By: Alfred Green Taylor (Son)
Edited by Michael R. Taylor (Great Grandson)
It seems appropriate that I, the oldest living child of Alfred William Taylor, should write something of my recollections of him to be handed down to his posterity and give such biographical and genealogical data as may properly identify him with the great family of which he is a part and with the church of which he was a member.
My father was born in Ogden, Utah on January 10th, 1853. He was the third child of a family of eleven children, nine of whom matured and raised families in the west, residing principally in Utah and Idaho.
He was baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints at an early age and eventually received the Melchizedek Priesthood and the Office of Seventy.
On April 28th, 1873, he married my mother, Ada Marion Hix, who was a beautiful and talented girl of 18 years and whose picture, taken at about the time of their marriage, accompanies this sketch (picture missing).
There were born to my father and mother eleven children: Ada May, Alfred Green, Elmer Douglas, Elma Charlotte, Alvin Ernest, Clara Ethel, Harold Walker, Almeda Marian, Effie June, Lelia Idell, and Warren Wayne. Ada May, Elmer Douglas and Warren Wayne died in infancy. The other children married, matured and raised families in the West.
I have always looked upon the marriage of my father and mother as being an almost ideal union and I have the most pleasant recollections of the affectionate respect they evidenced for each other and of their old-fashion “homey” atmosphere that characterized our family life. We sustained a tragic shock in the death of my mother which occurred in June, 1895. Six years after her death, in 1901, my father married Laura Ann Bramwell of North Prairie, Wisconsin. No Children were born of this union which continued until his death 23 years later. He passed away on January 28th, 1924.
My father’s educational opportunities, from a scholastic point of view, were very limited, but from his early youth he was inured to hardship and through a rich experience in a variety of important activities he became a well-informed man. The greater part of his life he devoted to agriculture and stock-raising pursuits and being imbued with the pioneering spirit of adventure he was always found on the frontiers of civilization, clearing sage from virgin soil, building canals and roads, erecting houses and barns from native timber, and thus extending the opportunities of those who came after him.
In my youth I frequently stood in awe of my father’s great energy and the intensity with which he pursued his work. Whether at home or in camp he was always the first one up in the morning and the last one to bed at night. He was a skilled and courageous horseman, and there was probably nothing he enjoyed more than subduing or “breaking” wild horses to harness and saddle use. As I recall how much he accomplished with such meager tools, when compared those we use in present day, I am brought to the conclusion that with his team, his saddle horse, his axe, his plow, his snowshoes and dog-sleds, he wrought miracles.
My father was a born leader and even from his youth there were assigned to him tasks of superintendence and management. He became manager of his father’s ranch in Southern Idaho at the time of his marriage, and some years later, after his ranch and its stock had been liquidated, he entered into partnership with the late David Eccles and Hyrum H. Spencer of Ogden and they purchased a stock ranch at the Horse Island on the Snake River, North-East of American Falls – This property is now submerged by the Great American Falls Reservoir – and for many years he managed their cattle and ranches. They subsequently acquired large ranch holdings in North-Eastern Idaho, in Sheridan Valley, where the continued the cattle business until about 1896, when the ranches were sold to the Wood Livestock Company.
As my memory goes back over the period of my association with my father in his ranching business I remember affectionately some of the fine men who worked for him and some of whom he seemed to regard with the affection of a father for his sons. There were at the old Horse Island Ranch, Henry Hooker, whom he called “Dutch”; Dick Robinson; Chris Jensen; and Johnnie Allen. The latter stayed with my father many years and finally married the charming girl, Mary Harmon, who came to help my mother with her housework. They both loved my mother and father and their affection was reciprocated. My uncle Lyman, father’s younger brother, later came to Horse Island and joined my father and he and his splendid wife, Aunt “Ri”, were a second father and mother to me. Then later, there came among the ranch hands Jakie McArthur, a patient, companionable cowboy, who was with us for many years; and Lon Haven; also my uncle Joseph, another of father’s younger brothers, who subsequently brought his beautiful bride, Aunt Nan, to the ranch. Uncle Joseph and Johnnie Allen were efficient men-of-all-work in the ranches. In later years at the Sheridan Ranch, I remember particularly Chris Sorensen, who was our ranch foreman; and Hank Lee, with whom I rode and worked for several seasons.
