Some Things I Remember by Thomas M Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher
PREFACE
This
Gallaher
1938, as
given to
little book was written by my uncle, Thomas Maywood

(affectionately known as "Uncle May") in the year of
his 84th birthday was approaching. The manuscript was
me by him to copy on the typewriter.
In going through my files recently I found my copy of the

manuscript, which I had copied for him 22 years ago, and after
rereading the sheets, I came to the conclusion that the
historical incidents were so interesting that they were worthy
of making up into book form, and passing out among his
descendents and relatives.
He lived most of his life in the vicinity of Pipe Creek and
Dilles Bottom, located on Route 7, about 10 miles south of
Bellaire, Ohio. In the early part of the century he lived in
Bellaire, and for a short period of time, lived near Fairmont,
W. Va. and also Glendale, W. Va.
My father was James Finley Gallaher, the brother whom he
refers to as "Fin." There was less than a year between them in
age, and they were constantly together for most of their lives,
living near to each other, and working together at the same
place. There was never a tie of affection more strong between
twins, or association closer, than between those brothers, "May"
and "Fin" as they called each other.
Uncle May was one of the most interesting men I have ever
known, and one of the most alert and busiest in the latter years
of his life. Age did not seem to quell the youthful spirit that
had always been his. After he was 80 years of age he decided to
erect a monument in memory of the pioneers of Belmont County,
Ohio. He erected it, almost entirely himself, on the land in
front of the Dillies Bottom school. It stands there today,
along side of Route 7, as a monument to the early settlers, but
to me, it is a monument to a kind-hearted, brave, courageous
man, who was beloved by all who knew him - Thomas Maywood
Gallaher.
If this little book which I have mimeographed, is of
interest or value to the members of his immediate family, or to
any persons who knew and loved him, I shall be amply repaid for
any effort that I may have put forth, and I know in so doing,
1

that I have accomplished something that would have made my dear
father very happy.
Sincerely,
15 Illinois Ave.
Youngstown 4, Ohio.
June 25, 1960
Anna Gallaher Oyster
[Note from Marian Kowalski:

Please see the notes about
Thomas's family at the end of of
the manuscript. Anna was born 11
June 1888, the daughter of James
Finley and Alice (Goodwin)
Gallaher. She married Glenn A.
Oyster, 4 Dec 1930, and died in
August 1985. Glenn was born 27
May 1891 and died 30 November
1958. Anna and Glenn are both
buried in Grandview Cemetery,
Sebring, Mahoning County, Ohio.
I have retyped the manuscript from
a copy that I was given by my
fourth cousin, Dalton C. "D.C."
Wallace, 1928-2012.]
THOMAS MAYWOOD GALLAHER

Born
Died
October 1854
January 1942
I don't exactly remember this first bit of personal history,

but I have it on good authority, that I was born on a bright
Hallo E'en night in the year of our Lord, 1854. So October 31st
has always meant something more than a day in the Saints'
Calendar to me, for it marks the annual steps in my ladder of
life.
In less than three months from this writing, I shall step
upon the eighty-fourth rung of that ladder, barring any serious
slips in the pathway. The eighty-fourth anniversary of the
boyish pranks that occur on that night in mid-autumn, pranks, I
fear, that none of the Saints, much less all of them, assume any
responsibility. Of course, I wasn't guilty of taking any of the
neighbors' gates off their hinges, nor pulling any cabbages from
the neighbors' gardens for the first four or five of my HalloE'ens, but I recall that I was guilty of my share of those that
came later.
I was born in a hewed-log house built some years before by
my paternal grandfather. In truth, one born in those days in
our part of the Eastern Ohio hills in any house other than a
log-house would have had to be born in some other neighborhood.
Later, I came to know that ours was a home where the latchstring rarely, if ever, was drawn to the inside, but ever hung,
invitingly, on the outside, a sign to a neighbor or stranger
that all were welcome. This is no figure of speech, but
literal, the old heavy wooden door with its heavy wooden latch,
the latch string passing out through a half-inch hole worn
smooth by countless thousands of pulls of the raw-hide strap
that passed through the well-worn vent. The door swung on great
wooden hinges of white oak.
The great stone fireplace, with its big "back-log," the
somewhat less front-log, and the bed of hot coals that sent out
grotesque figures that a boyish imagination could see in the
embers. The iron pots, frying-pans, and the queen of all the
cooking utensils, the huge "Dutch-oven" and its heavy lid. This
3

great iron oven buried in the hot coals could furnish a huge
corn-pone a foot in diameter and six inches thick. And the iron
crane that folded back against the jam when not in use to swing
the big iron kettle over the fire. And more important, a happy,
contented, well-fed family! A thousand happy memories come
crowding.
Brother Fin and I started to school. He was six and I was
five. I was just one year younger than he, so I began school at
the age of five years. The teacher was Sylvester Brice, a fine
specimen of pioneer young man, a fine teacher as of that day,
and doubtless as good as those today -- with decidedly less
frills, but with all that encouraged youngsters to conquer the
"three R's" and face the problems that called for the essential
activities of pioneer days. This kindly young teacher often
carried me to school in the morning, and back home in the
evening.
However, the old school house and the school teacher
furnished but a small part of my schooling. By the age of six,
I was learning to work with tools, both in iron and wood. My
maternal grandfather was a blacksmith, and permitted me to
tinker about in his shop, and, in truth, took delight in
teaching me how to use the tools of the trade, so far as my
years would permit. Several of my uncles were carpenters, and
their shops were open to me for such wood work as appealed to a
boy who was mechanically inclined.
So things began to happen to me and with me quite early in
life, as I suppose they do with most boys, but I was blest with
so many uncles, all of whom took an interest in me, taking me so
many places, explaining the advantage of seeing, hearing and
doing, more interesting things than the average boy then or now.
I have never forgotten these many trips, the many experiences,
and the wonders that were thus made a part of my boyhood.
Blacksmiths had to have charcoal for the forge, and an uncle
took me with him to Henry Jackson's charcoal pits. Some of the
kilns were burning, some not yet ready to fire; some were opened
and the charcoal was being taken out. Our wagon was fitted with
a huge box that was to hold a hundred bushels of the charcoal.
A great day for me. The burning of charcoal so far as this part
of the country is concerned is quite forgotten.
We lived but a little way from the Ohio River, and even as a
small boy, my uncles often took me to the river and the many
4

boats were of tireless interest to me. Tow boats, packets,
barges, small craft, skiffs, johnboats -- all were familiar to
me while yet a small chap. The river and all its activities
were a delight to me.
At and near the mouth of Pipe Creek, I saw much coal taken
from the bed of the river. The well known No. 8 seam, in those
days called the "Pittsburgh vein." When the river was low, the
workmen built pontoons, placed these over the seam, then pumped
or rather bailed the water out, thus exposing the coal which was
wedged out, and loaded on boats. This plan of securing coal was
among the very beginnings of the coal mining industry in this
part of Ohio.
These pontoons had to be weighted down, the bottom calked,
and when that block of coal was out, the pontoon floated to
another area and the work repeated. Besides the local market
for some of this coal, the greater part of it was shipped to
Wheeling, West Virginia, or rather Wheeling, Virginia, in the
days when this coal was first taken out, and of course it was
shipped to other river markets.
In those days, a business of importance on the river was the
loading of large boats -- barges -- with apples, potatoes and
floating down the river to southern markets. My father and
uncles, as well as many others, were engaged in this style of
produce marketing. The produce boats were floated as far south
as New Orleans, and after the cargoes were sold, the boat itself
was sold. Hence, new boats were constructed for each year.
The Lockwood Boat Yard near the mouth of Pipe Creek was a
busy place, and of great interest to the boys who lived near
enough to be spectators of this interesting activity.
A score or more of men worked at the Lockwood Boat Yard.
This seemed to me then as a great business -- and it was for
those days -- ship-carpenters, from apprentices to master boat
builders, working for twelve hours a day at a wage that a common
laborer of today would refuse to take.
I spent much time watching the boat builders when but seven
or eight years of age. Men shaving the wooden pins used to pin
on the bottom planks. Men fitting the great gunnels together.
Men shaping the ends of the gunnels. Men boring the five-foot
holes through the placed gunnels for the bolting of them
together. These long boat-augers were driven by hand, of
5

course. In truth, the tools themselves, were the only machines,
all done by hand of the expert workmen. The huge bolts used to
hold the gunnel timbers together were called rag bolts.
When the gunnels were shaped and bolted, they were placed in
proper position, and the bottom floor timbers in position, the
bottom planking was pinned to the gunnels and the bottom
timbers. The boat was thus built bottom-side up, and the
calking done, and then the hull was launched or slid into the
water on smooth poles well "greased" with soft soap. The hull
being bottom up, was then turned over so the finishing could be
accomplished -- check posts, decking, and such bins and cabins
as were needed added the finishing strokes, and the boat was
ready for loading.
A 140-foot long boat, 30 feet wide, and five or six feet or
more in depth, upside-down in the water, ready to be righted,
would be a problem today without modern machinery. But to those
sturdy boat builders who had learned to overcome all ordinary
difficulties, just a mere matter of well-known routine; poles
were lashed to one side of the bottom to hold sufficient stone
to sink that side well down, and to raise the other side well up
in the air. A windy day was selected, and the craft placed so
that the wind caught the side up in the air, and a good blast of
wind carried the boat over right side up, the loose stone
falling off.
The boat now full of water was merely to be pumped dry, and
the work of construction completed. The "pumping" however, was
really done by many men with large buckets all bailing the water
out and in a remarkably short time, the boat set high and
handsome on the water. Not so long after the finishing, the
boat was loaded with produce, the crew selected and the float
began. Quite a venture for the young chap that made his first
trip down where the darkies clambered aboard willing to trade
oranges for apples, or dance and sing for an apple.
I wish to mention that the spectacle of turning the boat
right side up, and the great crash and splash made when the feat
was accomplished, always brought all the boys in reach and many
adults as well to see the show. Indeed, such a novelty would be
worth seeing today, and would doubtless attract many spectators.
But the boat yard was not the only attraction to all the
boys. The boats that plied the waters up and down night and day
were of admiring interest. The large packets that carried both
6

freight and passengers were beautiful in their bright paints,
their churning wheels, the great waves they flung shoreward, and
their graceful movement as they glided over the water. Their
passing out of the picture has always been missed by me -- a
loss of something beautiful to look upon.
I remember the Eagle, the Gray Eagle, the Golden Eagle, the
Courier and the Express, the Hudson, the Potomac, the James
Reece, the Telegram, the Liberty, the Phaeton and the Comfort.
The Comfort was a low-water packet that blew up just below
the Pipe Creek Landing with the loss of nine or ten lives. The
Phaeton blew up farther down the river with loss of life also.
The Potomac was the first boat to carry that steam-whistle
musical machine known as the "Caliope." How that weird music
thrilled us when heard at a distance through the still night.
Nor shall I ever forget the many large tow-boats that drove
their fleet of barges with the escaping blasts of steam from the
old high-pressure engines, like some giant monster that panted
at its task. Coal was the chief freight, carried from the Ohio
and the Pennsylvania coal fields to the southern markets.
Of great interest as well, were the huge rafts of logs and
lumber that were floated down, and guided by the raftsmen by the
long car-like sweeps.
But we did not have to depend on the river alone for our
thrills. The public state road that wound around the jutting
rocky points, crossing and recrossing the streams through the
fords, for there were few or no bridges in those days, and past
our house had its full quota of sights worth seeing. The great
droves of cattle -- thousands of them from the grazing lands,
thousands of the great side-spreading long-horns from far-away
Texas. A sight worth seeing indeed. Huge, rangy cattle, each
one bearing the massive wide graceful sweeping horns with a
spread of from four to eight feet! Horns that looked like
polished ivory, and as the cattle walked their horns tapped and
rattled against each other with an odd sort of half-musical
clattering. Cattle droves in season, were many each day. One
man led the herd with a rope to some big gentle leader, and
followed by three or four men that urged the herd along and kept
them in line. The boss driver rode horse-back.
Droves of mules occasionally, sheep frequently and now and
then a drove of turkeys.
7
These droves were ferried or forded across the Ohio River at

the Moundsville Ferry for shipment over the Baltimore and Ohio
Railroad. But droves of cattle and other stock were not the
only sights that treated us along the highway. Many caravans of
covered wagons traveled their weary way westward to the inviting
open lands farther west. The wagons were long-bedded, fitted
with frames of hickory withes, over which was stretched the
canvas covers. A family to each wagon -- man, woman and a few
to many children. And, seemingly, never lacking, one or more
dogs. Stowed within the wagon, of course, full equipment as
felt needed to start a home and truck patch when the journey was
ended or a location was selected.
All these caravans, home seekers, traders, what-not, were
but marks of mankind's westward wanderings. But there was a
red-letter day to us boys, now and then, when Dan Rice's Caravan
Circus and Menagerie passed our way. The huge wagons gaily
painted with red and gold, the great and mysterious cages that
held some ferocious beast as we conceived, the fine teams of two
to four spans of beautiful horses, the spotted horses and
ponies, the elephants plodding along with the keepers riding
beside them, all made a beautiful, interesting and thrilling
sight to old and young, but to the average, a sensation scarcely
less than going to the circus itself.
I remember very well the mutterings that preceded the actual
fighting in the Civil War. One incident that affected our own
family illustrates the feeling that was aroused between the
North and the South, one of the many clashes that have never
been recorded in our histories -- this one I think will bear
telling.
In the year of 1859, the oil fields in the Kanawha River
Valley attracted attention, and many stories were told of the
fortunes made -- and lost -- in the oil trade. My father,
William Gallaher, and my uncle, Thomas C. Gallaher, looked into
the possibilities of the money to be made in floating oil to the
markets, and decided to get into the business. The preliminary
move to the venture is worth recording, as it shows how
primitive the manufacturing of a boat was at that time.
So, having decided to build a boat for the trade of floating
oil to market, they selected a huge yellow poplar or tulip tree
that was found near the Mt. Liberty school house in Mead
Township. This was a monster tree of its kind, perhaps the
8

largest that was ever cut in the state of Ohio. From this
massive tree was cut the chief part of all that entered into the
boat that was to be used in floating crude oil to Cincinnati.
No saw-mill within reach could take in such a huge log, and
the difficulty was overcome by the whip-saw. The great log was
hewed and faced to proper dimensions from which the gunnels were
to be cut. The big timber was placed over a ravine, arranged at
the proper height from the ground, and was sawed by the whipsaw, which is in reality, a great rip saw several feet in length
and driven by four men -- two above and two below, the handles
at each end of the saw-blade, placed at right angles, and
allowing a man at each end of the handle. This may seem a
prodigious undertaking, but four men who knew their work would
drive that saw a long way through the big log in an hour's time.
This immense log was eighty feet long and four feet in depth.
The over-head sawing team was Levi Gallaher, my uncle, and
Joseph Massard. The under-log team was my father and my uncle
Tom.
Here was produced the great gunnels that went into one of
the finest barges of its size ever built. In the spring, this
boat was launched, and with the crew, my father, Uncle Tom, Jake
Berry, Jake McCabe and Eph. Hogan. The cabin was fitted up
suitably, well provisioned and for several weeks, she was
floated down the Ohio River and up the Kanawha River by poling,
to Burning Springs, the place of taking on the cargo of oil.
But in the meantime, the war spirit was growing, the South
was brooding over what it felt was an insult to their section
and to their cherished institutions. Burning Springs, of
course, was in Virginia, the Empire State of the South.
Our boatmen soon found that they were in the midst of a
savage and unreasonable bunch of Southern sympathizers.
Fighting was on every hand, and before the boat was loaded, the
crew, being from the hated North, were attacked. Our five men
were themselves fighters, but they were out-numbered, and they
were fortunate to get out alive.
Every effort was made to peacefully take on a cargo, but the
hotheads of the Southern cause were determined that no "Yankees"
should be allowed in the locality. Finally, a fight could not
be avoided, and rocks, clubs and fists were the weapons. Our
boat crew were forced to fight for their very lives, and Jake

