Dallas Eby: From Stolen Horses to Second Chances

 

Deputy Sheriff James Hone pushed his horse through the dark thickets of white pine, trusting that his mount could see through the blackness better than he could. He and his men were chasing down two members of a gang that had been stealing horses from farms around Latah County, Idaho, for several weeks. They had always managed to avoid capture, but this time Deputy Hone knew they had them. They had surprised the trio at their makeshift camp when the two oldest took off through the darkness on foot, leaving the youngest member behind. The stock they found at the camp, including several horses and a beef steer, along with other pieces of evidence, was more than enough to convict them. But first, they had to catch these two scoundrels. He spurred his horse hard to push him faster.

On foot, Burt and Jesse were tiring from the chase. They were no match for a mounted posse, even under the cover of the dark pine trees. Somehow, this time the law had figured out where they were and their plan for escape. They knew that Jesse’s younger brother was already captured. Their luck had run out. As the posse closed in and forced their surrender, they briefly wondered if their plan to sell stolen horses to make some money had been misguided after all.

Dallas and Jesse Eby

The arrest of Burt, Jesse, and Dallas made headlines 100 miles away in Spokane, as well as through the grapevines from Latah County to Clearwater County. The horse thieves that had been plaguing the area had finally been arrested. Knowing they had been caught dead to rights, all three pled guilty and were sentenced to hard labor at Walla Walla State Penitentiary for grand larceny. Burt Paget and Jesse Eby, at 23 and 21, were sentenced to two years. Eighteen-year-old Dallas was sentenced to one year. They served their time, and as far as this writer knows, they were released as changed men who led ordinary lives on the right side of the law until their deaths. I know because Dallas Eby was my great-grandfather and his brother, Jesse Eby, was my great-grand uncle.

 Dallas was born on August 19, 1884, in Yakima, Washington, to David and Mary Louisa Eby, pioneers who had come to the Pacific Northwest around 1880, likely due to the offers of land grants and job availability in timber and mining. He was the eighth child born to them, with five older brothers and one older sister. Another brother was born when Dallas was three, and a sister had died ten years before he was born. Dallas’ father was a carpenter and farmer who had been raised in the Midwest and served in the Union army during the Civil War.

When Dallas was only five years old, his father died at the young age of 47, leaving Dallas’ mother to raise their eight children alone. All the boys, including Dallas, worked as day laborers while they lived with their mother. Over the following ten years, his older siblings married and moved out to start their own families. By 1900, only five of the boys remained at home and continued to support their family by working the limited jobs available to them.

Mary Louise Eby and her children, Sam, Etta, Dallas, Will, Ida, Charlie & wife Delia, Ray, Fred and Jesse - Taken about 1900

Probably due to the financial stress placed on their family by the death of their father, Jess and Dallas, along with their friend Burt Paget, decided to steal livestock from local ranches. They would steal them at night and leave them corralled at a camp they made in the hill country. At the turn of the century, stealing horses could be both appealing and lucrative. Horses were essential for transportation, farming, and other work, making them valuable assets. A single horse could be worth a significant amount of money. Stolen horses could be sold quickly and discreetly, and in remote areas, law enforcement was sparse, making it easier to operate without being caught. To young boys like Jesse and Dallas, the chance to make large sums of money easily was certainly alluring enough to make them and Burt take the risk of harsh punishment if caught. While it was no longer legal to hang horse thieves by 1900, it was still a serious crime punishable by imprisonment and hard labor. 

The story was passed down in our family that our great-grandfather Dallas stole a horse because it was being abused by its owner. This endearing tale likely began to appease the guilt of family members having to admit their ancestor was guilty of grand larceny. However, the documented facts indicate that while they were aware they were breaking the law, it was done by young men whose families were in financial straits, making it understandable albeit misguided.

Walla Walla Washington State Prison Identification Record for Burt Paget, Dallas Eby and Jesse Eby 22 Jun 1903

Dallas served his sentence at Walla Walla as prisoner #3098 from June 22, 1903, until April 16, 1904. He was described as an 18-year-old male standing 5 feet 11 inches with light brown hair and light gray eyes. Notably, he was described as having his left arm out of place, a horseshoe cut scar on his left index finger, and his right thumb missing at the first joint.

Jess served his two-year sentence as prisoner #3099 from June 22, 1903, until February 16, 1905. He was described as a 21-year-old male standing 5 feet 10 inches with light brown hair and light gray eyes. He had two vaccination marks on his left upper arm and a plain cut scar on the back of his left index finger.

Burt Paget, prisoner #3097, was 23 years old, raising suspicion that he was the mastermind behind their horse-stealing plans. He was also sentenced to two years of hard labor.

