Dig a hole, fill it up

Mountains towered up on either side... One in the distance was like a church with gable and steeple...

- 1865 diary of Lyman G. Bennett, civilian engineering officer

Sherry Farwell remembers his grandfather, George H. Farwell Sr., telling him of an old calvary camp he'd come across while riding his horse along Box Elder Creek in 1895. Farwell brushed the story off, content with being a child playing on his family's ranch. Now, he says, he should have listened better, asked more questions. For the last 10 years, he has been tracking down the ghosts of U.S. Cavalry and believes he has solved the mystery of what his granddad saw near the creek, below the Belltower.

Southeast Montana's grass is green now, flush after a month of consistent rain, though the topsoil flakes under the hot sun. Eight-inches down and 150 years-ago, where the soil is dark and clumps together, metal patiently waits. The forgotten pieces are remnants of when drought permitted only blanched sagebrush and prickly pear and when men left possessions, wagon ruts, rumors and blood.

***

Farwell's silver, four-door pickup pulls a lightweight trailer along the back roads of Southeast Montana. Early in the two hour drive, a yellow-winged plane swoops low, spraying crops. Twice as many vehicles, also pickups, pass by.

The U.S. Cavalry traveled through Montana in 1865 as part of the Powder River Indian Expedition: a three column sweep across the frontier designed to "make vigorous war upon the Indians and punish them so that they will be forced to keep the peace."

The overall expedition was commanded by Brigadier General Patrick E. Connor. The eastern column, the column that passed through Box Elder Creek, was commanded by Colonel Nelson D. Cole. His 1,600 men, including two three-inch-rifled cannons and 140 six-mule wagons, were inadequately outfitted, having to buy supplies from local merchants in Omaha, Nebraska.

Cole navigated with only one map, published six years prior to the expedition. Any maps made during the expedition were lost in a fire several years later.

In a paper published in "Journal of the West" with Jon E. Nelson and Alvin L. Cordell, Farwell wrote that several maps have been furnished from memory, some up to 40 years after the event. The maps have significant differences attributed to faulty memories, inaccurate distances, indistinguishable topography and shifting rivers, and do not mark specific camp locations.

This morning Farwell has Google Map printouts organized on the hood of his truck. The blown-up images reveal parallel depressions in the earth: wagon ruts. He compares satellite images to maps made over 100 years ago. There are similarities in landmarks and the way the Powder River runs, but closer inspection reveals how inaccurate the old maps are.

Farwell has searched for 25 of Cole's sites in over 75 different locations. Early in his search, he used theories and estimated distances written by academics, striking out again and again. After the false start, Farwell adapted and now says people trust history books too much, written by people who've never set foot where they write about. Armchair historians. "You can put a dot on a map pretty damn easy," he says.

Further research revealed diaries of Cole's men. The writings of Lyman G. Bennett, civilian chief engineer, First Lieutenant Charles H. Springer and Captain Junius W. MacMurray provided mileage, route and location estimates that, when compared against each other, created promising four to five square mile search areas.

***

"I need physical evidence," says Farwell.

A scientist by trade, Farwell earned a doctorate in analytical chemistry from Montana State University and worked in Washington, D.C. heading the Atmospheric Science Division at the National Science Foundation. At one point, Farwell says, he was in the top 25 atmospheric scientists in the world.

Finding a suspected camp or battle site, he says, is like finding a needle in a haystack that was lost 150 years ago. When his metal detector hits, and his shovel brings up a square nail or a screw, he has the challenge of proving the items belonged to Cole's men.

The unique timing of the Powder River Indian Expedition, immediately following the Civil War, provides two avenues of proof: bullets and buttons.

The cavalry troops were armed with Spencer Repeating Rifles, a fearsome weapon that fired seven rounds in quick succession. Earlier in 1865, the weapons had been redesigned to meet government standardization and fire a 56-50 cartridge. Due to inadequate supplying, some troops carried a non-standardized version which used a 56-56 cartridge.

Farwell says the only sizable military campaign around the Powder River that used both cartridges was Cole's expedition. When both are present, Cole was present.

As a child, Farwell played with gold buttons kept in a jar at his grandparents' ranch house. As any child knows, buttons can be anything: horses, wagons, soldiers, Native Americans. Cars, airplanes, businessmen. But never buttons. It's possible these stem from the expedition he digs for today, pocketed by his granddad 120 years ago and lost in a 1961 fire.

The buttons on Cole's soldiers' uniforms had an eagle, its neck curved to the left, along with a shield. These buttons were standard on Civil War jackets and are exactly the type Farwell has found in Southeast Montana and Western South Dakota.

The further Cole's men marched, the less metal they had to leave at each campsite. Farwell faces this law of diminishing returns as he searches westward.