Berry laid out a drunken Irishman in self-defense with a rock,
and the Irishman was out for all time, it is supposed.
The place grew too hot for our men, and they were forced to
abandon the boat to save their lives. They maneuvered for a
while in the neighborhood, but were unable to recover their boat
and their belongings, and so were finally forced to acknowledge
defeat and return home with loss of the boat, their goods, and
time. The loss in money alone to my father and uncle was more
than $1,000.00 and that was a tidy sum in those days. That
incident, perhaps, made these men more determined soldiers in
the Union cause a little later.
Though licked in this, their first effort toward
establishing an oil business, another venture in that direction
was undertaken. The Gallahers and Fowlers, joined forces and
determined to drill an oil well for themselves. It was then
generally believed that oil might be found anywhere if a hole be
bored down to it. Oil geology, syn-clines, and anti-clines were
unheard of terms, and so a place was selected and preparation
for drilling was soon under way.
The site chosen was just where the residence of Sam McCabe
now stands on Pipe Creek, less than a mile from the river. The
plan of drilling was largely an original one. This bunch of men
were able to plan almost any sort of mechanical need, and my
Uncle Levi was a mechanical genius, an inventor of whatever
tools, machines, devices, he had a use for, and so was the
master mechanic called into play for the drilling rig.
Casing was secured -- in fact, some of that casing is still
there in the hole, perhaps rusted away by this time, but some
years back it still stuck out just as it was left when all hands
dropped their tools, as it were, and answered the call to arms
to preserve the Union. But more about that later.
Three quarters of a century has not erased that drilled rig
from my very vivid memory of it. A great hickory pole -- a
tree, in fact, some sixty feet long and sixteen inches in
diameter at the butt was made the chief "spring-pole." By use
of block and tackle, this heavy butt end was securely fastened
in the rock ledge that overlooked the well site. The pole was
secured in a horizontal position, a strong trestle supporting
the spring beam at the proper place, thus leaving the long
springy end extending out over the point where the drill was to
10

begin its journey to such depths as might be practical or to a
pool of oil.
The equipment was crude as compared with later rigs, and yet
work was accomplished in a satisfactory manner, though with such
a rig no great depth could have been reached -- that is, depths
such as are usually needed to reach the various oil sands. The
power was furnished by a good team of horses belonging to my
father and uncle, and was applied by means of an old "chaff
piler" threshing machine power plant, ingeniously geared to
transmit the power to the needs of drilling. The team of horses
hitched to a sweep and driven with great pride by us boys. By
"us boys" I mean not only my brother Fin and myself, but a
number of other lads in the neighborhood. Here it was that we
were given "nick-names," some of which stuck for many years.
There were Biff Eye, Tit-Heel, Raw Hide, Water Snake, Bone Head
and others, usually given or earned by some incident, amusing or
otherwise, but seemingly quite appropriate.
One day after the drilling had reached a considerable depth,
the drill stuck, and was "lost" thus providing a serious problem
as to how it could be recovered. Many efforts failed to bring
the heavy drill to the surface. All concerned were certainly
feeling "blue." However, a piece of rare luck came to the aid
of the worried drillers. The day was dark, gloomy and windy,
and a floating barge was forced to land about the Pipe Creek
Landing. M. M. Fowler, one of the interested parties,
familiarly known as "Een" Fowler, noticed that the boat was
loaded with oil-well supplies, bound for the Kanawha Valley. He
soon got in touch with the man in charge, a man familiar with
such problems, having the proper tools, and soon a bargain was
struck. This man agreed to recover the drill for a fee of ten
dollars. The outfit was taken to the well, and directed by the
stranger, the work was accomplished so quickly, a matter of
minutes only, that not only were the amateur drillers highly
pleased, but also chagrined. Further, some of them thought they
should not be asked to pay ten dollars for such a few minutes of
work. And so a dispute arose, the stranger demanding his ten
dollars, and Charley Fowler, a brother of M. M. Fowler, offering
five dollars in payment of the job.
Mr. Bryson, the stranger, refused the proffered five, and
the dispute grew. Finally, Mr. Bryson said, "You pay me the ten
dollars or I will take it out of your hide!" To the surprise of
Bryson, Charley quietly put the five dollars in his pocket, and
said, "That's fine -- I prefer to pay all my bills in that way."
11
A fight seemed imminent, but at this point, my uncle Tom and

Charley's brother Burt interfered, and told Charley to give
Bryson the ten dollars as agreed, and shut up.
Charley, realizing that he was in the wrong, gave the ten
dollars, but said, "Well, you have your ten dollars, and I'm
willing that you try to get another ten out of my hide!" Bryson
declined, and all parties laughed it off and Charley and Bryson
joined in the laugh, shook hands and the matter was closed.
Nearly fifty years later, Mr. Bryson, who became well known
in the vicinity, and lived at nearby Moundsville, W. Va., told
me of the episode, saying, "I never was so scared in my life,
for I was not a fighter, and never could fight at all", and that
he learned later, Charley Fowler was not a fighting man either,
but a great joker, and that the whole thing was thought a great
joke by all who were present.
And so, the drilling was continued -- for a short time. A
great cloud was gathering, the menacing cloud of war! The
mutter of thunder was heard, that later burst to a storm that
took over a million of the best brain and brawn of a nature
divided against itself.
This group of amateur oil drillers, the Fowlers, the
Gallahers, and many others in the neighborhood were mostly river
men, who had been in the South as produce traders--had seen the
slaves driven in the cotton fields, had seen them whipped, had
seen them sold on the auction block. The unjust personal
outrages perpetrated on some of them in the Kanawha Valley,
aroused this group of oil drillers to the point of dropping
everything of personal interest and answering the call of Father
Abraham to enlist for the protection of the Union.
Parades and musters, as the gatherings were called, were
held every week. Hundreds of men flocked to these musters.
Thousands marched to the clarion call of the fife and the
rattling accompaniment of drums! Pipe Creek was an important
center in this answer to the call of their country. But the
beginning of all this enthusiasm is worth telling.
Four men came riding down the road and halted at the
drilling place, one fine morning. The oil drilling was plugging
along as usual. Soon an interested group of men were listening
12

to the story of these "Four Horsemen." The horses at the sweep
had been stopped, and we boys were getting anxious to start the
wheels rolling again. To our surprise, I remember that my
father came and began to unhitch the team. The horses were put
into the barn, the tools gathered and stored in the tool house,
and the excitement of drilling an oil well gave way to the
greater excitement of the call to arms, and preparations to
fight for the Union!
The crowd continued to gather, the excitement grew, and the
women were scared, but never a word against the determination of
husbands, sons, brothers, sweethearts to enlist for the defense
of their country and to fight and die for a principle they
deemed sacred.
The next morning, more than thirty men, the Fowler boys, my
father and uncles, and others walked to St. Clairsville, the
county seat, twenty miles across country to enlist as soldiers.
After enlistment, my father and uncle, and perhaps others were
allowed to come back home for a short time in order to arrange
their affairs before going to the front.
There were many men and boys from Dilles Bottom and Pipe
Creek who fought in the Civil War. There was just one that I
remember, who fought in the Confederate Army. He was John
Thompson. He was from Dilles Bottom.
There were four Lockwood boys who fought for the Union, and
lost their lives at Gettysburg. They were William, Hanson,
Jacob and Luberton Lockwood. They were all from Dilles Bottom.
Below I have made a list of the men and boys whom I
remember, going out from Pipe Creek to fight for the Union. In
the first column is the name, in the next column, the number of
men by that name who went out from Pipe Creek, and in the next
column the number who were lost.
NAMES
Fowler
Craig
Barnes
McCabe
Gallaher
Wallace
No. in
WAR
3
2
2
4
7
8
No.
LOST
2
2
1
2
NAMES
Irwin
Williams
McGrew
Flint
Dailey
Terrell
13
No. in
WAR
1
2
1
1
2
3
No.
LOST

Campbell
Adams
Berry
Hess
Kider
Anchutes
Coleman
Sloan
Masters
Holiday
2
4
1
3
1
1
1
1
3
1
Stillwagon
Kinsey
Benington
Endshaw
Doty
Johnson
Hanball
Snider
King
1
1
5
1
1
2
1
1
4
From the Elyria Chronicle, 18 Dec 1936:
My father and Uncle Tom were partners in all business

affairs, had married sisters, daughters of the pioneer family of
Wallace.
Chattels of various sorts were sold, and the stock. Horses
were in demand, and so easily and readily sold. One valuable
span was sold as a team. Een Fowler who was engaged in
purchasing horses for the government, bought a large, powerful
bay named Charley, paying $250 for him, showing the high price
of horses under the conditions of preparing for war. But
Charley's mate, one of the most beautiful and sensible horses
ever reared, a dappled iron-gray, was so beloved by all of us,
that Mother and Aunt Jane begged that "Barney" should not be
sold to enter the army, there to be abused, and perhaps killed.
Barney was not only a beautiful horse, but a powerful one.
Fearless, dependable and faultless -- and his fate is and was
worth recording.
14

So Barney was not sold to the government, but to a friend of
our family, John Suters, who took the horse to a farm he owned
back in what is now West Virginia. Back in these Virginia
hills, it was hoped that Barney would not be dragged into the
war! Barney became the pride of the Suters family, and was
cared for and lived as happy as a horse could, until the famous,
or perhaps it could be "infamous," raid of Morgan.
Although Barney and the other horses were hidden far back in
the hills, Morgan's scouts found them, and of course took them
all. The beauty, symmetry and strength of Barney must have
taken the eye of Morgan himself, for Barney was the horse ridden
by Morgan in his wild dash across Ohio, to meet his fate at or
near Lisbon, Ohio, where stands a monument marking Morgan's last
stand and capture.
Unfortunately, I cannot give the final history and fate of
Barney, but had I the power, I would have the monument at Lisbon
bear a bronze statue of this noble horse, Barney, that doubtless
did his very best to meet the wishes of his master -- an enemy
to his former owners, as he did for those who loved him so
dearly that they sought to shield him from the fate of any army
horse.
With so many uncles -- about all of them in the army or
engaged in some capacity in the defense of the Union, and so
many aunts, seven of them, my brother and I, the only boys, were
at the beck and call of more bosses than we felt were conducive
to a boy's appreciation of what was befitting the "men of the
family." As we looked at it, we found ourselves in a jam! How
mother and even seven aunts could find so many things for us to
do, when we had so many things that we preferred to do, was
beyond our comprehension -- but the fates had us in their grasp.
Stove wood, and kindling; coal in and ashes out; water to fetch,
go to the store, to the post office Tuesdays and Fridays, go to
the home of some neighbor, to Businessburg two miles away, to
the river, one mile or more away. To feed the children, the
pigs, the cows, and build the coops, the pens, and a thousand
other things -- so I really believed. But we were repaid with
lots of goodies -- cakes, pies, fruit, and nick-knacks. We did
a lot of things for the neighbors as well, and we probably did a
lot of things of less value and merit.
One evening our cow, kept in the field back of the house
failed to show up, but later came home out in the highway in
front of the house. Brother told me to take her up the road a
15

few hundred yards, and turn her back into the pasture. Brother
then went to call Mother from a neighbor's place, and so I
thought I would save the trip up the road, by turning old
Brindle in through a shorter way. I opened the front door, and
the door into the adjoining kitchen, and drove Brindle in at the
front door, and on into the kitchen - but fatal mistake! I had
forgotten to open the back kitchen door that led to the pasture.
There was Brindle in the kitchen and determined to
investigate its contents, doubtless some of which smelled good
to Brindle. So, while I was fighting with Brindle to drive her
out of the kitchen, Mother arrived.
No
began,
relate
damage
explanations were allowed, and a new type of hostilities

and I was the loser in the fray. However, I lived to
the incident as you perceive. In truth, Brindle did some
to the kitchen, and Mother did some to me.
Yet with all the chores, we boys had a lot of time to roam
the nearby woods, and lived much as boys will, out in the open,
during the period of the Civil War.
Coalport was the name given in sport to the small stream and
the little community along its course. The small creek is a
tributary of Pipe Creek, entering the larger stream just above
the Lockwood Falls. In those days, Civil War time, the hills on
both sides of the stream were clothed by heavy timber, in fact,
the original timber. A rather wild bit of country, and many
tales could be told of events that took place within this wooded
area. The story of "Bloody Bill Jones" is one that may be told
here. One William Jones, who gave himself the name of "Bloody
Bill" for reasons of his own, was a deserter from the Union
Army. He boldly took up his "whereabouts" in the Coalport
woods, and was often heard blazing away with firearms, and
giving out the information that he was indeed "bloody" and that
anyone attempting to capture him or in any way aiding in his
capture would meet the results of his "bloody" determination to
remain free. He was no doubt harbored and aided by some of the
"Coalporters" whether through fear or friendship, it was not
certain.
Federal authorities did make some effort or pretense of
effort to take him, but such efforts always failed to even get a
glimpse of the "Bloody Bill." However, on one occasion, since
Jones could be heard both day and night discharging firearms, at
16