What was “hard labor” like in a penitentiary in 1903? In some regions, such as Walla Walla, prisoners were sent to work in mines extracting coal or other minerals. Many prisoners worked on prison farms or provided labor for the construction of roads or other infrastructure. Whatever the task, it was under strict supervision and often harsh conditions, with the goal of breaking the prisoners’ spirits and enforcing discipline.

One might wonder how one or two years of hard labor would affect the three would-be horse thieves. There is no information on what happened to Burt, but it is evident that the experience of prison reformed Jess and Dallas. Jesse married a local girl, Grace Stevenson, three years later. They lived on their own farm in the town of Waha, Idaho, where they had two daughters, Etta Mae and Mary Lucile. Mary died less than a month after her birth of inanition, or failure to thrive, but Etta Mae grew up, married, and moved to Montana, where she raised four children of her own. Jesse’s wife, Grace, died of a ruptured thyroid just a few days after giving birth to Mary Lucile. Jesse remarried a local widow named Gladys Miller, who had two children from her previous marriage. They moved to Miles City, Montana, where Jesse died at the age of 41 from liver cancer.

Dallas and Cora Eby - 1921

Dallas went home to live with his mother and brothers Fred and David Ray in Fraser, Idaho. All the brothers did odd jobs and farm work to support the family. It was during that time, probably while doing farm work at the farm of Homer Stuart, that Dallas met Homer’s sister, Cora Lee. Cora’s sister, Hannah Belle, had recently married Cora’s sweetheart, Ben Prewitt, causing a falling out that lasted the rest of their lives. Within three years of meeting Dallas, Cora was pregnant, which outraged her staunch Anglican father, so Cora lived with Homer and his wife. Their daughter, Helen, was born in November 1908, but she and Dallas didn’t marry until October 1910. They moved to Lewiston, Idaho, about 60 miles west of Fraser, and took up farming. Their son, Eugene, was born the following year, after which they moved back to Fraser, where their remaining children, Vernon, Zelma, Ruth, Gerald, and Luella were born.

Cora, Eugene, Luella, Dallas, Ruth and Zelma Eby in their 1921 Studebaker

Following the death of Dallas’ oldest brother in 1928 and the onset of the Great Depression in 1929, Dallas and Cora decided to pull up roots and move to Oregon, where fertile land and job opportunities lured many from the eastern side of the country. They packed up their seven children and what belongings they could carry in their 1921 Studebaker and set a course for Salem, where Dallas’ sister’s family resided. They settled just north of Salem in the community of Quinaby, where Dallas got a job working on a hop farm.

While great-grandmother Cora is remembered as being quite strict and matter-of-fact, great-grandfather Dallas is remembered as a kind, gentle, generous man with a quick wit and a sense of humor. He died at the age of 50 in Keizer of kidney cancer and was buried in City View Cemetery in Salem. Cora lived on to the age of 74 and is buried near her husband. All their children grew up with strong work and moral ethics, which they passed on to their own families. While Dallas and Jesse’s prison experience could have caused them to be bitter, it instead instilled in them a tenacity to do better by their families, something that brings Dallas’ great-granddaughter a source of immeasurable pride.

Theodore "Ted" Cupp -- An Extra-Ordinary Man

 

Almost everyone in the little town of Aumsville, Oregon, knew or knew of Ted Cupp.  The elderly but robust man could be seen walking or riding his bicycle almost daily to the local fire department to share a cup of coffee and stories with the crew or sitting in the shade of the maple tree in front of his farmhouse on the outskirts of town visiting with whoever dropped by.  He had a smile and waved to people he passed by or a dog treat ("Chomps") in his pocket for his four-legged admirers. 

I had the good fortune to not only know Ted but to be able to call him “Dad” as I married into the family in 1981.  And even when that marriage ended 13 years later, Ted and Maxine treated me as one of their own, taking the place of my parents when they died unexpectedly a few years later.  But if, as Forrest Gump says, life is like a box of chocolates, then people like Ted are like a cake: You can’t tell the layers and depth of a person’s life unless you look beyond the outer frosting.  Ted’s life, I found, was like a much-layered cake.  It is a cross-section of an American story of the 20^th century consisting of that generation’s patriotism, work ethic, faith, and loyalty—traits rarely understood by today's younger generation.  But if you were to ask him, he’d tell you he was just an ordinary man doing what needed to be done.

A MAN NAMED TED

Theodore Thomas Cupp was the oldest son of four children born to Judd and Blanche Cupp in late 1925.  Judd was a farmhand, which, in the pre-Depression years, meant that the family moved often to find work.  They lived primarily between Salem and Gervais until Judd found work at the Salem Weyerhaeuser mill.  Things seemed to be looking up, but when Ted was eight years old Judd died suddenly and unexpectedly from a perforated stomach ulcer.  Overnight, life became very hard for Ted’s family.  His mother got a housekeeping job at a local hotel.  Ted worked odd jobs after school, cutting firewood, delivering newspapers, and delivering groceries for the nearby grocery store, where he carried credit for his mother to buy groceries.  It’s possible that they received some help from Ted’s local aunt and uncles, but for the most part, they were on their own.

