Chasing Shadows: Porter Rockwell’s Redemption Ride in the Wild West
In the summer of 1885, a correspondent for The Salt Lake Herald penned a vivid account of a journey through Pueblo, Colorado, where a chance conversation with a local cattle rancher, Frank Karrick, unveiled a gripping tale from the early days of the American West. This narrative centers on Orrin Porter Rockwell, a figure shrouded in myth as a supposed “Destroying Angel” of the Mormon pioneers, yet revealed here as a steadfast ally in a daring mission to recover stolen livestock. Set against the backdrop of the rugged Utah Territory, Karrick’s story offers a rare glimpse into the character of Rockwell—not as a fearsome enforcer, but as a loyal and resourceful frontiersman. The following transcript preserves this historic article, a testament to the complexities of pioneer life and the enduring allure of Western folklore.1
IN EARLY TIMES.
A Narrative of Old “Uncle Porter Rockwell.”
AFTER THE HORSE THIEVES.
A Pueblo Man who Found “Port” Anything but a Destroying Angel.
PUEBLO, COL., July 20, 1885.
Correspondence of THE HERALD:
During our stay in this city, we have been the recipients of many kind attentions from Sheriff Mee, Mr. Frank Karrick and others, who whished to place within the reach of THE HERALD’S correspondent to obtain all the available ideas possible of their interesting country, as well as to soften the blow of the repeated defeats our Ball Club had sustained at the hands of the Pueblos. One of the most interesting occasions passed here was a drive enjoyed out to a cattle range, Mr. Karrick handling the lines over a sturdy pair of blacks, which whirled our carriage along over the level plain at the rate of nine or ten miles an hour; the drive itself, however, was less interesting than the conversation; Mr. Karrick, a typical westerner and cattle rancher, rough, hearty, big-hearted, and with a cute sense of the humorous about him, led the talk by a number of inquiries about Utah, where it appeared he had frequently traveled in the early days; the half-masting rot disposed of, the probable danger on the 24th laughed away, and a little light let into the real statue of the Utah “excitement,” the conversation diverged naturally to the Pioneers, then to President Young, and passing to the inevitable topic of the “Destroying Angels,” brought up finally at Porter Rockwell. Two eastern men who were of the party, Messrs. Bullis and Ramsdell, were at once alive with interest to learn what they could of the noted character, and Mr. Karrick, it appears, was in a considerably better position for enlightening them than I was, so that I listened with as much interest as the others manifested, while he told the following narrative:
“They may say what they like about old Uncle Port’s being a “Destroying Angel,” said Mr. Karrick, “but I can tell you that it was a very different kind of an angel that I found in him. It was a good many years ago—I can’t give the precise dates, but you can about locate the time because it was just when they were stringing their first telegraph wires from Sacramento to Salt Lake with my big mule train. I had unloaded in Salt Lake, had got my money, and sent the teams on back south intending to join them on horseback somewhere about where Tintic is; in those days, a freighter’s riches consisted mainly of his outfit, and my 15 or 20 mule teams, I can tell you, represented a good deal of money to me; the mules I had, I reckon, would have cost $400 or $500 each. Well, I rode into camp late one night—it was about 70 miles south or southwest of Salt Lake—and the first thing that struck me was that there was something wrong among the herd of mules. I woke the teamsters up and said, ‘Boys, there’s something the matter here;’ they were all sleepy and insisted that everything was all right. I routed them out, however, and we counted up the heard and found eight mules and one big grey horse missing. It was easy to see from the tracks that they had been driven off, but in the road the marks of the high calks in their shoes disappeared. I couldn’t make this out till the next morning, when I say that the thieves had cut some sage brush there-abouts, and dragged it after them to cover up the tracks. I was in something of a sore stress, I can tell you, and like a d—d fool I jumped on my horse and followed the road for forty miles till I came to where the tracks separated, a band of horses going one way, and my mules taking the other direction. I saw then that I could do little alone, and I made up my mind to do what I should do. I rode back to camp, and in the middle of the night, when everyone was asleep, I dug a hole under the hind wheel of my wagon and buried there all the money I had in the world—$15,000—in coin There was no one with me I could trust, you see, and I considered that was the safest way. I