Among the many saddle horses that were used in the course of these years there stand out in my recollection some fine specimens of horseflesh. There was Old Charlie, my father’s favorite, a beautiful and dependable gray horse; and Ginger, a highly-strung ginger-colored mustang noted for his speed and endurance. Later there came Dennis, a famed top horse with whom my father did special work as separating (or “cutting” as we call it) herds, and also work in the branding corrals. Then there was Dan, his race-horse, a dark bay with white face and white hind-legs, who was as beautiful as a picture; and Dutch; Blue and Buck; Kay and Chenny-eye; and Little Ginger; lesser lights in the “cavy”. Still later came Star-gazer and Wild Man – a wild horse my father had captured in the desert and a strong favorite of mine; and there were always in the outfit one or more “outlaws” to give entertainment to the crew when someone felt the urge to distinguish himself as a “bronco twister”. I think there was no form of entertainment that my father enjoyed like that of watching someone ride an “outlaw”.
During one of the round-ups, while the outfit was resting the weary stock, my father offered the negro cook, who had often boasted of his prowess as a rider of bad horses, five dollars if he would “ride to a finish” a noted outlaw of our outfit known as “seven”, from a large brand which decorated his thigh. The cook was delighted at the prospect of making five dollars and achieving glory in the eyes of the “punchers”. Seven was soon rigged, under the instruction from the cook, with a heavy roll across the pommel of the saddle and with closely hobbled stirrups, which made it practically impossible for him to be dislodged when once firmly seated. The horse was turned loose, with the cook up, and he instantly went into action with a beautiful demonstration of “sun-fishing”, and every time the cook could get enough breath with which to speak, he would cry “Stop Him – I’m Blind”. My father’s enjoyment was in inverse ratio to the misery of the hapless colored man who was finally rescued be the cowboys who stopped Seven’s performance and dragged him almost colorless from the saddle. My father never could refer to this incident in the years after without having an explosion of laughter.
In spite of my father’s tireless energy and devotion to his work this stock enterprise resulted in financial failure, due to extraordinarily hard winters which resulted in great losses of livestock.
After retiring from the livestock business he undertook contracting work, building canals and railroads and doing other team construction work in various parts of Utah, Idaho, and Wyoming.
He finally returned to the old home place of his father at Harrisville where, together with myself, he purchased part of the old Taylor homestead and there spent his last days. During the latter years of his life he was in bad health and was fortunate to have the affectionate care that was lavished upon him by that fine woman, Laura Bramwell Taylor, whom he married subsequent to my mother’s death. My brothers, sisters and I have been ever grateful to her for her devotion to his comfort during that period of distress preceding his death.
In looking back over the many and varied experiences I had with my father from the time I, as a boy, followed the round-ups rode the range with him, until in later years we became partners in various agricultural developments, there are a few things which stand out in my recollection as marking him an exceptional man.
There was, first, his fine courage. I don’t believe that he ever felt fear. If he did I at no time detected it although I was with him in various enterprises that seemed extremely hazardous to me and in which I felt great concern for our safety. Then, there was his superb skill as a horseman, in which he reminded me of the gallant Lochinvar:
“He stayed not for brake,
He stopped not for stone,
He swam the Esk River,
Where ford there was none, …”
There was an unstudied and unpretentious dash about him in his handling of horses which excited the admiration of all who knew him. I recall that it was a great pleasure to him when he learned that I was becoming somewhat of a horseman myself and he gave me much encouragement in my early efforts at handling colts and preparing them for useful service. I recall one morning my father watching me saddle a horse in front of the barn. I thought, possibly, he expected that I would have some difficulty in “negotiating the hurricane deck” of the bronco, so I led him away from the barn up a little hill beyond before I mounted him. I mounted him. I had no sooner struck the saddle than he began a vicious maneuver to unseat me and each time that he went into the air I could hear my father cry “Stay with him, son!” – “Stay with him, son!”. With this encouragement and much pulling of leather I managed to “stay” and it was apparently a source of great satisfaction to my father.
During the years of my father’s enterprise in the Snake River country on of his pet diversions was that of hunting the wild horses of the desert, which were numerous in those days but extremely difficult to capture. To him it was a rare sport, although he said in years afterwards that he thought he had probably killed more good saddle horses in pursuit of these wild mustangs than was compensated by the value of those caught. The sport, however, was more hazardous and exciting than fox-hunting in view of the extreme roughness of the broken lava belts over which these chases occurred. To ride down upon a mustang of the range and lasso, subdue, and lead him home was a task that required the consummate skill of a master. My father had done this many times out-maneuvering bands of wild horses and driving numbers of them into carefully arranged enclosures.