times quite a fusillade, a posse was organized to capture the
culprit.
This posse searched cautiously, but without success, and so
made camp, built a fire and sat about discussing the matter and
laying plans to rout out the deserter, but the plans failed to
attain the desired end. In truth, these individuals who had by
one means and another, kept from going to the front, were not so
anxious to exchange shots with the notorious "Bloody Bill." It
seemed that Jones, from some source, learned just who these
would-be captors were, and took his own plan to intimidate the
members thereof.
Although he had defied all authority and so far had escaped,
he probably realized that sooner or later he would be caught, so
he took this plan; one day a fine looking young man of about
twenty-five years, clean, healthy, rugged, fairly well-dressed,
walked into my uncle's blacksmith shop. He wore a heavy leather
belt in which were two of the best type of six-shooters then
known. He politely asked my uncle, the blacksmith, if he could
tell him where he might find Jake Berry.
My uncle answered, "I think you will find him at the boat
yard down at the river." The young man thanked my uncle for the
information, and started for the boat yard, remarking as he
departed, "I am Bloody Bill Jones, and I have some business with
Mr. Jake Berry and some of his friends."
My uncle soon started down to the river, to see what the
result might be, and found the "business" alluded to by Bloody
Bill to be quiet and peaceful enough, but interesting.
When Bloody Bill reached the boat yard, all the men had just
begun their noon meal, eating from their dinner pails, and
grouped together for a rest and conversation as is customary in
such cases.
The stranger approached the group, and in a pleasant voice
inquired if Mr. Jake Berry was present, and Jake was pointed out
by some of them.
The stranger walked over to Jake and addressed him in a
quiet pleasant voice, and said, "I am glad to find you here with
so many of your friends, and so I shall speak to all of you, as
I am aware that some of them are interested in me.
I am Bloody
Bill Jones, and since you fellows were trying to find me the
17

other night to take me, dead or alive, I insist that you take me
dead or alive now, for here I am."
Not a word was said, so Bloody bill continued, still in a
pleasant voice, "but remember that I will kill the first man
that makes a move toward me, and if necessary, I'll shoot you
down so fast that you can't count them as they fall."
Jake Berry nor the men with him were cowards, but they all
recognized that Bloody Bill had the "drop" and that he probably
would do, and could do, just what he said.
"You win, stranger--Bloody Bill, or no Bloody Bill, I don't
think any of us will be lookin' for you again," said Jake.
Said Bloody Bill, "I could have killed every one of you the
other evening and I give you fair warning, that I am not that
dirty, but now since I've warned you, I will kill you or any of
you like I would a wolf if I find you searching to take me a
prisoner."
Some of the men offered apologies, and probably meant it,
and Bloody Bill backed away a few steps with hands on the butts
of two handguns, and then bidding all good-day, turned and
hurriedly walked away, and sought his usual hiding place. At
any rate, no further efforts were made to take Bill into
custody, so far as I have ever learned.
Bloody Bill must have had a streak of humor as well as a
steady nerve, for as he bade them good-day, he added, "Remember
to keep your hands off of me, for you can't get anything in the
drug store that will kill you half as quick as I will if you
wander my way."
But little was known as to who Bloody Bill Jones really was,
and where he came from, and the circumstances of his desertion,
if, in truth, he was a deserter. However, long after the facts
related were largely forgotten, it became known that this man of
mystery came into the neighborhood disguised as a Jew peddler,
and that he had wealthy friends -- especially a young lady of
fine family who later married the redoubtable Bloody Bill, and
that this couple raised a fine family in or near Wheeling, W.
Va. In fact, it came my way to meet this Mr. Jones long after
Bloody Bill Jones was forgotten, and found him a likable fellow
with a fine wife, two fine children, and highly respected among
18

all his neighbors, who probably never knew the story of Bloody
Bill Jones.
It is not, perhaps, the more important things that cling to
one's memory the longest, and the most distinctly. After all,
it may be really true, that the little things that seem of least
importance fill up the crevices between the greater things, and
give shape to both the body and the mind.
During the Civil War time, there moved into our
neighborhood, a large, fine looking man, with a large family of
children, all girls but one. He lived near the top of the high
hill near our place. He was what was known as a "leaser," that
is, cleared out a few acres for what he might produce on the
land for a fixed number of years. A leaser was also, as a rule,
a hunter, fisher, and trapper, and these callings with what he
and his family raised on the land kept them in food, clothing,
and tobacco. The one boy of this family, of about my own age,
had probably learned that the few boys of our gang were said to
be tough. Well, this new boy came down to the grist mill, and
after exchanging his corn for meal, started home up the hill.
I decided to go up to his home, make his acquaintance for a
new playmate, so started after him, yelling to him "to wait."
But he evidently thought my intentions were of a different
nature, so began to run, and I priding myself as a sprinter
tried to catch up with him. Finding that he was being
overtaken, he threw down his load of cornmeal, and so thus
unburdened, reached his yard and into the house just as I halted
at the outer yard.
My intentions were of the friendliest sort, and so I was
greatly surprised when the door flew open and what seemed a
score of girls, big and little, burst out grabbing hoes, rakes,
clubs, stones and other missiles that came to hand, and these
weapons of active offense began to rain around me. I was never
so scared in my life, and I beat an ignominious retreat. If the
attackers had been boys, I might have known what to do -retreat fighting back as best I could, but girls -- that was new
to me!
I was afraid of that bunch of girls until I was a young man,
and it took some time to make explanations.
The father of this group of lusty girls, was noted for the
"big tales" he was forever telling. On one occasion, before the
19

man was well known, my aunt insisted that my uncle find some man
to plant the garden. My uncle, answering my aunt's insistence,
said, "A man will be here in the morning to plant your garden."
"Who did you get?" asked my aunt. "Big Windy," replied my
uncle, referring to the leaser of the hill. So the next
morning, the man arrived, and my aunt, innocent of the error
said, good naturedly, "Good morning, Mr. Windy."
Mr. Long, the real name of the gentleman, in indignation at
the name applied to him, at once departed refusing to work for
any one who applied the term of "windy" to him. It took a day
or so for my uncle to explain and "Big Windy" to accept the
apology.
But the story spread, and the mischief had been done. The
man was known as "Big Windy" forever afterward. Even the site
of the cabin and lease, is called to this day, the "Old Windy
Lease" and the flat around the hillside as the "Windy Bench."
Here is an item of interest to many persons, because it
calls attention to the neighborhood in which I was later born,
and the facts are of record. The Pipe Creek Presbyterian Church
Building, erected in the early 1840's, was the largest country
church building in the state, perhaps. It had pews to seat over
500 people, and by using some temporary seats, 600 could be
accommodated.
My paternal grandfather donated all the native lumber and
frame timber used in the construction, and the oak shingles that
roofed. Other families did their part, especially the
Lockwoods, and all who were interested. And here is an almost
unbelievable fact that speaks well of the families interested in
this organization.
The first regular minister chosen was paid a salary of $1800
per year for eight years. The next minister, the Rev. Alexander
was paid $1800 per year for another eight years.
Then for some reason unknown to me, the next minister, Rev.
Wallace, received only $1600 per year for four years. Then at
the beginning of the civil War, Rev. Greenlee took over the
charge at $1200 per year.
A year or so later, while the war was still going on, the
Rev. Greenlee announced from the pulpit, that he wished his
20

salary cut to $800 per year, as times were too hard for high
salaries!
Further, I do not remember of ever hearing of a single
dollar subscribed for this church that was not paid.
The leading families that supported this church were the
Lockwoods, the Fowlers, Craigs, Brices, Gallahers and the
Wallaces.
After going to school a few years, I began to read all of
the histories and good novels that I could secure, although real
good books were scarce in our community in those days. We had a
good friend, Henry Fish by name, who was the proud possessor of
several of Charles Dickens' novels, and I read those books,
as well as my brother Fin, and the other books. So we all
caught the spirit of adventure from the books, and longed to go
out to the "wild west." That was in the spring of 1870. One of
the boys was very fortunate we thought. His family was moving
to Texas. To think of George becoming a real cowboy! At first
letters were exchanged as fast as the mails could deliver them,
but after a while my letters to George were unanswered. George
Kelley's brother was manager of Ranch #49, and in imagination we
pictured George riding over the great open spaces on a wild
pony, and throwing his lasso, as we had seen the cowboys do in a
circus that came to our neighborhood. George had written and
told us that his brother had offered him a pony and new saddle
and bridle in the fall, in exchange for working the corn during
the summer. After reading that, I had dreams of walking the
entire way to Texas, to have an offer like that made to me.
After a little while, George's brother returned and told us the
story.
George was given his new saddle and bridle. The rangers
were told to bring in a bunch of broncos from a range a hundred
miles away. The broncos were brought in, and George was told to
take his choice. He chose a fine red pony, and it was turned
over to the rangers to be tamed, which incurred George's
displeasure, as he wanted that particular job himself. So he
was told to get ready to "ride the range," which meant that he
was to take some broncos quite a distance. After packing his
kit he bade good-bye to his friends, as the trip was to take
several months. The next day they happened to meet up with some
rangers who were rounding up a bunch of steers that had
stampeded. The steers scared the broncos and they ran away,
21

George following on the pony.
George awoke.
It was late in the evening when
The stars were shining brightly overhead, and he found that

his bed was a nice grassy spot. The pony was nowhere to be
seen. He looked up at the stars all night, and wondered just
where he was. The next morning, after eating his lunch, he
arose and started the long long walk back to the ranch. He
arrived at old #49 in the late afternoon, and a real bed had
never looked quite so good to him as it did at that time. He
mourned the loss of the $40.00 he had paid for the saddle and
bridle, and he knew that these were two things he would never
need again.
In the early days, there were but few newspapers, and they
had no funny sheets, as they have today. However, we found
plenty of fun. Twice a year Miller's Show Boat would land for a
two-day stay, or a one-man show would stop in our community and
show magic lantern pictures. The show boats would take
pictures. It was before the days of photographs, or the tintypes. These pictures were called daguerreotypes, named for the
French artist, Daguerre, who invented this type of picture.
They were encased in a small gutta-percha box, about two and one
half inches square. These pictures usually caused much
merriment. When I think back to those times, I wonder if I were
not born in 1804 instead of 1854.
But the blacksmith shop was the place to be entertained.
was there that many funny stories were told, and many funny
things happened from day to day.
It
I remember that one day a stranger came riding up and

dismounted. He walked into the blacksmith shop, and asked my
uncle if he had a good horse he wished to trade. My uncle
always had something in the way of horseflesh that he would
trade, so he answered in the affirmative.
He sent an apprentice boy out after the "plug" that he had
to trade, and the boy returned leading "Charley." The horse had
never looked so good before. He was heavy -- so heavy, in fact,
that he had to be handled with care. The stranger looked him
over, and then asked my uncle for $10.00 to "boot." My uncle
replied that it was the stranger who should pay him the $10.00.
By this time my uncle had begun to wonder at Charley's fine
condition. The deal was made, and the stranger being in a
22

hurry, changed saddles, and quickly rode away upon Charley, my
uncle all the while chuckling over the good deal that he had
made. He remarked to the boys in the shop that he had never
seen Charley look so well. The apprentice boy spoke up and
said, "I fixed him, I poured that bottle of medicine down him."
My uncle exclaimed, "My God, you might have killed him." A
few minutes later the stranger came back into the shop and asked
that he might have his horse back again, saying, "That horse of
yours is no good. I want my own horse back." My uncle said,
"You never owned a better horse than the one you have now." The
stranger replied, "If that is true, then what made him lay down
and die?" It took all day for my uncle to convince him that
such was life, and everything is foreordained.
There were many horse traders in the early days, who
frequented our town. There was one named Hans Hays, who stood
six feet four inches in his sock feet, and had a great big
voice. One day Hans was in our village from morning until
night, visiting the stores who kept a good supply of old rye.
This was real "old rye" and was purchased and kept in barrels,
and sold for two bits per quart. When nightfall descended, Hans
found himself astride a very unruly horse.
He started home, but when he got as far as Kings Rocks, he
decided to put up there for the night. Hitching his horse to a
fence post, he was soon sound asleep. The Kings boys were up
early the next morning, and saw that the horse was gone, so
decided to watch Hans' reaction when he awoke and found his
horse gone. Presently Hans awoke, got onto his feet,
straightened up and looked around, then reached for the bridle.
When he saw the horse was gone, he exclaimed in a loud voice,
"If I'm Hans Hays, I've lost a horse. If I'm not Hans Hays,
I've found a bridle."
There were amusing things that happened, almost every day,
and exciting things too. For instance, the Fowler boys killed
two oxen, and the Lockwood boys killed three. Every time an ox
was killed, our entire gang had to go and witness it. I shall
never forget the excitement it caused in our community when a
log rolled down onto John Parker, and again when a log rolled
onto Jack Richardson, breaking a number of his bones. However,
Jack recovered, in spite of the doctors that we had in those
days. One time we recovered a man's body from the Ohio River,
which had been drowned. Of course our gang took entire charge
23

until the coroner got there, and then helped to dig the grave to
bury the body.
We, the boys, belonged to the "fire brigade" and we always
had plenty to do in the spring of the year fighting forest fires
of which there were many.
The old log chute, opposite the Pipe Creek Methodist Church,
afforded a place where the boys and girls, men and women,
congregated to watch the logs slide down into the creek. The
hill was steep, and at the bottom of the chute, was a large hole
of water in the creek, into which the logs came rolling,
tumbling and sliding down into the creek with a big splash. It
was a wonderful sight for the old as well as young to watch.
The huge logs were of the finest timber found anywhere in the
country, and the great woods which covered the hills in those
days provided what seemed to be an endless source of supply.
The threshing season was one of great interest to the boys
of our gang. I remember clearly the first threshing of crops
that I witnessed. It was done by my father and my uncle, with
the old "chaff piler," the last year of its use. The machine
was a small affair, the size of a large wagon box, and the power
was furnished by four horses. Many men shook the grain in large
sheets of canvas, and the wind carried away the chaff. Then the
grain was put into a small hand mill, which was called a "wind
mill" or "fanning mill," that further cleaned the grain.
To think of the wonderful progress during my life. When I
look back to my boyhood days, I remember having seen the old
woolen mills, operated by water power, where cloth was made from
the yarn carded and spun in the old cabin homes; the "Johnny
Cakes" baked in ashes in the old stone fire-place; the old chaff
piler threshing the grain, and the wheat tramped by horses and
then flailed out. I remember having seen boats with gunwales
hewed, and others whip-sawed out; candles made and burned; split
bottom chairs made and sold; the "prairie schooners" headed
west; the old home-spun jeans made into suits; I remember having
seen the old railroad engineers lift the cam-rod and cut the
steam to start the old fashioned engines; the hogs with register
marks cut into their ears; all small packages of groceries
wrapped in brown paper; the old pack saddles, carpenters making
wash-boards, coopers making barrels, blacksmiths making plows,
and the boats built up side down with wooden pins for spikes.
24