then jumped on my horse, and never stopped till I was in Salt Lake City. I went at once to Brigham Young, and laid my troubles before him. He thought a little while, and then said he was sorry for me, and asked whether I was sure the animals were stolen. I told him my reasons for thinking so, and he said: “I only know one way by which you can get your mules back, and that is by getting the help of Porter Rockwell. I don’t know whether he will go with you, but if he will you are all right.” I thanked him, and at once went in search of Uncle Porter, whom I know from some previous transactions. When I told him what I wanted, he said at once in his usual peculiar, but hearty voice, “I’ll go with you, my boy, and I’ll get your mules back.” That was all I wanted, and we lost no time in starting. There was no delay, I can tell you, till we covered the road back to where I had seen the mule tracks separate and take another direction. We rode along all day and suddenly came to a point where the mule tracks disappeared. It was as if they had taken suddenly to the air. “Never mind,” said Porter, “they’ve only taken their shoes off, we’ll keep this road.” “Uncle Port,” said I, “if they take the shoes off the big grey horse, we’ve got them. His feet are so tender he can’t travel fast.” We went on and before long Porter uttered one of his peculiar hollers. “They’re ours,” he said; “They’ve taken off the big horse’s shoes. You’ll have your mules back now before long.” I felt entire confidence in him and we galloped along, stopping neither day nor night. On the third day at sunset, we came on top of a hill and I saw a dust a long way ahead. Porter uttered a yell, and seized his glass.
“ Two men with some horses and mules,” he cried, “come on!” We dashed over the ground and before long came up to a couple of hard looking roughs camped innocently beside a stream; on the opposite side to my great joy, were my eight mules and the old grey horse, but a swift deep stream was running between them and me, the cunning rogues had seen our dust in the distance and had swam them across you see, and now disclaimed all knowledge of them.
“My name’s Porter Rockwell,” said Uncle Port riding up to them, “throw up your hands.”
Both men threw up their hands with the greatest promptness.
“Now whose animals are those across there?”
Both men swore they didn’t know; they said they rather thought they belonged to some men who were concealed over there.
“They’re yours, my boy,” he said to me. “Go across and take them.”
I told him frankly that I couldn’t swim a lick.
“Very well, my boy,” he said, “then I’ll have these men get them for you. Here you!” turning to one of the rascals “Strip and swim across there to those mules.”
The fellow said he couldn’t swim. “That’s a lie and you know it,” said Port with one of his characteristic yells. He pulled his gun, leveled it on the man and again ordered him to strip.
The fellow slowly complied, entered the water and swam easily across; once there he again hesitated.
“Turn them animals into the stream and swim them across,” yelled Porter again, pulling his gun.
The man did as he was ordered, and within a very few minutes, all my animals were safe at my side.
“Now, my boy,” said Porter, “you ride on about ten miles, and camp near an old hut you will find there. I am going on across the river to see if there are any traces of any more of them. I will come to you in the middle of the night and whistle, so that you will know it’s all right.” About midnight I heard his whistle, and went out to him. H e had seen nothing of any more men, he said, and was pretty tired; so I let him lay down and kept watch over him till the morning. We then rode back to where my train was camped, and the first thing I did was to dig up my sack of coin under the hind wheel of my wagon. It was just as I had left it, and I took out $500 in shiny coin, and tendered it to him. “Oh, no, my boy,” he said laughing, “Keep your money, I have got more of it than you have, I guess.” But I insisted, and he finally put it into his pocket, bade me goodbye, and left me, saying if I ever lost any more animals to be sure and let him know.
When I got to California one of the first things I did was to buy a fine $100 nickel plated saddle and a gallon demijohn of the best whisky I could find in the State. I sent them both to Uncle Port with my compliments, and I afterwards heard that he was vastly more tickled with the whisky than with the saddle, and that he had expressed the extremest gratification that “the boy had not forgotten their little old ride together.”
Gax.
“In Early Times: A Narrative of Old ‘Uncle Porter Rockwell,’” The Salt Lake Herald, July 30, 1885, 8, Chronicling America: Historic American Newspapers, Library of Congress, https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn85058130/1885-07-30/ed-1/seq-8/.