Pike Landusky

Of the Most Rugged Type of Adventurers on the Old Frontier; The Mining Camp that Bore His Name and was the Roughest Settlement in America; Pike’s Thrilling Experiences in the Little Rockies; An Uncontrollable Temper Hastened His Death

Originally published in the Hysham Echo
on May 26, 1927 by Dan R. Conway

It was the middle of a hot afternoon in the hottest part of the year. As is so often the case this sort of day, the air seemed dead and stifling. Black heat waves typical of the parched foothill region, danced and dazzled on the dusty trail that led over rocks, up the rise into the straggling pines of the Little Rocky mountains.

This main and solitary thoroughfare of the little town of Landusky, M.T., lined as it was on either side by the false-fronted and crudely constructed log and frame buildings was a typical frontier settlement street. It stretched straight along the bottom of the rock strewn hill; was deep in dust and lay littered with torn playing cards, empty bottles and debris.

That afternoon, the atmosphere was far from normal. A silence and oppressiveness that had settled over Landusky was much akin to the fabled “calm before a storm.” Now and then, little puffs and whirlwinds of hot breeze sent dust and sand and trash flying in all directions; and more than often the restless old prospector on the steps of Jew Jake’s saloon nervously brushed the perspiration from his eyes with a gnarled hand that seemed to be held especially free for action with two guns which he was wearing in a manner that indicated they were ready for instant use should occasion demand it.

Calm Before the Storm

The tie racks in front of Jew Jake’s place were filled with range mounts, much as they had been from time to time on any pay day, and the different saloons, gambling houses and other resorts were fairly filled with punchers, cattlemen, prospectors, and not a few characters whose escapes had given them reputations as “bad men.”

However, this was by no means an ordinary payday in Landusky. Horses and ponies at the several hitching racks, stood with rolling, evil eyes, ever alert, ready to fly out over the rise at any instant, and seemed to sense the impending storm. Range hands had ridden in from distant ranches to make their monthly purchases and seek the diversion offered in such a settlement, most of them with no knowledge of the fact that during the preceding weeks certain events had transpired in the neighborhood of Landusky, which portended a veritable jarring loose of the gates of Hades.

The “Kid”

Far up the winding trail that led from old Fort Benton to the metropolis of the Little Rockies, rode a silent, sullen figure. “Kid” Curry was on his way to Landusky “for revenge.” Riding slowly down the dusty road he made his way in his customary deliberate manner to the shack of his friend and admirer, Jim Thornhill. The two were closely allied as was customary of frontier companionships and no word of explanation was necessary from the “Kid” when he asked”
“Is Pike in town, Jim?”
“I think he’s up at Jew Jake’s with the crowd, now, Kid; this is payday, you know.”
Without further words, the two made their way across the hot, sandy thoroughfare, paused at the hitch rack to examine the horses tied there, and then mounted the steps and entered the saloon.

Jew Jake’s place was filled with men of every type to be found in those days in the wide-open, lawless spaces of central and Northern Montana. Down at the farther end of the bar stood a man who towered far above the rest. He was an admirable example of human physique; tall, erect, virile, he seemed for all the man capable of giving a good account of himself in any emergency. “Pike” Landusky had had trouble with the Curry boys. A short time previous the “Kid” had been arrested for some misdemeanor and placed in charge of Landusky who had been appointed deputy sheriff, to be taken to Fort Benton for trial. Some have said that “Pike” had abused the “Kid” in a shameful manner, and because of this abuse, Curry had sworn to be revenged.

The Climax of An Old Feud

When the “Kid” and Jim Thornhill threw back the swinging door and walked up to the bar, a nervous hush settled over the crowd, for the men knew an explosion was inevitable but wondered just which and what would cause it. - - (Cont. next week)

 The Graves of Pike Landusky and John Curry

One Montanan who visited the site of this significant burying ground in the Little Rockies a few years ago happened accidentally to get in touch with a really entertaining source of information as regards some of the incidents which made old Landusky famous thirty years ago. In commenting upon his trip, this old-timer said:
“Two lads, one dangling a string of trout and the other a mammoth human skull on the end of a string, emerged from the willows of People’s creek soon after we entered the picturesque canyon, which is the gateway to the heart of the Little Rockies.
“No, they hadn’t robbed the Indian graves that stuck like huge bird nests in the forks of the cottonwood. They had found the skull in the river bed, where, no drought, it had been thrown by some vandal who had desecrated the uncanny roosts of these warriors of bygone days.
“ ‘Did you ever see such a skull, mister?’ I certainly never had. ‘He must have worn a No. 10 hat,’ said the other lad. ‘No hat ever defiled that dome,’ I observed, but if it did, it was at least a No. 10. Both rows of teeth were intact; not one missing and not one decayed, but all worn almost to the stump and as evenly as if done by a file. The old meat eater who once wore them had polished many a buffalo bone with that set of ivories.
“With two such guides it was easy to reach the places about which I had heard so much. Standing beside the grave of Johnnie Curry, the Buckley boys spelled each other in the narration. They knew the whole story. Down there was the town called after Pike Landusky, prospector, miner, adventurer and dead shot. There was the place where Johnnie Curry, shooting up the town, was plugged in the arm by a cowpuncher, who thus obliged Johnnie to wear an empty sleeve during the remainder of his checkered career.
“There was Jew Jake’s saloon where gun plays were so common that nobody noticed them. There was where the ‘Kid’ knocked down Pike with a ‘clout of his gun’ and then shot him, because (so he said at the coroner’s inquest) he thought Pike was reaching for his artillery. Pike, it subsequently developed, had no gun and was reaching for a handkerchief to wipe his blood-smeared face.
“There was the Gill & Winter ranch and there was the log cabin up to which, one sunny morning, Johnnie Curry rode and gave Winter 48 hours to vamoose or he would come back and get him. And there was the spot where, 48 hours later, Winter emptied both barrels of buckshot into Johnnie’s body, after the latter had opened fire. And here was the spot where Winter stood just outside his cabin door one Sunday morning brushing his teeth when he was shot from ambush - a murder unpunished to this day.
“There was where Lonie Curry used to live before he became a fugitive from justice and fell mortally wounded in a garden near Kansas City while running away from a W. S. marshal.
“The day before I had stopped at the place where Kid Curry, single handed, had held up the Great Northern train and had taken from the express car money and valuables variously estimated at from $60,000 to $160,000.
“The Buckley boys demonstrated that it was quite safe to cross the natural bridge, which is at one end of the tunnel that makes the picturesque canyon. It was quite safe, for a goat, but they both did it, and when they climbed back into the car I felt relieved.
“As we passed another grove near St. Paul’s mission we came to a cluster of graves - the boys said graves don’t have to be in holes in the ground, nor yet in trees, for here were some on top of the ground, rough boxes, broken open by curious relic hunters. In a coulee adjoining, bones lay littered where the coyotes had polished them. I tried to think they were the bones of cattle, but the evidence was too plain. The skulking prairie wolves had demonstrated why the Indians of the last generation preferred to be perched in treetops.”

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