WORLD WAR II

S2c Ted Cupp

On a cold Sunday morning in December of 1941, Ted and all of America awoke to the unthinkable: The Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor, pulling the United States into World War II.  Ted and his friends eagerly awaited the day they could enlist to serve their country.  That day came in May of 1943 when Ted and four other Salem 17-year-olds enlisted in the Navy.  He didn’t graduate from high school; that day wouldn’t come until 68 years later when he would receive an honorary diploma to a standing ovation from what is now North Salem High School.

Ted was promptly sent to the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard near Bremerton, Washington, where the aircraft carrier USS Enterprise CV-6, nicknamed “The Big E,” was undergoing repairs sustained in the South Pacific.  By November, they were back in the South Pacific, where the Enterprise would be put to work for the coming year.  Ted was listed as a Seaman 2^nd Class (S2c) and would have worked as a boilerman in the engine rooms to produce power for the great ship. 

THE BIG E

Ted & his brother Hoyt

In 1944, the Enterprise served in the South Pacific, including the Marshall and Marianas Islands, the Philippines, and Formosa.  She earned the nickname “The Galloping Ghost” due to her ability to seemingly appear out of nowhere, striking the enemy and then disappearing again due to its speed, agility, and the skill of her pilots and crew.  In March 1943, while in the South Pacific, Ted was promoted to Fireman 2^nd Class (F2c).  He stayed in that position until he was promoted to Fireman 1^st Class (F1c) in March 1945.

Enterprise's first strikes of 1945 were against airfields in Luzon, Philippines, followed by raids into Indochina and strikes on shipping and installations along the Indochina and South China Sea coasts. Enterprise then took position off Iwo Jima, attacking nearby enemy airfields and providing close air support for the Marines who landed on February 19—on Iwo Jima, 5931 Marines, 881 sailors, and over 20,000 Japanese defenders died.

On May 14, Ted and his crew witnessed probably one of the most horrifying events of their enlistment.  Shortly before 0700, a Kamikaze bomber dove on Enterprise, flipped over, and plunged through Enterprise's flight deck just aft of the forward elevator. The explosion sent the 15-ton elevator rocketing 400 feet into the air, wounding 72 men and killing 12. The Big E never left her station or lost speed, but her fighting efficiency was compromised, and on May 16, she withdrew from combat. She would not return to the war. Returning to Pearl Harbor, she received a hero's welcome before returning to Bremerton two days later, where she was repaired and overhauled.  She was moored to Pier 6 in Puget Sound Navy Yard when Japan surrendered on August 14, 1945. 

Kamikaze hitting the USS Enterpriseoff Okinawa May 14, 1945

By then, Ted was 19, but the war had matured him beyond his years. Like the Enterprise, he would not return to the sea.  He remained stationed at Puget Sound until the expiration of his enlistment in November of 1946.

LOVE AT FIRST FIRE

During his time in the Navy, Ted sent his pay home to help his mother care for their home and his sisters.  Now home, Ted moved in and took it upon himself to make some long-needed repairs.  He also reconnected with his high school buddies with whom he had enlisted four years earlier.  They heard that the city of Salem was hiring firefighters, so they applied and were hired.

Maxine "Teen" Cupp

Ted met his future wife, Maxine Pybas, at one of his first fires.  Maxine had recently moved to Oregon and was babysitting her sister’s children when there was a fire.  Ted saw Maxine and was smitten!  After working up his nerve, he asked her to attend the annual fireman’s gala ball with him.  She agreed, and they were married a few months later.  Family stories still refer to their first meeting as “Love at first fire.”

A year after Ted and Maxine married, their first son, Dennis Michael (Mike), was born.  He was followed five years later by another son, Gary Don, and then another son, Keith Brian, born three years later.  He was a stern father, which often caused contention between him and his sons, but even when they didn’t see eye-to-eye, his boys picked up the hard-earned qualities Ted had learned during the war.  After all, the Navy had been his father, and he raised his sons with that same structure and resolve.  Around his grandchildren, though, he was less stern and more fun-loving, leaving them with memories of camping, fishing, and his repairs of farm tools with baling wire and duct tape that will bring smiles to their faces for the rest of their lives.  Ted and Maxine loved their grandchildren intensely, celebrating all the major landmarks of their journey into adulthood.