The old grocery stores of those days were far different from
our modern stores of today. The old store in our neighborhood
always had four or five barrels of salt on the front porch, and
a barrel of pine tar just inside the door; a barrel of shoe
pegs, many stone jugs and milk crocks; a couple of large iron
kettles and many boxes of split leather, while on the wall hung
a couple of side saddles, a string of curry combs, a string of
spurs, several pairs of trace chains, a few blacksnake whips and
saddle girths. On the shelves there were boxes of axes,
scythes, bars of lead, a dozen coffee mills, many glass jars of
stick candy, a can of gunpowder, and a box of gun caps, several
boxes of plug tobacco, one caddy of "dog leg" tobacco, and
several bladders of snuff. (The bladders of cows were dried to
make pouches or containers for snuff.) There was always a box
of licorice sticks, a box of stone pipes and a box of pipe
stems, also a box of candles.
Behind the counter the barrel of crackers was always placed
-- so the crackers could not be reached easily by the customer
-- a barrel of green coffee, a barrel of brown sugar, and a
barrel of dried apples.
The show case was filled with many bottles of hair oil,
bears' oil perfumed, many bottles of perfume, and many ribbons.
Also dry goods, bolts of calico, bolts of check and hickory
check, as well as bolts of home spun jeans, and factory corduroy
and broadcloth.
!
Our village consisted of several houses, a grist mill, saw
mill, cooper shop, and blacksmith shop. How glad I would be if
I could welcome back the old industries; the old grist mill with
its humming and rumbling sixteen hours a day, and the saw mill
keeping pace; the ringing of the anvils from early morn until
late at night, and the ceaseless rattle and bang of the old
cooper shop would be music to my ears if I could hear them once
more. They were the sounds which gave evidence of a prosperity
that we enjoyed in those early days.
Benjamin Lockwood handled more money than any other man of
the pioneer days, he being at the head of all the Lockwood
interests. While doing a great river business, he was never
seen to board a boat of any kind, doing all of his traveling on
horse back. All of his long business life, his riding horse was
always ready at the hitching post at 6 o'clock in the morning as
regular as morning came. Mr. Lockwood rode over the greater
part of Belmont County, Ohio, and Marshall County, West
25

Virginia, carrying thousands of dollars along with him. A belt
was used to carry gold and silver, while great amounts of state
notes were carried in his hat. He always wore a high silk or
"stove pipe" hat.
Mr. Lockwood was just robbed once. Two men stepped out from
the shadows of the Fowler mill, and took hold of the bridle of
his horse, and then lifting him from the saddle, relieved him of
a small amount of money. It just happened that he was carrying
only a small amount of money with him at the time. Mr. Lockwood
said that he knew both of the men, and that they were not bad
fellows, and he did not expose them.
Mr. Lockwood liked all of us boys, and we all liked him, and
he often told us about his boyhood days. He would tell us of
being chased by the wolves, saying that one day when a boy, he
was sent to the shoe cobblers up Pipe Creek, and had to wait a
long time for the work to be finished. While he was waiting it
became dark. On the way home he heard the yelping of wolves and
as he passed Tyrle Run a pack of wolves dashed after him. It
was only for the fleetness of his fine little horse that he
lived to tell the story. This incident, the writer has seen
recorded in Howe's History of Ohio.
In the year of 1862, Mr. Benjamin Lockwood moved from the
old tavern to the David Lockwood home on Pipe Creek, although he
was still farming extensively in Dilles Bottom and reserving the
old tavern barn. Jacob Coleman kept the tavern and the post
office on the side, a few barrels of good old rye. He also kept
several farm hands, including a bunch of boys. One day a man
named Rube, and another named Coon, together with Ross McCabe
and myself, went to Dilles Bottom to haul in wheat. We were
working with a very large wagon drawn by four horses, as fine as
ever worked, with new harness, hauling from the fields until
noon. When the team was brought in to the barn, and the horses
fed, Mr. Lockwood came riding up with our dinner -- a half
bushel basket of as fine food as was ever packed. When we sat
down in the shade of the barn, trouble started.
Rube and Coon had been to the post office to get the mail,
returning with something in a bottle. Rube seemed to be feeling
in extra high spirits, so he took entire charge of the basket of
food. He placed me along side of him, and placed Coon and Ross
at a little distance away, giving them nothing but bread and
butter, while he (Rube) and I ate all the pie and cake.
26

Mr. Lockwood saw what was going on, so he called Coon and
Ross over to the tavern, and ordered their dinner. Then Rube
caught on to what was happening. He grabbed me, and made a wild
dash for the table where Coon was, ordering everybody to make
room for him. We were soon eating too, and Rube telling the
crowd that he couldn't bear to see any dirty trick played on
"this little boy," meaning me.
On the way over to the barn, everything went along fine.
They concluded to hitch up four young mules that the coal
company had bought, so changed harness, and started out with
four half-broke mules.
Coon was a good teamster, and things went along well going
up the hill. When we reached the farm on the hill, we loaded up
a big load of wheat on the large wagon, and started for the
barn. Rube was on the load, calling to Ross and me to come and
climb on with him. We were still standing on the road, which
was on a hill, and Rube was telling us that Coon could drive
over the rocks on the other side of the run, when over went the
wagon, team and all, four mules all in a pile -- a mass of
harness and mule legs. Ross and I, scared to death, were
yelling. Coon was yelling "Come and get me out." He was under
a mule and held fast. We were crying, "Where is Rube? Where is
Rube?" Coon said, "No difference where Rube is, come and get me
out." We succeeded in getting Coon, when Rube appeared saying,
"I'll show you if it makes no difference about old Rube." He
knocked Coon down twice. Coon got up with a stone in his hand,
and Rube begged off. Then he went to the mules and cut their
harness to pieces and got one mule up onto his feet. Rube then
jumped upon the mule, saying, "You get the rest of them up, I'm
going after a 'quart,'" and then he rode away down to the tavern
to get his whiskey.
He found Mr. Lockwood, who came right up. He sent us boys
for a yoke of oxen and cart to help clear up, after getting the
wagon on the road, and loading it, we started the team. The
king-bolt had not been put in, and load crashed to the ground.
Mr. Lockwood's horse was hitched to a tree nearby, and he laid
down and split the tree of his saddle, which was a new one. Mr.
Lockwood always said that day was the worst one of his life, and
cost him more than $500.00.
It was after dark when we got the load finally to the barn
with the mules and old ox cart. A thunder storm was coming up.
Rube got a big horse out of the barn, mounted it, and then took
27

me on behind him. He started home (which is where Sam McCabe's
house stands) on the run. The horse was going very fast, and
suddenly, off pitched Rube onto the ground. It was luck the
horse stopped and soon Rube climbed on again. When we reached
my home, which is where the Methodist Church now stands, we
found my mother waiting on the porch for me. I remember so
well, that as I climbed off that old horse onto the fence, Rube
was telling Mother, "Never worry about the boy when he is out
with me!" As I look back to that day, I regard it as the most
hectic day of all my life.
I shall now write something about the Union Valley School
teachers of long ago. On Pipe Creek, the first school was
taught by Billie Bellville, who came from Marietta, Ohio. The
school was held in the John Gallaher cabin, near Kings Rocks,
and then later on, moved to a cabin near the Schroeder home,
where school was held until 1838, when the public schools
started, and the old Fowler school house was erected. The early
teachers included Nick Fowler, Sylvester Brice, Beckie and Ellen
Campbell, Lib Wear, and Bruce Duvall. I remember that Lib Wear
lived at Powhatan, Ohio, and boarded at home, and walked to and
from school each day. There was a six months winter term, and a
three months summer term.
The first cabin school had seats of split puncheon, and the
second school had seats of slabs, with holes bored through the
wooden pins for legs. The next school had seats built of black
walnut, twelve feet long, extended from the wall to aisle
through the middle of the room. The seats and desk tops were
worn as smooth as glass through the years of use, and they were
well carved, too, by the many pocket knives carried by the boys
who attended school there.
After the Pipe Creek Coal Company opened up, our school
doubled in numbers, and there were not enough seats to
accommodate the number of pupils. Wesley Gallaher, the biggest
boy in the school, agreed to solve the problem. He rearranged
the seats, putting them in rows around three sides of the room,
until there was just one small square left in the middle of the
room, to accommodate the old burn-side coal stove.
We were all growing up then, and our problems multiplied.
We liked our teachers, except one -- he didn't like us. He was
a young man just out of college. He had fine clothes, a fine
horse, new saddle and bridle, and for a week we liked him very
much. It was early fall, and there were over twenty pupils when
28

school began. For a week everything went along all right, and
then by the next week the young man began to "straighten us out"
as he called it. We were first sent to the hillside to cut
hickories, until he was well supplied. Then he began whipping,
first one or two pupils, then four, then six, and by the end of
the week, half of the school had been whipped and had left
school. By the following Friday, there was but three of us left
in the school. The next Monday when we three pupils went to
school, the directors of the school, my uncle U.V. Wallace,
William Wiley, and Charles Fowler, were sitting on the steps
when the young teacher rode in, hitching his fine horse to the
fence. He opened the door and we all walked in. Mr. Fowler
seemed to be the spokesman, and he told the teacher many things.
We saw him gather up his belongings, go out and unhitch his
horse, get onto it, and ride away, never to return.
After that incident, Mr. Sam Dinamore was hired, and he
taught school for three terms. He had a boy named "Eddie,"
about fifteen years of age, or the age that I was at that time.
Eddie was a constant source of trouble to us. He loved to throw
snow balls, but he wasn't sport enough to take a little
"socking" himself. He was always getting in his work with the
snow balls, and then crying "Kings X." One day Eddie was backed
up against the coal house, crying "Kings X," when my brother Fin
could stand it no longer, so after making a great big snow ball,
he aimed it at Eddie, and it struck him right in the mouth. It
took all of the big girls and his father, the teacher, all
afternoon to care for Eddie. Of course it was "just an
accident" we said, but it cured Eddie, and he threw no more snow
balls that winter.
Another day, while we were playing ball out in the yard, we
noticed our teacher sitting at the window watching the game, and
incidentally, keeping an eye on Eddie, to see that nobody would
"sock" him. At last, he went to sleep, his bushy head resting
on the window sill. The boys dared me to throw a hard rubber
ball and hit him. I couldn't take the dare, and said that I
wasn't afraid, if Tolbert, one of the boys, would run under the
window. So just as he ran, I threw the ball, which struck one
pane of glass, and "Sammie's" head too. Of course that was just
another "accident" while playing ball.
After the Civil War many changes occurred, living conditions
changed, and all farm and village people began building frame
houses. Up until this time, nearly all the houses were
constructed of logs, either log cabins, or hewed-log cabins.
29

The last hewed log house I remember having been built, was that
erected for Mart Kirkland. My father and uncle constructed and
built it for Mr. Kirkland. It was built in 1866, on what is
known as the Hammond farm today.
Many frame houses were built soon after the war, and many
additions were built onto hewed log houses already erected.
Throughout Dilles Bottom and Pipe Creek Valley, there were, to
my knowledge, at least one hundred hewed log houses, and a
larger number of log cabins. The hewed houses were always
located on or near the road, while the log cabins were located
back from the road, on the ground that was yet to be cleared,
hence those cabins were generally back in the timber. They were
usually built near a spring. They had just one door, and one
sash window, often without glass, greased paper being used in
place of glass. There was always a large stone fireplace with a
mud and stick chimney.
The Lockwood Saw Mill was built in 1836. The Fowler Mill
and the McGraw Mill were built in the 1840's, and the Masters
Mill later. At this time the clearing of farms really began, as
little timber had been cut near these mills. The mills were
kept busy -- in fact they operated day and night. The streams
furnished the water power the greater part of the year.
During the first twenty years that these mills were in
operation, there was but a small part of the timber sawed. The
greater part of the timber was destroyed by rolling into heaps
and burning, or dumping into ravines and there leaving it to
rot.
This work was done by "parties," that is, inviting all the
young men in the community to roll logs for twelve hours, then
dinner and supper would be served. The biggest feature of the
day would be the arrival of all the girls in the neighborhood.
Then the dancing would start up, and continue often until noon
the next day. This method of doing away with the timber was
continued for many years -- destroying the finest timber in the
United States. There was no finer walnut, poplar, ash, and oak
found anywhere in the country, or ever grew, than that which was
destroyed back in those early pioneer days in and around Dilles
Bottom and Pipe Creek. One acre of this timber today would be
worth more than one hundred acres then.
As my memory goes back to the early days, I recall the many
teams of oxen which were used in the timber work, that extended
30