As Cole's column headed west towards the Powder River, it became enthralled in daily interactions with Native Americans, ranging from sightings to skirmishes to battles. The calvary's mile long wagon train would be harassed by Native Americans on horseback, striking quickly before pulling back to avoid the Spencer's rapid fire. Cole's men would sometimes chase, far from their wagons, and be ambushed as they crested a hill. Both sides bled.

Today Farwell is investigating what he suspects to be the second of three major battle sites. As the soldiers were camping, Native Americans appeared on the crests of nearby hills and bluffs. The cavalry fired exploding shells filled with musket balls from their cannons. He believes this is the place where Roman Nose, the Cheyenne warrior, rode his horse parallel to the cavalry camp, daring the soldiers to fire. Their rifles went off, unleashing bullets and dropping casings into the dirt – forgotten for the next 150 years.

***

Today's scratching unveils a lead bullet. It's earthen cool to the touch and ringed with three gullies before smoothing out to the tip.

Farwell uses metal detectors to scour suspected encampments and battle sites. He constructed a metal detecting sled that he drags behind his ATV. What appears as a clear vinyl carpet runner, two weight plates, one power strip, wires and glue is actually a $600 sheet of polycarbonate, three metal detectors wired into one audio channel and, oddly, shoe goo.

His headphones would be home in a recording studio, deserving of the term "cans." When the three detectors, all on different frequencies, funnel into Farwell's cans, it sounds like a chorus of freight trains. When the detectors hit, it sounds like fingernails on vinyl.

After a hit, Farwell goes on foot, using a standard detector to sweep over the spot. For small, difficult to locate pieces, he gets on his hands and knees, cautious of snakes, and uses a hand-held pinpoint detector.

He believes his is the only project searching for Cole's expedition and on most days, he can see why. The pickings can be slim, especially when detecting a new site. There are weekends when Farwell doesn't find anything but 20th century staples and wire.

Farwell doesn't consider himself an archaeologist, and, while he holds them in higher esteem than historians, he's better than archaeologists. "How's that for ego?" he says.

Farwell does have one thing in common with Indiana Jones, they both hate snakes. This morning he drove by one slithering across the road. He stopped, took his holstered revolver and approached. No rattle, the bull snake got to live.

He tells ranchers that if he sees a rattlesnake on their land, he's going to kill it. No one has told him not to.

Ranchers trust Farwell on their land, he grew up in the area. He fills holes, shuts gates, leaves no trace. Most importantly, he doesn't give out the location of his digs. Secrecy is a large part of Farwell's digs, he doesn't want the ranchland becoming registered historic sites. The worst thing for ranchers would be tourists and speculators disturbing their livelihoods by sifting through dirt and time.

Farwell shows ranchers what he has found on their land but he keeps the artifacts in storage. They're placed in ziplock bags, cataloged and tagged with a description that includes GPS coordinates and photographs.

When anyone asks if he's retired, Farwell says no, but he's no longer in chemistry. He's in analytical history. His business card: "Have detectors, will travel."

Farwell's wife of 55 years, Judy, will quip, "Yeah, well, I can tell you his old occupation paid more than his new one."

Farwell isn't sponsored, his own money is invested. There are the 10-ply tires for his truck, the seven metal detectors, sled parts, gas, the trailer, the time. "Too much," he says, driving back to Ekalaka.

The artifacts aren't on eBay or displayed at the state fair; they're worth more cataloged away. One of his co-authors did find an 1861 dime. Its current going rate: about $20.

***

Coyotes bark over a hill, their yips carry across the grass. A deer walks out into the middle of a field. Birds chirp as dusk approaches. It's peaceful out here, Farwell says. He's always liked the countryside and getting time by himself. There are no phones, no politics. The exercise is good.

For Farwell, the end of his expedition is in sight. He found the camp his granddad told him of, near Box Elder Creek and where Bennett wrote about the rock that looks like a church.

He wanted to find all three battle sites, which he believes he has done.

He still wants to go into the hills of the second battle site and find the cannon shells and their metal balls. It's snake country, but the ATV should keep him safe, until he gets out and digs. That would give him enough proof to publish a second paper. After that, he'd like to write a book chronicling his ten year saga.

At the end of the day, Farwell unhooks the sled from the ATV, packs up the detectors and seals away artifacts. After securing the thousands of dollars of equipment, he rides his ATV up the aluminum trailer, takes a log and hits the trailer's gate in place.

"Ole Carter County hammer," he says.

The log seems like a holdover. Before chemistry and Washington, D.C. Before metal detectors, polycarbonate and Google Maps. When a kid could be distracted by buttons scattered on the floor and told a story about a campsite by his granddad that wouldn't begin to dig in for fifty years and couldn't be filled for another ten.