expected, the back wheel would crush me. I took the risk. Just as I dropped, the wagon seemed to be boosted into the air by some mighty force before the back wheel could strike me and landed upside down in the bottom of a dry ditch about fifty feet below. I had two options, I could sit on the load where I was, or I could drop off as I did. As it happened, I took the better, but it was a narrow escape. A group of men coming down the dugway helped me to get my team and wagon back on the road. We loaded the slabs too, all that were not too badly broken. This time I rough-locked the hind wheels and reached home without further incident.

About three years after we had moved to the upper farm, I had a wonderful dream. One that I will never forget. Aunt Janet had a sick spell about four times a year during that period. One night I dreamed that I stood on the front porch of the south room of that two-roomed log house. My Aunt Mary, whose home was about three-fourths of a mile away, stood on the right about three feet distant. The door was opened, how, I do not remember, and I looked in. The door faced the west and the bed was in the northeast corner and on that lay Aunt Janet. I could see that she was dead. I noticed the handkerchief tied about her head to keep her jaw from sagging, and the way it was tied. On the right of the bed and near the head sat my uncle with one elbow on his knee and his face resting on his hand, in a very sorrowful attitude. Near the south wall sat two neighbor ladies, both of whom I knew very well. That dream I had fifty years ago, yet I remember it as though I saw it last night. Probably six weeks after I had this dream, Aunt Janet had another sick spell and during its continuance, while Bob and I were sound asleep, Uncle came to our bed and awakened me. “Your Aunt is very sick. Get up and go after Aunt Mary.” I got up, dressed and sped over the three-fourths of a mile of lonely prairie. Aunt Mary was ready in a few minutes and we went back together. When we stepped on the porch, we were in the exact position of my dream. The door was opened and I stepped forward where I could see the interior of the room, and I beheld the very same picture I had seen in my dreams. Persons, positions and attitudes were exactly the same. Aunt Janet had passed away while I was after Aunt Mary, and Bob had been sent for the two neighbor ladies. My dream had come true in every particular. What do you think of it? Is there an intelligent force that knows what will happen in our future lives and makes it known to us in an enigmatical way?

When I was about twenty years of age, I hired out to the Stewart Grading Company and drove a mule team carrying supplies and utensils from my home to a point several miles east of Clear Creek Station in Spanish Fork Canyon where the company had a grading contract. There we pitched our tents and began to build grade for the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad Company. There we built in places marked by the engineers, over the divide and down the White River Canyon toward Castle Valley. While we were located on White River where there was much wild game, one of our number was appointed to keep the camp in meat and got as much wages as we (who) worked on the grade. He was my buddy. During the time we worked on that project, nearly all of the crew went hunting every Sunday and always invited me to be one of the party; but the Puritan training of my mother caused me to believe that it was wrong to work on the Sabbath and much worse to hunt; so I did not go. While we were camped on White River, the Sunday hunting continued. One day, it was rumored that we would be there but one Sabbath more, when we would move to a place where there was but little game. The boys were determined to make the most of that opportunity. When they invited me they were urgent. I must go with them. My buddy borrowed a Vallard rifle and cartridges for me and brought them to camp. When I heard what he had done, I decided to go just this once. It was a decision that caused me much suffering and changed the whole course of my life.

The memorable day came. There were eight of us and we started after dinner. We crossed the river and single-filed up a slope toward a ravine that extended to the top of the mountains. My buddy was in the lead with his new Needle gun on his shoulder. I was the last of the line. Whenever in walking, he brought the nuzzle of that gun in line with us, I dodged it. That was the only gun I was afraid of. To get into the ravine I mentioned we must go around the end of a ridge. I was still the last in line; when we were about one hundred yards from there, I started back for camp. I walked about three hundred yards before I knew I was going. Then all at once I knew. I seemed to have just awakened from a sound sleep. I argued with myself, “The boys did a whole lot to get me to go on this hunt, and here I am leaving them.” I turned back and soon caught up with the others. We were in the ravine. A small stream of water ran down the bottom and about two rods up on the west side a cow trail ran parallel with it. We were on that trail and in the same order. All of a sudden a flock of pine hen jumped and lighted on the level near the creek. We made a raid on them, using rocks as our weapons. In the mix up the hunter and I in some way got together and sat down on a fallen tree to rest. A pine hen jumped up on another log about twenty-five yards away. There it stood with its head straight up and looking at us with his little bright eyes. “Buddy”, I said, “Shoot that bird,” He said “No, We dare not shoot here. The deer are just above us and if we frighten them, we will not get near them this afternoon.” I said,

“Buddy, shoot that bird. If you shoot that cartridge that is in the gun now I am perfectly safe; if you don’t shoot it I am going to get hurt.” He said, “What ails you, Will? I never saw you act or heard you talk as you have this afternoon. The gun is new and I will carry it at half-cock. You can’t pull it off if you pull with all your strength. Come on. Let’s get us a deer.” He jumped up and I followed him.