from the mouth of Pipe Creek to the head and both sides of the
creek. All of this land was being cleared during my school
days.
My father often told us boys how lucky we were to have such
good schools. He said that when he went to school, the teacher
would tell all of the big boys to bring axes and then they would
have to cut wood half of the time, and the small boys and girls
would carry the wood in through the rain and snow, or whatever
the weather might be, and they would use this wood for fuel to
heat the school room.
As I look back, there is nothing more striking to me than
the changes that have taken place in the methods of doctoring.
I remember the country doctor of seventy-five years ago. He
always wore a full dress suit of broadcloth with a high silk hat
("stove pipe" hat, it was called then). He always came riding
up on a good horse, with a good saddle and bridle, together with
long saddle bags. It was customary in those days to "bleed"
every patient, for about every ailment. I used to follow the
doctor around the town to see him bleed his patients. Well do I
remember how he used to step into the sick room, doff his tall
silk hat, walk over to the bed and take the hand of his patient
to feel the pulse. Then he would invariably bare the arm, and
ask for a basin and a little water. Then he would take his
white handkerchief and lay it over the patient's eyes, then open
his case and remove a set of bright steel lances, which
resembled a pen-knife with a number of sharp blades. With the
skill of a professor, he would pierce the vein and the blood
would spout high and then pour down into the basin. The doctor
would always leave a "flyblister" (plaster) to be put on where
he had cut the vein.
I remember some very interesting stories that were told to
me by my paternal grandfather, John A. Gallaher. At this time,
they might be regarded as "traditions," but I know that they
really happened, as my grandfather told them to me.
When I was a little boy, my grandfather would often show me
the contents of a large box in which he kept many relics. Among
these relics were two bowl knives, which were very large and
very sharp. I always thought that I would like to have those
knives. One had a white handle trimmed in brass, and the other
had a buck horn handle bound with iron. My grandfather told me
that this latter knife had killed the last bear in this section
of the country. This is the story as he told it to me.
31
A bear appeared in the Wegee section, and did a lot of

mischief, destroying pigs, calves and other stock. After all
efforts on the part of the settlers had failed, they secured the
aid of George Venham and Jim Baker who were real hunters. They
found that the bear had a den at the head of Coalport, and so
they set traps for him and took turns watching for Mr. Bear. A
pig had been placed in a box and bear trap planted nearby.
One night when George Venham was concealed nearby, the bear
appeared and began to wreck the box that contained the pig.
Finally, springing the trap, getting his hind foot fastened in
the trap, the huge bear began to roll and tumble about, and
George, fearing that the trap would release the bear's foot,
began shooting, but with little effect on the bear. Finally,
his supply of ammunition was exhausted and, determined not to
leave the bear, he used his old knife. First, he wrapped his
coat around his left arm and battled it out with the bear, at
last getting in the fatal spot. While he got the bear, the
valuable hide was ruined.
It was in this same woods, where the last wild cats and wild
turkeys were found.
One time a family by the name of Rector lived near my
grandfather's home. Mr. Rector frequently thought he saw ghosts.
One night a ghost was seen back of the barn near the creek, just
back of Bebe Day's barn. All was excitement in the Rector
household. The old shot gun was always loaded, so it was
brought out and put into action. Luke, big and brave, grabbed
the gun and led the family of twelve to battle. After creeping
and crawling through the bush and briars, he faced the ghost
spell-bound, and stood helpless, when his father cried out,
"Shoot, Luke, or give up the gun." Luke shot and then he ran as
old Rector cried out again, "Good Lord, Luke, you have shot my
best ox!" Then the old ox left the scene with much bawling.
My grandfather often talked about the first steamboat
whistle on the Ohio River. It was a crude affair, being a small
paint keg hung on an upright pole with a steam pipe extended
into it, making a loud wailing noise. Many of the settlers came
in and asked what kind of an animal it was.
My grandfather used to tell us about the building of the
state road, the "Putnam Road." There was just the old trail
along the river and leading up Pipe Creek. The new road was
32

just a great improvement and it led along the River to Pipe
Creek, then up the creek and on to Guernsey County, Ohio.
The contractor along this section was an Irishman with five
men employed. His equipment consisted of one horse and sled, a
number of axes, mattocks, shovels and a barrel of whiskey. They
camped along and completed the road in due time.
Grandfather would tell us of trapping wild turkeys. They
would build a large rail pen, then cover it with poles and
boughs, and by digging open trenches leading under the rails,
and sprinkling corn, could lead them inside the pen. The
turkeys, when once inside would throw their heads up between the
rails, and never look down, or get their heads down from between
the rails.
In the early 1840's, Tom Fowler, then a young man, engaged
in the coal business, made four openings to mines in the No. 8
seam. The one he opened near the Creek Edge entry, running
under the road just west of Uncle Levi Gallaher's house, and a
second opening across the creek along side of the old still
house. A third was opened up under the rocks near the house
where Sam McCabe lived. The fourth opening was near the mouth
of the creek.
Mr. Fowler hauled the coal that was mined, to the river
where he established a coal yard on the river bank near the
mouth of the creek. While excavating for the pier of the
highway, they found a quantity of the coal from the old Fowler
coal yards. All of these openings had gas explosions.
It was in the 1840's, that the Lockwoods added steam power
to their large mill. They then opened the No. 8 seam of coal.
The first mine was opened across the creek opposite the mill.
Later they opened another some distance west, near the bend in
the creek, below the falls. A third opening was made within the
engine room at the mill. Each of these openings exploded, the
last explosion killing two men, in the year of 1859. Some fifty
years later, Mr. William Berry re-opened this same mine. It
again exploded killing three men.
My uncle, U. W. (sic) Wallace, in the year of 1872, opened a
mine a short distance below the Lockwood openings. This opening
exploded, injuring Lou Blair seriously.
33

Pipe Creek, while a small stream, supplied a vast amount of
water power, it being narrow and steep, which made it one of the
most valuable mill streams along the Ohio River, and yet I
failed to find this fact recorded in any of the many histories
that have been written about this section of the country.
Neither Howe's The Border, Cochran's The Bonny Belmont, nor
Caldwell's History have given fair record of this wonderful mill
stream.
I was a young man when, after the flood waters had receded,
we saw the stone foundation of the first grist mill built upon
our old mill stream, having been covered up for many years, and
then exposed after many years, by the torrents that had swept
down through the valley. I then learned from my grandfather
about the old mill, long since forgotten. It was years later
that I learned about the old saw mill, the foundation of which
was on Dr. Warren's farm near Businessburg. This made, in all,
nine mills.
There were also two factories operated by water power, the
Fowler Woolen Mill and the Furniture Factory owned and operated
by John Campbell and Levi Gallaher.
The Fowler Woolen Mill was large, some forty feet square,
and it had two stories. The first story was built of cut stone,
and the second story was of frame. It was well equipped, being
driven by a forty foot overshot water wheel, and the mill got
its water supply from the Fowler Run.
The Lockwood Mill Dam was built on the rocks above the falls
by drilling deep into the lime stone bed and then huge timbers
were put in to hold the framework of the structure, the heavy
timbers supporting the heavy sheeting and raising the water
level some twelve feet, making it possible to operate an
overshot water wheel. This gave power to the largest mill in
the Central States, and the largest saw mill at the same time,
the saw mill using an undershot water wheel.
Just up the creek, a short distance above the dam, the large
church stood, along side of the old cemetery, and a short
distance farther up, the renowned Kings Rock, which was a
shelving roof hanging over a level plat of ground at a height of
twelve to sixteen feet, and of such position as to shelter
numbers of heads of stock.
34

Nearby stood the large hewed log house, where lived Robert
King, the owner of this wonderful shed. Mr. King had a large
family, about fourteen children, who all grew up. He provided
well for his family, his home having ample room for all. I
remember the huge stone fire place he had in his house, which
admitted logs ten feet long. The floor was made of puncheon.
There was a front door, with a back door directly opposite. A
horse was used to haul the large ten foot logs in for the fire
place, the horse being brought in the front door with the logs,
and then being led out the door at the rear. Those were the
"good old days"!
A short distance above this home, was my grandfather's cabin
-- the one he lived in before he entered the quarter section,
and built his home on the top of the hill. This old cabin down
on the creek, was the one that was used for a school house for
several years, after grandfather moved out of it. It was the
first school in the community.
Just a short distance above the point, in the early 1840's,
Arch McGrew began the building of a house, and Alex McGrew and
Isa Wallace had begun the erection of a blacksmith shop. It was
in the "cattle" days, when so many herds of cattle were being
taken through by Texas rangers. The rangers would often stop
off, and ask the name of the town, and they were told it hadn't
been given a name. One of them remarked, as he rode away,
"Well, it is certainly a busy burg." So this gave the village
the name of "Busyburg" to start with, and later it was changed
to "Businessburg."
A short distance up the creek, was located one of the old
time taverns, which was owned and operated by a fellow by the
name of Billie Williams.
The Lockwood tavern was managed by a man by the name of
Dunlap, whose son, Charley Dunlap, became an official of the
Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. He located in Baltimore.
The Lockwoods, while doing business on the river, and making
money, met with many financial losses too. Some of their losses
were very heavy, the greatest one being the loss of their fine
steamer, The Perue.
This fine boat was partly built here, but was later
completed at Marietta. It was built at a cost of $25,000, and
placed on the Ohio River to operate between Pittsburgh and
35

Cincinnati. In the winter of 1852, on one of her trips going up
the river, she was met with heavy ice before reaching Wheeling,
and dropped back to Moundsville, where she later broke from her
moorings, and was carried down the river. The crew stayed with
her, and succeeded in landing her three miles below Moundsville
(W.Va.) just below Baker's Run. More ice came down the river,
and the boat was broken up, and was a total loss. The old hulk
remained there all of my younger days, the government dredge
boats finally taking it away, some fifty years ago.
In the same year that the boat was demolished by ice,
namely, 1852, there occurred in the spring of that year, the
highest flood waters that had been recorded up until that time.
The torrents carried away the barn that belonged to the Lockwood
Tavern. It was the largest barn built in that section of the
country at that time. It measured 80 x 60 feet, with a high
roof, making it a monster building.
So strong was this barn, that it was carried by the flood
waters to Possum Creek, and there it hung on the head of the
island, until the Lockwoods took the building down and brought
it back and replaced it on its original foundation. It stood
there until 1866, when my father and uncle contracted to move it
to near where the Johnson Coal tipple stood, and there it was
made into a store building for the Pipe Creek Coal Company.
About this time, a Lockwood produce boat, which my father
and Jake Berry had charge of, broke into two pieces, while
running the chute pass over the falls, the falls pilot having
lost control.
The cargo was principally flour. They succeeded in landing
the broken boat, which was in two pieces, and luckily, the West
Virginia State Prison was close at hand, so the convicts were
rushed to the scene of the disaster to help unload the cargo of
flour, which was gotten out of the water by the use of spike
poles.
I remember often being told, that my father and Jake Berry
stood in water for thirty-six hours, and lifted the barrels of
flour to the shoulders of the convicts.
As I look over my homeland, the only remaining land marks of
my youth are the Lockwood Falls and nearby the winding road
leading to the top of the hill and the farm where I was born.
36

It is with great regret that I look at the place where the
old Community Presbyterian Church once stood and nearby all that
remains of the once historic King's Rock. The Presbyterian
Church was built in 1840 by the community, being probably the
largest church in Ohio at that time.
It was forty by sixty feet with ten feet ceiling, seating
some five hundred people, and strange to say, at that early day,
it was often filled to capacity. Something worth noting at this
time was that the first minister served for eight years at a
salary of eighteen hundred dollars per year and was never back
in salary. The second minister, Reverend Alexander held the
place for eight years, at a salary of eighteen hundred dollars
per year. He was followed by Reverend Wallace who filled the
pulpit for four years at sixteen hundred dollars per year.
Then the place was taken by Reverend Greenly at twelve
hundred dollars per year. During the Civil War, he reduced his
own salary, by announcing it from the pulpit, to eight hundred
per year as he felt it an imposition to take more when the
country was in such a state. Reverend Greenly served until
about 1871 when the Presbyterians closed the church as so many
of their families had left the community. At this time the roof
on the church had become bad, and money scarce, so my father,
William Gallaher, and his brother, Thomas C. Gallaher, who
were then in the lumber business, donated the shingles for the
roof. The shingles were cut from first quality poplar and were
very beautiful, from 12 to 16 inches wide. After donating the
shingles it was found that the entire roof had to be sheeted.
This added greatly to the expense. However, my father and
uncle donated the necessary lumber of nearly 4,000 feet, and my
uncles, U. V. Wallace, Benjamin Gallaher, P. A. Craig and others
agreed to do the work, so the church was roofed. A little later
the church was sold to the Methodists who continued services
until 1882, when they sold the property to the Church of God,
who later razed the church and used the lumber in erecting a
smaller church a mile below, where it now stands.
A short distance above the church, a broken ledge of
sandstone remains to show where the greatest over-hanging ledge
of sandstone in eastern Ohio stood until a few years ago, when
it was sold to a quarryman who shot it down and worked the ledge
into bridge stone.
At the top of the hill above King's Rock, lay the farm of a
quarter section that my grandfather, John A. Gallaher had
37

entered, the deed being recorded at St. Clairsville, Ohio, in
1827. The house where I was born was the hewn log house that my
grandfather had built in 1822. My grandfather had lived in a
cabin at the foot of the hill for several years before this
house was built. After my grandfather moved to his new home, the
old cabin was used as the first school house in this community.
It was a subscription public school. My father told us of the
teacher requiring the larger boys to bring an axe and in the
mornings, and often all day on Saturday, they would cut wood for
the fire, while the pupils carried it from the woods to the
school house.
The new log house on the hill where I was born was a larger
hewn log house with puncheon floor. The first floor had two
rooms, and the boys all slept in one large room on the second
floor. There were always two or three homeless boys who made
their home with the Gallaher family.
My grandmother often told me of taking her baby, Levi, who
was three months of age, with her to the top of the hill, as
early as 4 o'clock in the morning, while they cleared the ground
and hewed the timber for the new house. She would wrap the baby
in a buffalo robe and lay him on the top of a brush heap to keep
him away from harm while she cleared the land and my grandfather
hewed timber.
John A. Gallaher entered his farm before he was married and
worked on a produce boat between here and New Orleans while he
paid for the farm. His father, John Gallaher, Sr., had come
from Ireland when quite young, and had gotten much experience
while working as a cabin boy at which time he had crossed the
ocean several times. On my grandfather's return from New
Orleans it was their custom to leave the river at Marietta and
walk to Cambridge, 70 miles away, and then home across country.
It was while walking between Marietta and Cambridge that he
often stopped for lodging at a farm home on Duck Creek. Here he
met Mary Talbert whom he married in 1820. They made their new
home in the cabin on Pipe Creek until the new hewn log house was
erected on the hill. Within a period of 31 years, my
grandfather succeeded in clearing up and improving his farm.
My great grandfather, John Gallaher, Sr., in the early
1780's, landed at the Flats, now Moundsville, W. Va. and erected
a cabin near the historic Wolfe Spring where my grandfather,
John A. Gallaher was born in 1789. In 1793 the Dilles located
at what is now Dilles Bottom, Ohio, and organized the people to
38