I remember, too, with gratitude his generosity and tenderness to those he loved. While in most respects he was a rigid disciplinarian he was extremely indulgent with his loved ones, and by the same token his enemies – who were few – were very conscious of his dislike. I remember an occasion when my father had a serious misunderstanding over the water rights of a stream which traversed the lands of each, with a neighbor who lived some fifteen miles distant from us in the ranch country. This man’s name was “Hopf” and he was the father of a large family and manager of a large ranching enterprise. A great mutual dislike had been evidenced between my father and this good man for a considerable period of time. It happened at this time that my father had the contract for carrying the United Stated Mail from the railroad out to the frontiers of that section of the country and during the winter months on account of the heavy snowfalls the roads were closed to the usual traffic and the mails were transported by dog teams.
My father employed a special breed of fast and strong dogs for this work, among which was “Nero” who was famed throughout the country for his sagacity and prowess. Upon occasion Nero would run away from home for a vacation and would appear at some ranch or town 40 miles away. He was so well known, however, that if he failed to return voluntarily some traveling neighbor would bring him back. After one such escapade Nero was found in the town of Beaver Canyon some 35 miles from the home ranch, and the eldest son of my father’s enemy (or shall I say – my father’s friend who misunderstood him) was leaving Beaver Canyon for his own home, upon which trip he would pass our ranch. One of my father’s business partners at this place persuaded young Hopf to take Nero back to the ranch. In the course of this trip a storm developed and young Hopf became exhausted at a distance of about 8 miles from our ranch. He could go no further on his snowshoes and without help must perish. In his extremity he decided upon an experiment. He wrote a note indicating his distress, attached it to the dog’s collar and urged him to go home. The dog seemed reluctant to leave him but was finally made to understand what was wanted.
An hour later, night having fallen, he appeared at the ranch and the note was discovered by my father. He immediately hitched dogs to a sled and with Nero leading went back to find the distressed young man, which they did within a short time. Exhausted and almost frozen to death he was brought to the ranch and tenderly cared for until he completely recovered, when he proceeded to his home. Needless to say this was the occasion of the burying of the hatchet between the Hopf’s and the Taylor’s and in all the years of their residence in that district, after this incident, they were fast friends.
Another outstanding characteristic of my father, which I recall, was his Spartan attitude toward his own troubles and afflictions. He construed it as a mark of weakness to talk about one’s troubles or to mention one’s aches, pains, or hurts. On one occasion I was assisting him to drive some cattle along trails, which they followed unwillingly, when it appeared necessary to lasso one of the cows to keep her out of the brush. In doing so his horse, who was not trained as a rope horse, made an awkward move and was thrown flat by the cow and rolled entirely over my father. When I got to him he was unconscious. I was desperately afraid and ran to creek some distance away and filled my hat with water, returning to pour it upon his face and hands, hoping to revive him. He slowly revived, having sustained a badly injured shoulder, but he continued the day’s work with his arm in a sling, never mentioning his distress although I could see great pain registered in his eyes, and upon our return to the home ranch he attempted to conceal from my mother the injury and passed it off as being trivial, saying nothing of the incident which caused it. Another time I was with him when through an accidental stroke with his axe he cut deeply into his leg below the knee. He sat down and dressed it and bound it up tightly with an improvised bandage made from his handkerchief and continued to work, never mentioning it again. I remember his telling me at that time that blood of such a wound was the safest dressing that could be applied. If it ever happened in the course of my conversation with him that I mentioned a second or third time some ache or pain or affliction from which I suffered he would smile and say “Don’t make a song of it, son!”. However, in his various relationships with his fellows he typified the symbol of “silk and steel in the same hand”. Accustomed as he was to ignore his own afflictions he was keenly sympathetic with others in distress. I have upon many occasions seen him moved to tears on being informed of the distress of some friend or loved one.
Viewed in comparison with modern business enterprises my father’s accomplishments might not be considered great, but when I take into account how much he accomplished with so little I must accredit to him remarkable achievements. He left little of worldly goods when he passed on, but he left enshrined in the hearts of his wife and children, his brothers and sisters, and his multitude of friends, such a wealth of sentiment as only one of his kind could leave. I loved him and respected him as a splendid father; I admired him for his fine courage and skill as a man among men; and now , in recollection of the many things which he did for me through all the days of my life until the time of his death, I remember him with affectionate gratitude and reverence.