Again we were walking on the trail but this time I was just behind him. The muzzle of his gun was about three feet in front of me. He slipped and to catch himself, removed the gun so that I looked down the barrel. I dodged, throwing myself to the upper side and bringing my left shoulder up where my head had been. Just then, smoke filled my eyes and a bullet pierced my left shoulder. I threw up my right arm and giving a yell like a Comanche, fell on my back with my head down the hill. It seems to me that I got to my feet without help, but I am not sure of that. I put my hand behind my and said, “The bullet is just coming out. I can feel it.” The hunter examined the wound. “No, no,” he said, “The bullet has gone through and there is a hole where it came out as big as the mouth of a teacup. What you feel is a piece of bone sticking out.”

The wound bled profusely at first, it shot straight out in a stream as large as your little finger, Then it slowed up and ran down my back, filling my left boot. Someone said, “We must get him back to camp as soon as possible.” The hunter threw down his gun and started to run. “I will get a horse,” he said. I was told that he ran all the way. After he left, the others decided that they too would go to camp and see if they could bring back help of some sort; so they left a man with me as I was becoming weak from the loss of blood, and started out. The man they left was about nineteen years of age, a splendid comrade and very sympathetic, but he was the greatest blasphemer of the name of Deity I ever heard. His name was Jed. He ran a tongue scraper and leveled up our grade. When we were alone I said, “Jed, I am afraid I can’t ride a horse down the hill. If you will help me, I will walk as far as I can.” He put his arm around me and we started. When we had gone about twenty-five yards, the ridges began whirling around me and the clumps of timber were jumping up and down. It seemed that I was going to faint. He ran to the creek, filled his hat with water and bathed my head and face. I did not faint. When he saw that I was recovered, he said, “This is not fair, Will. Here you are, shot through the body and probably dying and I don’t believe you have ever taken the name of the Lord in vain; while, I, who am the greatest blasphemer on the D & R G line, an well and hearty,” Then, with his right hand toward Heaven, his face turned toward the sky and big tears rolling down his cheeks, he prayed, “Our Father in Heaven, if you bless this man so that he does not die while I am alone with him, I swear with my hand toward Heaven that I will never again take your name in vain, as long as I live.” No prayer was ever uttered more sincerely. “Jed,” I said, “See that you keep your promise. Remember that you made it to your Father in Heaven.” I met a man years afterward who was intimately acquainted with Jed during the years following the accident and he declared it was understood the boy did not swear. How he kept his promise since then I do not know. Shortly after the prayer, the hunter reached us with a horse. I was placed behind him and started down the hill. We had not gone a rod before I knew I could not stand it. Every step the horse took, the broken bones in my shoulder ground together causing excruciating pain. They took me off. The hunter told us that the boss and the rest of the boys would be here in a few minutes with a buggy. When they came. I was placed on the front seat with the driver on one side and the hunter on the other to keep me steady. This was much better, and we reached camp about sundown. It was plain to see that I had to be taken to a doctor as soon as possible, so the fastest team we had was hooked to the buggy and a thirty-five mile drive to Clear Creek Station was begun.

We reached the station very early in the morning when the restaurant people were astir. I was taken there and given a cup of coffee and a slice of bread and butter. While I was still in the restaurant, waiting for the train to Provo, three businessmen from the little town came in and after examining the wound, went into the corner of the room where I could not hear them and held a short conference. Then they came over, shook hands with me, wished me good luck and left. A few moments after they left, a carpenter by the name of Charles Evan came in, and after looking at the wound said, “I don’t care what those men reported. I am going to wash that wound and tie up the arm so that your shoulder will not sag so much. It will ease the pain.”

“What did they report?” I asked. “They were a committee sent by the businessmen to see if they could do anything to help you. They reported that your wound is so serious that you cannot possibly live. That even a doctor couldn’t save you and if they tampered with the wound, they might be blamed for causing your death.” He washed the shoulder, covered it with a clean white cloth wrung out of cold water and tied my arm so that the weight came on the right side. The train came and with one attendant I went to Provo. In that city, I was established at the home of one of our crew and a doctor sent in.

The first question I asked him was, “Is it mortal?” He said, “Not necessarily so.” He dressed the wound and left instructions as to how to clean and poultice it. He visited me every day for three weeks and during that time took at least two hundred small bones out of my shoulder. I then went home, but my people took care of that wound for five months after that before it healed over.

About the end of the fourth month after the accident, a long piece of bone stuck out of the center of the wound. They tried to pull it out but it would not come. At length, the flesh became almost black around the bone and we knew something had to be done. One morning my father-in-law tried to pull it out with his fingers, but it would not come. He then took a pair of pliers and pulled and twisted the bone until it came out and with it almost a half pint of nearly black blood. It healed fast after that.

When I had the feeling that the new Needle gun would figure in my destiny I was actuated rightly, for it changed the trend of my life. My left arm has been too weak for hard manual labor; so I have spent thirty years as a common school teacher, eight years as a deputy district accessor, two years as a county treasurer and during that time or a goodly part of it, I was justice of the peace.

All but the last paragraph are incidents that took place in my life before I was twenty-one years of age.

–William Anthony.