build a fort, and John Gallaher, Sr., was one of the organizers.
He later brought his family during Indian raids to the Dilles'
Fort. It was during an Indian raid and about the year of 1795
that John Gallaher, Sr., died at the home of John Dille while
the women of the home were hidden for three days under the
shelving rocks on Big Run. He had been too sick to leave the
cabin while other men went to the Fort. In 1803 John Dille
married Nancy Gallaher, a sister of my great grandfather, John
Gallaher, Sr.
After John A. Gallaher (Jr.) grew up with his widowed
mother, they built a cabin on Pipe Creek near King's Rock.
There she married Thomas Coleman and later purchased a farm on
Pleasant Hill, where they lived until 1833 when they sold the
farm and joined the covered wagon parade to the west, and
settled in Rock River, Missouri, where they remained the rest of
their lives.
On one of my grandfather's return trips from New Orleans, he
and Clement Ambler had to walk quite a distance through the
Mississippi Valley. While passing through the cane breaks they
were attacked by wolves. Mr. Ambler was so badly bitten that he
was unable to walk. My grandfather carried him quite a distance
to an Indian camp. The Indians cared for him from spring until
fall, before he was able to walk home. In spite of all this,
Mr. Ambler lived to the age of ninety-six years.
A crew of men were needed to work on the floating produce
boats, being of the common barge type, but on reaching the
destination, the cargo was sold and also the boat, to be used as
lumber or to be used as a houseboat, because it was impossible
to tow the boat back up the river. It was then up to the men to
find a way to return home. Often they would walk to a port to
the north hoping to find passage on a north bound boat.
Sometimes the men would have to walk all the way home.
One of the earliest boats was run by Mike Dorsey. After
disposing of the outfit at New Orleans, he left the rest of the
crew, bought a horse and started home. Before he reached home,
he had purchased several horses. He was probably the only man
who ever tried the homeward trip in any other way than by river
transportation or walking.
In 1852 my father and uncle, T.C. Gallaher, and two other
uncles, P.A. Craig and T.A. Craig, all farmers at that time,
built and ran a produce boat to New Orleans carrying the
39

products of their farms, as well as much produce bought up from
the surrounding country. They got transportation, but on
reaching Cincinnati, my uncle, T.C. Gallaher, decided to make
better time by taking a Baltimore & Ohio train by way of
Columbus, Ohio, to his home. He often told how, when the train
stopped, the passengers were asked to get out and push until
the train would get started. The weather was bad with plenty of
snow and the train was 24 hours late getting into Columbus.
However, the trip from Columbus home was uneventful. On
purchasing his ticket at Cincinnati, he checked his trunk
containing all of his clothing and other valuables. He was told
when reaching Bellaire, that his trunk would arrive in a few
days. He was compelled to walk about 12 miles through deep snow
to his home on Pipe Creek. His baggage didn't arrive until two
months later. The rest of the crew got transportation by boat
to Marietta, then the ice blocked their further passage, and
they were forced to walk home a distance of 75 or 80 miles.
An interesting site that was often seen on our highway was
the passing of the Dan Rice Circus. This outfit passed our home
twice a year, in the spring going north, and in the fall going
back to head-quarters at Marietta, Ohio. This show was the most
beautiful outfit ever passing over country roads. It consisted
of some 60 wagons drawn by teams of two, four or six horses, the
horses all being Arabian horses, the finest ever seen in our
country. There were about one hundred of them and the only pure
blooded Arabian horses that I have ever seen. The harness was
of the finest with silver mountings. The wagons of the finest
built at that time, were of uniform size, sufficient to cage
their many animals. They were white decorated with gold. Of
course the wagons were followed by the elephants, camels and
zebras, with a few trick mules. We boys would follow the parade
to the Schroeder hill, where the elephants were brought into
service to push the heavy wagons to the top of the hill.
It was with this Dan Rice Circus that Uncle Bob Sherwood
gained his renown as a show man.
In looking back to my boyhood days, I remember many of the
methods by which work was accomplished. A large house was moved
for several hundred yards from the outer edge of Businessburg to
the center of town by using two long poles. Ten yoke of cattle
and two horses were attached to the poles and at least 40 men
aided in placing the house on the foundation. Such a crude
method would be anything but practical today. All labor of this
kind was donated, which was the common custom at that time.
40
In my earliest memories, many of the people lived in cabins,

there being many more cabins than farm houses. I have never
forgotten the cabins as they were so different from our farm
house, and other farm houses.
In the first place the cabins were not located along the
highway, as the farm homes were, but were located back in the
woodland, always near a spring of good clear water. The cabin
was always surrounded in the summer with old time flowers, such
as morning glories, sun flowers and hollyhocks. Near the cabin
was an ash barrel, a box of flowering moss, and on the chimney
grew gourd vines with large gourds. The pig pen and cow shed
were always nearby. The house and yard were surrounded by a
large rail fence. The house was made of round logs with one
small window in the front near the door. The door was usually
three feet wide and six feet high, with a latch string that was
always hanging out. The large fireplace at the end of the cabin
was built of rough stones up to the mantel height, from this on,
the chimney was constructed of sticks and clay, and reached only
a few inches above the cone of the house. It is a mystery why
such chimneys didn't burn the house down. In the cabin during
the summer it was cool, while in the winter it was kept warm,
with the large logs in the fireplace. On this fire all the
cooking was done.
One day my brother and I were asked to have supper in a
cabin with Aunt Polly Turl [Tyrrell?]. I have never forgotten
how she prepared the meal. There was a bright fire burning in
the fireplace. Aunt Polly first placed on the table a large
wooden bowl on which was placed a sieve. Then she put meal on
the sieve which she sifted into the bowl. Then she broke
several eggs into the corn meal and added milk, and began mixing
the bread. She took a johnny board from the wall, and placed it
before the fire in a position to get hot. Having finished the
mixing, Aunt Polly took the johnny board from in front of the
fire, wiped it perfectly clean, and laid it on the table. This
done, she proceeded to lift the dough out in about one-half
pound loaves or dodgers, and placed them on the board, which,
being about four feet long, held quite a number of the loaves.
The board was set in front of the fire so that the heat soon
crusted the dough, after which it was set aside and Aunt Polly
pulled all of the fine wood ashes forward by the use of the
shovel, pulling them away from the fire. Then the johnny board
was laid on the hot hearth stone between the ashes and the fire,
41

and then to my amazement she proceeded to cover the cakes and
the board entirely with the fine ashes to a considerable depth.
Then she lifted the hot coals and placed them carefully all over
the fine ashes until it was a bed of hot charcoal. Then she
placed two large skillets on the hot charcoal and began frying
eggs and pork chops, while she made coffee in an old tin coffee
pot on the log fire at the back of the grate. When Aunt Polly
took the johnny board from the ashes, she took a wild turkey
wing from a peg beside the fireplace and brushed off every
particle of ashes. When the loaves were broken, the steam
escaped, leaving a delicious sweet corn bread, which, when
served with the fried meat, eggs and coffee with cream, made one
of the best meals that I have ever eaten.
The family rifle or gun was placed over the front door of
every cabin, not as a fad, but for convenience as the cabin was
located in the woods, and any morning, there might appear a
squirrel, rabbit, coon, a wild cat or a wild turkey just outside
the door. There would be not time to hunt a gun, but if the gun
were at hand, the hunter could get his game.
In the spring of 1866, my father and uncle purchased a 40acre tract of timber land at the headwaters of the historic
Coalport Run. This delighted my brother and me, who had learned
so much about this hunting ground and the great cliffs of rocks
existing at the head of this run where bears and other animals
were plentiful at that time. There it was that the last bear
seen in this section of the country was killed. Wild cats and
turkeys remained in that wooded area. Within a few days we were
following the surveyors in the timbers and we boys thought that
those forty acres were the largest part of Belmont County. To
our delight we learned that a cabin was to be built in the
timberland to be our home while the timber was being cut. The
news spread and every night for a week or more, our kitchen was
a meeting place for all the boys, while we planned great hunting
trips and camps to be built. Every boy offered his co-operation
along with his coon dog, fox hound, or rabbit dog as a part of
the outfit. As this was just at the time that we were reading
The Border History, along with the likes of Lewis Wetzel and
Daniel Boone, we were all ready for this new wild life. Never
were boys more disappointed than we, when we were told to start
hauling lumber from the saw mill into the timber land where the
cabin was to be built. We put up the argument that we wanted
our cabin to be like the cabins of Daniel Boone and Lewis
Wetzel, and they had no sawed lumber. We wanted a real cabin,
but we were urged to continue hauling lumber. A few days later
42

we were relieved when a few men began chopping house logs and
clearing away the land where the cabin was to be built. A few
days later, all of our friends and neighbors were invited to a
house raising, and the log house was built. The long straight
logs were properly notched and placed in position creating a
very fine cabin home, much better than the ordinary cabin. The
lumber that we hauled was used for floors. We had a typical
cabin fireplace, and a mud and stick chimney. The windows and
doors were more in keeping with better homes, but the bark was
still on the logs, so that it was a real cabin with a clap-roof.
A short time later we moved in. Never were two boys more
pleased than when a ladder was stood in a corner to use as a
stairway to get to our bed under the clapboard roof, where we
could lie in bed and watch the stars. The strange thing was,
that although we could see the stars through the roof, it never
leaked when it rained, although the snow would blow under the
shingles all over our bed at times.
No sooner than we arrived, until the boys and their dogs
came, and the hunting began. Of course our plans fell short.
We did manage to catch numbers of opossums as they were
plentiful, and we soon had a number of opossum skins tacked upon
the end of our cabin to show to all our friends.
It
During
behind
we had
required two years to work the timber from the land.

all of this period my brother and I were continually
a team of oxen, excepting a short period each winter when
to go to school.
Mother cooked our meals over the great log fire to humor us
boys although she would rather have used the stove. During the
winter months she cooked in large iron kettles and even did the
baking in Dutch ovens in front of the open fire.
While we attended school, Mother moulded candles which we
used for light during the winter evenings. Our moulds were of
the larger type, moulding 24 candles at a time.
One day was set aside every two weeks to mould candles and
those twenty-four candles were supposed to do us for two weeks.
To save candles, we boys put hickory bark on to the fire which
gave forth a sparkling light, by which we would read until late
in the evening.
It was while we were living in this cabin on the hill that I
experienced one of the greatest thrills of my life. It was the
43

first winter there, and we had two horses in the log barn. One
was a riding mare noted for her fleetness, and the other was a
very large young horse, very clumsy and with large feet. One
Sunday a large number of boys came up to visit with my brother
and me. We took the horses out of the barn to ride them to
their watering place some distance away. I was riding the large
horse and a neighbor boy was riding the fleet-footed filly and
soon we were bantering for a race. The road was a common log
road and soil was very soft and muddy. We had run a distance
when my horse stumbled and fell to his knees throwing me far
over his head. I lit in a position so that, on opening my eyes,
I saw his large bright front shoes coming over my face and I
expected to be crushed to the earth, but luckily one foot lit on
either side of my head, and the next moment I looked square at
the bottom of the two large hind shoes as they passed over my
face. My brother and the other boys picked me up. I was not
hurt but the shock was all that I could bear. While it was in
sight of our home, no one there saw it so it was agreed that
Mother and Father should know nothing about it. For a long time
I could not sleep at night, waking up many times terrorized by
the big shoes of the horse. Several years later Mother and
Father heard the story, as I was so afraid of being kept off the
horses.
Later in the summer of 1865, when I was working for Mr.
Lockwood, I had another outstanding experience. This time a
group of boys and myself were cutting burrs on the farm. The
burrs were cut late in the summer to keep them from drying and
becoming entangled in the wool of the sheep. While working on
this farm, six of us boys were allowed horses to ride from the
Lockwood home on Pipe Creek to the Dillies Bottom farm. We
turned the horses out in the six acre orchard that lay between
the Carpenter home and the Lockwood run. One evening after the
work was done, while we were getting our horses for returning
home, I had caught my horse which was a very small riding horse,
leading it down to the fence near the road, along the run, where
I had left my saddle. I placed the saddle on the horse, and was
in the act of buckling the girth, my back being against the
fence. At the same time, a short distance above in the field, a
boy was endeavoring to catch his riding horse. This horse was
very large, blind and holding its head high, the boy was unable
to bridle it, when he unwittingly struck the horse with the
bridle. The horse started at a full run directly toward my
horse striking it with such force as to knock him through the
fence, breaking down a part of the board fence, including one
post that was broken off. My horse lay in the road while the
44

large horse passed over him and piled up over the bank in the
edge of the run. I was picked up lying between the fence row
and my horse's feet, somewhat stunned but not really hurt. This
was another incident that had to be kept a secret from my mother
or I again would have gotten a vacation.
In the early 1850's, my father and uncles, Thomas C. and
Benjamin Gallaher, built and stocked a store on Pipe Creek a
mile and a half from the river, a location just opposite the
little cemetery above the Lockwood Falls.
Nearby they also erected an undertaking establishment, where
coffins were made and trimmed. The trimming for adults usually
was made of black glazed muslin, while for children it was of
white glazed muslin or other finer materials. They also built a
hearse, being the first vehicle of the kind built or used in
this section of the country. The body of this hearse was a
frame structure with glass panels considered expensive at that
time. This hearse was in use and business conducted until after
the Civil War.
The store alluded to was a complete country store. The
stock contained all salable merchandise of that day. I have
often wished that an inventory of the stock had been kept, so I
will endeavor to tell the items that I remember. The shelves on
one side contained grocery stock with many other articles of
merchandise. The other side contained the dry goods
intermingled with many other articles such as boots and shoes,
hats and caps, and other clothing. Beginning with the grocery
department, we find barrels of salt located on the large porch
outside. Nearby stood an open barrel of pine tar with a dipper
beside it. This was used to grease wagons and other farm
machinery. Inside, standing over a large space toward the rear
of the store were many stone jugs, milk crocks, with also quart
and half gallon crockery fruit jars for canning purposes. These
jars had large openings where a stone lid was dropped into a
recess and sealed around with sealing wax.
The stone jugs were sold too for canning purposes. Such
vegetables and fruits as tomatoes, raspberries and blackberries
were canned in jugs. There were also a number of heavy stone
pitchers, so heavy they could scarcely be lifted, yet were in
general use. These pitchers were of various sizes, some of them
as large as two-gallon ones.
45

There were also iron coffee kettles, pots and skillets.
There could be seen a side saddle or two, a man's saddle or two,
a few horse collars, along with wagon whips, a number of trace
chains, a few grain scythes, a grain rake or two, a string of
curry combs and brushes, while on the counter could be seen a
box of axes, a bunch of axe handles, a box of lead for bullets,
along with a large box of gun caps, and a keg of gun powder, a
number of wooden bowls, and a crate of wooden buckets, many tin
cups, tin buckets, pans and coffee pots. Nearby was a barrel of
wooden shoe pegs used for the manufacture or repair of shoes,
and many boxes of heavy boots. Behind the grocery counter was a
barrel of dried apples, a barrel of green coffee, another barrel
containing crackers, and another barrel of light brown sugar,
and another barrel of dark brown sugar, while nearby was a
barrel of Orleans molasses. There were jars of candy, mostly
stick candy, and a few jars of hard candy, licorice, and wrapped
sugar kisses. Every sugar kiss had a printed verse, and we boys
liked to read the verses, although we bought more stick candy,
because we got more candy for our money. There were jars of
cloves, stick cinnamon and spice.
On the other side of the room the dry goods were kept.
There were bolts of woolen, cotton and linen materials. Woolen
linsey and jeans. There were no ready made clothes or suits so
materials were sold for all clothing. Much corduroy was sold,
and even broadcloth, which was made up into clothing in the
different homes.
The lighter goods consisted of check and hickory check which
was a material used for making check shirts. For women's
clothing there was calico, gingham and lawn, all of which was
kept in large quantities, as were also brown muslin, bleached
muslin and flannels. Other than this there were hats and caps,
and for winter, great piles of comforts which were scarves worn
by all men and boys, hoops and reeds for making hoop skirts, and
nun bonnets which were straw or fibre unfinished bonnets, with
great quantities of hat frames. Then there were the show cases,
which was the most interesting part of the store. Then there
was one case which contained jews harps, a box of small mouth
organs, a few barlow pen knives, dog knives, and many lead
pencils. A few combs, mostly wooden, with great numbers of
bottles of hair oil, most of which was considered the best
selling brand. This was one of the best selling articles as no
young man would have thought of doing without hair oil.
46

Another case contained a few pairs of scissors, a box of
thread, a box of knitting needles, a few crochet hooks, several
boxes of buttons and an enormous amount of ribbons of all widths
and colors, then used on all women's clothing from the top of
their heads to the bottom of their skirts. I have often heard
my father say that there was more loss in that case of ribbons
than in any other article in the store, as fashions and colors
would change, and then the goods could not be sold. The stock
of ribbons was invoiced at three hundred dollars.
The story of the historic Dille Fort has been sadly
neglected by historians up to the present time as has also the
story of the Indian Race Track located in the Thompson Cone.
Shortly after the arrival of the Dillies in the spring of
1793, they proceeded to organize the settlers of this section as
well as those across the Ohio in Virginia as far as the Flats,
now known as Moundsville, West Virginia, to build a fort for the
protection of the settlers and their families. My great
grandfather, John Gallaher, who lived in the Flats near Wolfe
Spring, Moundsville, was one of the builders of the Fort. There
is a difference of opinion now, as to the location of the Fort,
but as a boy my grandfather, pointed out to me the location of
the Tate Cabin where Mr. Tate and his daughter-in-law were
scalped by the Indians while his fourteen year old boy escaped,
having been shot through the mouth hiding in the underbrush
until he could escape to the Dilles Fort, nearby, where he was
cared for. At the same time, my attention was called to the
many old logs yet remaining where the Fort had once stood. This
Fort was located at the southwest corner of the farm now owned
by Mrs. Grace Barrett and extended to a section of the ground
now owned by Wallace W. Gallaher. It was a three or four acre
Fort, having three cabins to accommodate the families of the
settlers. A spring of good water was within the Fort, and
explains why the Fort was located at this place as the water
supply was most necessary during any siege.
In 1798 a second Indian alarm was given when scouts from
Fort Henry spread the news that a party of Indians were heading
this way for an attack on the settlers. At this time my great
grandfather, John Gallaher, brought his family to the home of
John Dille. It was evident that the Fort was not finished or
considered safe as my great-grandmother with her three children
had been sent with other women and children up Big Run where
they stayed under the shelving rocks for three days, while my
great grandfather who was then a very sick man, was left at the
Dille home where he was found dead upon the return of his
47

family. In the meanwhile, the Indians who were reported to be
coming down the Ohio River changed their course and went up
Yellow Creek, not coming this way.
It has often been a question in my mind as to why such an
engineering feat as the Indian Race Track at Thompson's Cone had
not attracted more attention of historians, or those interested
in investigating such mounds as it is undoubtedly one of the
finest mounds in Eastern Ohio, equalling any of those throughout
Licking County and accommodating a one-half mile race track.
This wonderful mound or race track lies in the woodland of what
is known as the Thompson Cone now owned by the Colonel Thompson
heirs. At this time there are two saw mills on this land
preparing to remove all salable timber. The mound is so grown
up with timber and underbrush that it would be difficult to
locate except when all leaves are gone from the trees and
bushes. I have been interested in this mound for more than
three-quarters of a century and I yet hope that through the
timber men, attention will be drawn to its location by the
proper authorities or historical investigators who will make a
thorough investigation, as I now believe it to have been the
work of real mound builders since it is so much in keeping with
the mounds throughout Licking County. This mound is located one
and one-half miles northeast of the Moundsville or Thompson
Ferry.
Besides all of the general industries of my early memory,
there were many methods of doing things that have long since
passed away. First in my memory was the old chaff-piler
threshing machine, owned by my father which did its last work in
the fall of 1859, and as I was but five years of age, I was
allowed to play around the machine. I well remember the work as
it was done. The grain was fed into the cylinder much the same
as in the later improved machines, but after passing under the
cylinder, where the grain was threshed from the straw, the grain
along with the chaff and straw was carried by carriers and
dumped from the opposite end of the machine, there having been
placed on the ground at this point, a large canvas, after which
a number of men with pitchforks carried the straw away from
where it had piled, leaving the grain, along with the chaff, on
the canvas. This, in turn, was shoveled on other sheets of
canvas, and carried away by four men for a distance where the
sheet was shaken, the chaff being carried away by a current of
air, leaving the grain, partly clean in the canvas. After this,
the grain was poured into a box or bin, where it was dipped out
into sacks, sacking up the grain. When all of the grain was
48

sacked, it was hauled to the barn where the grain was passed
through a small hand mill, known as a wind-mill, leaving the
grain fairly clean. After this last threshing, the old chaffpiler machine was hauled in and left beside the barn where it
stood for many years, giving me plenty of time to examine it
thoroughly.
This machine was 12 or 14 feet in length, with a breadth of
40 or 42 inches, and a height of 50 to 60 inches, resembling a
large wagon box. The machine was operated by four horses, with
the common horse power equipment. The machinery was a simple
threshing drum with an attached shaft that operated the carrier
that carried the straw and grain from the threshing cylinder.
The charcoal plant was situated on Pleasant Hill. This was
where my grandfather, William Wallace got the charcoal to
operate his blacksmith shop, this being before coal was used as
a blacksmith fuel. When a very small boy, I was taken by my
uncle, U.V. Wallace, and others to this yard where they secured
a wagon load of charcoal. As a boy I thought the earth was
being burned up, there were so many mounds or kilns, each
emitting great volumes of smoke at the top while fire could be
seen at the bottom. The wagon was loaded from a large kiln that
had been opened up.
Another industry was conducted in our community. A man by
the name of Nathaniel Long came to our community from West
Virginia in 1860, built a cabin, then attached a large turning
lathe to the side of the cabin, and began the manufacture of
chairs, known as the "split bottom" chairs. For a few years he
sold many chairs to the people of the community. There were
chairs for children; small and large chairs; rockers; dining
room chairs, and general purpose chairs.
Along with this work he cleared up quite an acreage and soon
had raised a crop of hemp rope, large lines of an inch and a
quarter or an inch and a half then much used on the Ohio River.
The process of making the rope was crude, but very interesting.
His method required a length of distance of two hundred yards.
His equipment, so far as I could see, was many boards nailed to
as many trees through the woodland, each board containing a
number of bored holes, and lined up for two hundred yards
distance. His process began by spinning the hemp pulp into the
tight strands necessary for the forming of the rope. Through
another wheel a number of these strands passed, twisting them
into a cord of probably three-eights of an inch. A number of
49

these cords were passed through the boards from tree to tree,
for the entire length, as many strands as would be necessary to
build the rope to the required size. Then with a tool made for
the purpose, something like a fork with several prongs, the
prongs being passed through the different strands in such manner
as to allow the operator to turn or twist around, continuing the
twisting process and leaving the twist behind and moving with
the boards ahead until the whole line was completed, leaving a
solid hemp rope of the best quality.
Another small industry was basket making. In the early days
there was a family by the name of Baxter who resided near the
headwaters of Pipe Creek. There were three or four men, with as
many women, and several children. They made baskets in great
numbers. From their home several wagon loads of baskets were
taken annually. The baskets ranged from very small ones, to the
largest grain and clothes baskets. Their products were sold to
the Wheeling markets. Also baskets were taken to Moundsville,
Benwood and Bellaire, where they were peddled from house to
house, as well as selling them to stores. A man walking with a
load of these light baskets strapped to him looked like a huge
moving haystack.
In the year of 1876 while working for my uncle, U. V.
Wallace, at Pipe Creek, I, with a friend by the name of Levi
Wetzel, who was then working at my uncle's blacksmith shop,
became interested in the young folks at Businessburg, a couple
of miles away. My uncle, who was always ready to profit by our
weakness, often suggested that we take a load of coal to
Businessburg after supper, knowing we were anxious for the trip,
and thus adding to our day's work. As we were anxious for the
trip at any cost, after eating a late supper, we proceeded to
hitch up a four horse team and, driving to the coal platform,
loaded the wagon with 50 bushels of coal, and were soon on our
way to the village.
After delivering the coal we retired to the store where we
got soap and water and washed ourselves, and were soon out
visiting with our girl friends. Staying until about eleven
o'clock, we returned to our teams, to find the young horses
restless and ready for a rapid pace home. The wagon had a high
spring seat for driving a four horse team and we were soon on
our way home, with some difficulty holding the horses in as the
leaders were a pair of colts. The nearer home we got, the
harder the horses were to hold. Upon nearing the Lockwood Mill
near home my attention was drawn to the old cooper shop which
50

had been converted into a dwelling house in which Uriah Adams
and his family lived. At this point the horses were very hard
to hold, and I told my friends to watch out, that I was going to
clip the corner of Old Wry's house, expecting the hub to catch
the corner of the building. The building was a large, rambling
structure with a heavy board roof, and luckily a long sliding
window in the side fronting the road. In coming up to the
building, I pulled to the side of the road, the horses partially
getting out of my control. The front wheel of the wagon entered
the building behind the front wall tearing out full twenty-five
feet of the front of the building, allowing the heavy board roof
to collapse, our wagon barely escaping the crash. The crash
along with the rattling of the cooking stove and utensils and
the yelling of the family created a din that we could hear for
quite a distance.
As we rounded a bend a short distance below, Mr. Adams fired
a load of shot in our direction. We got the wagon in the shadow
of the barn and never were two teams gotten into a barn quicker
even by experts, as we feared that we were followed. After
putting the team away, fearing that someone was hurt, we scouted
as near as possible to the wrecked house. We were satisfied
that no one was hurt. We also feared that our uncle may have
heard the crash, so we cautiously went in and, finding
everything quiet, went to bed. When my uncle called at four
o'clock in the morning, I was out of bed and at the barn as
usual hoping that my uncle would not learn the facts. When the
barn work was done and breakfast called, my friend and I were
greatly relieved when my uncle came in from the shop laughing
and telling us that somebody had wrecked old Wry's home, that
Wry had been down and told him all about it. He, not thinking
for a minute that we might be implicated, said that Old Wry knew
the parties. Old Wry said that it was Andy Ault's team of four
gray horses and that he had shot the man who had run into his
house. We, fearing that things might get mixed up, soon got my
uncle out to the shop and explained the whole thing to him.
With his aid, we kept the secret and no one ever suspected us,
but Wry always believed that the house was wrecked by Andy
Ault's team. Mr. Lockwood sent carpenters and repaired the
house. This taught me a lesson and was my last prank.
When I was seventeen years of age, after our sawmill work
had closed before Christmas, I was preparing to start to school
for the balance of the winter.
51

A boy friend who worked for the Pipe Creek Coal Company came
after me one evening, saying that the mine boss, Mr. Len Theror
wanted to see me. After seeing him, and finding that he wanted
me to accept a job as a hauler in the mine, and offering me a
dollar a day for the work, I decided to accept the offer,
knowing that many of the boys around were doing that work, and I
felt that I was entirely able, at the same time feeling that I
should go on to school. But on figuring the great amount of
money that I could earn if the work should be steady for eight
or ten weeks, I found myself planning to buy a new horse, saddle
and bridle. With this in mind, I was anxious to go to work.
The following Monday morning at five o'clock found me at the
foot of the slope with the other boys, ready for the days work.
Mr. Theror, the mine boss was soon on the ground, and furnished
me with a miners lard oil lamp, which he hung on my hat so that
it hung low over my forehead above my eyes, causing me much
discomfort and making me wonder how I could ever work with that
on my head. By this time several mules had been hitched to
wagons, and I was given a mule and wagon and told that was my
outfit. I jumped into my wagon, and was told to follow to the
first passway. The mule starting slow from the bottom, gave me
a chance to observe him, and I felt my heart sink as I seemed to
see my finish, for of all the mules, to find that I was the
driver of Old Dick, and everybody knew Old Dick's record. Many
times I had seen him brought into the blacksmith shop, carrying
great lengths of rope with which to tie him, when he had to be
thrown to the ground where he was so roped and tied so as to be
unable to move a foot until the shoes were driven, after which
he was liberated, and usually when set free he would leave the
shop kicking defiantly at every one who had touched him until he
was out of sight. On taking hold of Dick my instructions were
to endeavor not to unhook the spreaders behind him, but to turn
him around, to turn the wagon and then unhook the spreaders, and
to do the same thing when hitching to the load.
The mine harness, at this time consisted of a collar, hames
and back band along with a pair of trace chains, making it
possible for Dick to be turned in any way without being in
danger of entanglement in his harness. On reaching the passway,
my light having gone out, I felt a home sickness that I never
had felt before. Mr. Theror came to my assistance, lighted my
lamp, unhitched Dick and hitched him to a loaded car, at the
same time telling me that I would soon like the work, started
the mule and told me to jump on the back of the wagon. He also
told me to be sure to jump off at the right point so that I
could unhitch the mule while he was on the run. Soon after
52

leaving this passway, the mule going at a terrific pace, my
light again going out, I found myself helpless and clinging to
the car, being barely able to keep my hat on much less to light
the lamp. As we neared the foot of the mine, we seemed to be
gaining speed, and I found myself with difficulty, holding on to
the rear end of the wagon. All of a sudden, there was a crash,
and I knew there had been a wreck. I failed to observe the
opening where I should have jumped off, passed around the block
and unhitched the mule. My failure had caused the crash.
The mule, having turned out between the timbers, at his
usual turning point, while yet hitched to the wagon, was thrown
down and jerked backwards knocking down two large timbers, at
the same time knocking the heavily loaded car off the track and
pinning the mule between the car and two standing timbers. I,
in the dark, was helpless, but in a moment saw lights coming
from the foot, the men there having heard the crash. They were
soon there and looking for me, whom they feared was hurt.
Finding me unhurt, and after lighting my lamp, they proceeded to
extricate the mule. When I got near enough to see Old Dick's
plight, wedged down as he was, I will have to say that I had no
sympathy for him, as it was the first time that I had ever seen
him unable to kick. The men soon removed the timber and allowed
him to get to his feet, and found that he was not in anyway
injured. By this time I was making my way to the foot, aiming
to get out of that hole, never to return, when Mr. Theror
arrived and began insisting that I would not quit, and that he
would place me in a better job. He offered me the job of
hooking on. This was a most critical job done by attaching the
wagon by the use of a clutch to an endless line that was
continually moving. This clutch was sprung with a large crow
bar and caught tight by the use of a pin inserted in a hole in a
disk, a part of the clutch. Unless caught at its tightest
point, it left the wagon liable to break loose. Mr. Theror
offered to stay with me until I thoroughly understood the work.
He also offered to increase my wages twenty-five cents a day.
This seemed to revive me. Mr. Theror stayed with me several
hours until I was able to do the work successfully, at the same
time warning me that some of the clutches were out of order, and
that I must step back into a recess for fear that a car might
break loose and come back down the slope.
I found that this recess was about three feet back having a
board seat where I could sit down, and back of this I noticed a
great hole of water, the sump from where the water was pumped
from the mine. This was was near the level of my feet, just
53

under the seat. While waiting between trips, I pondered upon
whether a wrecked car might not wreck the timbers over the sump
and get me. Everything went well until late afternoon, when all
at once, I heard the snap of clutch and a car came roaring down
the slope from near the top. I, unthoughtedly and
unhesitatingly, threw my feet up, and dived backward into that
great hole of water. Being a good swimmer, I had no difficulty
in righting myself, getting hold of the sides, and pulling
myself out. By this time, several men were coming down the
slope and by the time I got to the track, they were
investigating a pile of cars, many of which were wrecked. I
glanced over the wreckage but before being noticed by anyone, I
made my way out of the mine, promising myself never to go under
the ground again. I do not remember that I ever collected for
that day's work, although I had put in probably ten hours.
The next morning I started back to school for the rest of the
winter.
One bright summer day, in 1863, when I was nine years of
age, my aunt, Mary Wallace, called to me and asked me to go to
the home of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Craig, a distance of a mile and
half, at the top of the hill, to get some butter.
As usual, my uncle told me to go get Old Vine, his riding
horse, so I could ride out, which pleased me wonderfully. After
searching the pasture, which probably meant walking farther than
I would have walked had I walked for the butter, I got Old Vine
and took her to the barn. There I saw my uncle's large saddle
and decided that this would be a good time to get to use it, so
I placed the saddle on the horse and soon was ready to go.
Having a large bucket to carry, and at the same time thinking of
a new oil cloth or soldiers blanket, I decided to take it for
fear of rain. The oilcloth blanket was of the better make,
having a hole in the middle of it, that it might be placed over
the soldier's head, thus protecting him from the rain. This
blanket was a new one just received from my father who was then
in the army and could have been sold by my mother for some three
dollars and of course money was badly needed during this war
time.
But I, without my mother's knowledge, took the blanket,
placed it across the saddle, climbed on the horse, and started
on the trip. On getting up to the cemetery, at the foot of the
hill, it began to sprinkle rain, and I unfolded my blanket and
in placing it over my head and taking care of my bucket, I
became alarmed as it rattled and the horse began to step around,
54

but I succeeded in jerking it over my head and getting hold of
the bridle reins, and continued my ride up the hill. The rain,
having ceased after only a sprinkle, I found myself very warm
and uncomfortable wrapped in that heavy blanket. Before I
reached the top of the hill, I decided to take it off, and being
afraid of scaring the horse while lifting it over my head,
decided to get off the horse, and remove the blanket. To get
off where there was no fence on which to climb, I found
difficult as the saddle was so high, having a high horn capped
with brass in front.
By dropping the bucket and twisting myself, I endeavored to
slide down out of the saddle so that my feet would touch the
ground. As I did so, the slot in the blanket, then around my
neck, caught over the horn of the saddle and before I realized
what had happened, I was choking and my feet had not yet touched
the ground. My first thought was to climb high enough to lift
the blanket off the saddle horn, and with both hands I could
lift myself enough to loosen it, but not enough to get the
blanket off. When I would let go with one hand, I would slide
back tightening the blanket around my neck, and about this time
the horse began to move around. This added to my horror.
Luckily, I was barefooted, and this allowed me to get my
feet up on the side of the saddle skirt, and by working with my
hands and getting both feet well up on the skirt of the saddle
to a position where I could straighten out, which I did, ripping
the blanket from side to side and landing on my back in the
middle of the road while the horse paced off for a short
distance. I found that I was entirely exhausted, but soon was
able to crawl to the side of the road where I lay for some time.
Finally, getting up, crying over the torn blanket, I folded
the blanket, recovered my bucket, got my horse and led her some
distance to a fence where I could get on, and turned her head
around and rode back home.
After putting the saddle in the barn, and returning the
blanket to my mother, it was probably the first time that I had
had to tell my mother the true story. After my uncle and my
mother learned the whole story, I was not reprimanded. They
were thankful that I had lived to tell the tale. After all of
this, I took my bucket and mounted Old Vine bareback and made
the trip after the butter without further mishap.
In January of 1875 I had an occasion to ride to Moundsville,
W.Va., five miles away, to get Dr. Bruce to come over to attend
55

to my brother Finley who lay sick with pneumonia at our home on
Pipe Creek. It was near midnight and the temperature had
reached zero. The river was entirely frozen over so that I
could ride across. I was riding a young and very spirited
horse. After calling the doctor, I did not wait for him, but
turned my horse and rode speedily home. The horse stopped with
its head at the barn door, which was at the road side.
I was heavily dressed with a heavy overcoat and gloves and
am very sure that I did not realize how cold that my hands were
at the time. I was riding fast and the horse stopped suddenly
while I attempted to step off the horse quickly I threw my left
hand on the horse's shoulder and my right hand on the back of
the saddle but instead of taking hold, my hands being numb with
cold, slid forward throwing me over the horse, the horse jumping
and throwing me on my back on the ground, with my foot through
the small iron stirrup to the instep. I could see that the
horse was trembling while the stirrup strap was stretched to
full length and I realized that the horse would go within a
moment. There being a heavy snow on at the time with a bright
moon, I could see the horse's glistening eyes as she turned and
looked at me. At this I endeavored to loosen the stirrup
by throwing myself forward but at this I failed as the horse
made a lunge in a westerly direction, passing the front of the
barn, shying from me, whirling, while I was being carried in the
air, carrying me past the twenty foot front of the barn, past a
sixty foot fence to where a wagon stood, the horse leaping the
tongue of the wagon when the stirrup strap broke, and I was
left, piled up against the wagon tongue, while the horse went
for a long distance down the public road.
I soon recovered my senses and opening the stable door, I
circled around the horse and it hastily reached the stall where
I was able to halter it. Then I was able to make my way home,
where I suffered for several days from the shock.
No one who knew the horse and knew the situation could
realize how I escaped with my life but it was conceded by all
that I had been carried in the air for the entire distance of
seventy or eighty feet and this alone had saved my life.
As I have looked back to my home land, where I spent my
boyhood days, to the wooded lands that have passed, never to
return, I have always prayed that I might be able to paint with
pen or brush, a picture of the beautiful homeland, as it looked
nearly one hundred years ago.
56
Very little land was cleared from the Ohio River to

Jacobsburg. There were just narrow fields along the old state
road, upon which stood our happy homes. All of the fields were
neatly fenced and cultivated.
As far as the eye could see into the woodland, there
extended a clean bed of blue grass, with not a briar or bush to
mar its beauty; the beautiful wild flowers in the springtime,
and the lovely tinted leaves in the autumn, made scenery which
could not be surpassed in beauty.
In these early days, of which I am writing, there was more
activity in the woodland, than anywhere else; it was an
"industry" in itself. Some of the men were clearing the land to
build cabins and make farms of the land. Others were cutting
and hewing timber for other building, the riving of clapboards,
the splitting of rails, the shaving of shingles, cutting of
poles, all added to my love for my home land.
The finest music in all the world to me was the music of the
wildwood; the bark of the foxes, the chatter of the squirrels,
the call of the whipperwill, the bob-whites, and pheasants, yet,
above all, the rhythm of the wood chopper's ax.
There was never music quite so sweet to my ears, as it rang
out loud and clear from early morn until close of day. The love
of my home land has held me fast. And now, when I travel the
little valley, it is with a sad heart, because the great massive
timbers are gone, the saw mills, woolen mills and blacksmith
shops are gone, all of the industries of the early days are gone
forever.
As I look back I wonder, has the fountain of growth and
development failed? Has progress really paid? If so, to whom?
Not to me.
Thomas Maywood Gallaher
57

Additional notes by Irene Oyster [and Marian Kowalski]:
John Dille married Nancy Gallaher, sister of John Gallaher, Sr.
John Gallaher, Sr., came to Dillies Bottom, Ohio (along with
!
John and Nancy Dillie) in 1793. He died in an Indian raid
!
in 1795. He left a son, John A. Gallaher, Jr.
John A. Gallaher, Jr. was born in 1789. He married Mary Talbert
!
in 1820. To this union were born the following sons:
Levi Gallaher
(the eldest)
* William
"
next-born Feb.5, 1828, died May 25, 1901
Benjamin
"
"
Stephen
"
"
** Thomas C.
"
"-born Nov. 23, 1836, died Jan. 15, 1910
Joseph
"
"
* William Gallaher married Caroline Wallace
} sisters
** Thomas Gallaher married Mary Jane Wallace
}
[Caroline, Mary Jane, Urias Venham, and Isaiah Wallace were all
children of William F. and Mary (Venham) Wallace.]
To William and Caroline Gallaher were born the following:
+ James Finley Gallaher
!
!
Born Nov. 1, 1853 - Died June 7, 1928
++ Thomas Maywood Gallaher
!
!
Born Oct.31, 1854 - Died January 1942
+++ Mary Evelyn Gallaher
!
!
Born Sep.24, 1857 - Died Feb. 1930
Clara Jane Gallaher
!
!
Born Aug. 4, 1860 - Died Feb. 6, 1876
Joann Gallaher
!
!
Born Dec.10, 1861 - Died Nov.10, 1864
Ace. B. Gallaher
!
!
Born Oct. 2, 1875 - [Died Nov. 6, 1967]
Caroline Wallace Gallaher, mother of the above, died January 28,
1876, nine days before her daughter Clara Jane.
After the death of Caroline, William re-married [to Mary
Steward.] To this union were born:
Laura (Gallaher) [Yoho
Born Jan. 30, 1882 - Died Apr. 25, 1970]
Herschel Gallaher
[Born Aug. 12, 1878 - Died Mar. 11, 1920]
58
+ James Finley Gallaher married Alice Goodwin. To this union

was born one son who died at the age of 6 weeks, and one
daughter, Anna Irene Gallaher, who married Glenn A. Oyster.
++ Thomas Maywood Gallaher married Anna Crisswell. To that
union were born these children. After Anna's death, he
married Mary Mitchell.
Otto Gallaher
Caroline Gallaher
Blanche Gallaher
Joann Gallaher
Gertrude Gallaher
+++ Mary Evelyn Gallaher married Richard Hoover. To this union
was born one daughter, Clara Hoover who married Thomas
Grier.
To this union were born:
Elinor Grier
Kathryn Grier
Mary Frances Grier
59

Some Things I Remember by Thomas M Gallaher

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Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

little book was written by my uncle, Thomas Maywood

In going through my files recently I found my copy of the

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Anna Gallaher Oyster

[Note from Marian Kowalski:

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

THOMAS MAYWOOD GALLAHER

I don't exactly remember this first bit of personal history,

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

These droves were ferried or forded across the Ohio River at

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

A fight seemed imminent, but at this point, my uncle Tom and

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

From the Elyria Chronicle, 18 Dec 1936:

My father and Uncle Tom were partners in all business

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

explanations were allowed, and a new type of hostilities

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

It was late in the evening when

The stars were shining brightly overhead, and he found that

I remember that one day a stranger came riding up and

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

A bear appeared in the Wegee section, and did a lot of

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

In my earliest memories, many of the people lived in cabins,

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

required two years to work the timber from the land.

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher

Some Things I Remember by Thomas Maywood Gallaher