CAPTAIN TED CUPP, SALEM FIRE STATION NO. 1

Ted Cupp, left

In 1964, Ted was promoted to Captain of Salem Fire Station No. 1.  He had already served almost half his career as a firefighter, making skills he learned during the war and on the job an invaluable asset to the community.   Those skills and his unflinching calm under pressure were demonstrated at a fire at the Boise Cascade paper plant in 1981.  Salem firefighters were called to a blaze beneath a 1,000-gallon propane tank that was nearly full.  Firefighters described flames curling from the bottom of the tank while a ball of flame shot out from the end of a twisted hose.  While Salem Police diverted traffic from nearby Commercial Street, firefighters sprayed the tank with a wide spray of water from about 50 feet away from the tank to cool it.  After about 10-15 minutes, Ted reached under the tank and turned off the gas, averting a potentially massive explosion that would have involved a square city block.  He didn’t consider himself a hero: He had a job to do, and he just did it.   This attitude earned him the nickname “TC Hero” at the fire station.

In 2000, Ted and 100 of his WWII veteran friends, including his high school chums who were later hired by Salem Fire Department, began meeting every year to catch up with one another and reminisce about their shared past.  Year by year, their numbers dwindled until 2018, when there were only two:  Ted and his friend Ray Tompkins, a Gunner’s Mate in the Navy during the war who worked with Ted at the fire department.  Ray would be the last man, number 100, to survive the group passing away in 2020.

Ted & Maxine on the farm

Ted retired from the Salem Fire Department after 33 years of service.  Following the death of his Uncle Hoyt and Aunt Stella Cupp, he bought their 1910 farm along Mill Creek on the west side of Aumsville, Oregon. Ted and Maxine worked hard to make it a home and a working farm, growing corn, strawberries, fruit trees, vegetables, and Ted's beloved cows. Ted was active in the community and would speak to the Aumsville Elementary School children about World War II and the importance of honor, duty, and service.  He became a trustee at the Aumsville Wesleyan Church and volunteered at the Aumsville Fire Department, sharing his firefighting experience and advice with the new generation of firefighters.  In 2014, Ted was honored as Grand Marshall of the town’s annual Corn Festival, leading the parade through the streets of Aumsville.

THE FARMER

Ask any of Ted’s family, and they will tell you he had a routine—a lifestyle no doubt picked up by his years in professions requiring a structured schedule.  At about 6 am, he’d arise, make a fire, put on the coffee, and then head out to feed his cows.  Once back in the house, he’d have breakfast and coffee while reading the morning paper with Maxine, then go for a walk or ride his bicycle to the Aumsville Fire Department (usually to have more coffee and exchange stories with the fire crew). Then it was back home to cut firewood, work in the garden, or do any number of the other things he did around the house.  By noon, he would have lunch before finishing his chores, often stopping to chat with friends or family who would inevitably stop by for a visit.  Promptly at 5 pm, Maxine would have dinner on the table, after which he’d call the cows back in (“Come Bode!”) for their evening meal before settling in for some television or reading before bed.  This was his schedule, and the routine rarely changed. Truly, you could pretty near set your watch by his schedule!

“END? NO, THE JOURNEY DOESN’T END HERE. DEATH IS JUST ANOTHER PATH.  ONE THAT WE ALL MUST TAKE.”  --J.R.R. TOLKIEN

On August 2, 2018, after his morning coffee, Ted told Maxine he was going to visit the neighbor across the street.  Maxine, finishing up something in the house, said she’d join him shortly.  Moments later, she heard the screech of tires outside.  Ted lay in the street after being struck by a car. The stunned ambulance crew transported him to Salem Hospital, where a few hours later he passed away from his injuries.  He was 92 years old.  It remains unknown why the accident occurred, considering he had crossed that road many times over the previous 40 years.

After Ted’s death, Maxine continued to live on the family farm until she passed away from cancer the following year at the age of 91.  The number of people who turned out for each of their funerals was a testament to the number of people whose lives they touched with their kindness and generosity.  But Ted’s legacy continues, and each day he is missed by so many.  Even today, it’s difficult to drive through Aumsville and not look for the elderly man on his bicycle with dog treats in his pocket, heading for the local fire station for a cup of coffee and a few good stories.

Memories in Pictures

Maxine, Rachel, Ted, Jen and Brian Cupp

Ted and Ryan Cupp

Ted teaching Evan Cupp how to make raspberries

Ted and Brandon Cupp

Maxine, April, and Ted; Ted's 90th birthday party

4 Generations: Aaron, Ted, Khalil, and Mike Cupp

Ted on the farm

Just shaggin' a little wood!

Who Shot Ammon Grice?

Every family has its legends, stories of notorious family members who beat the odds, took part in a historical event, or made the headlines through some nefarious act.  Sometimes the stories are true but most times the stories have been exaggerated with each telling through the generations until its more fiction than true.  And my family is no exception.  There's the story of Wyatt Earp, my 3rd cousin 4 times removed.  There's Elizabeth Bathory, the famous Blood Countess of Hungary, my 9th great-grandmother.  And there's Robert the Bruce, 32nd King of the Scots, my 21st great-grandfather.  Each have historical accounts of their lives and the parts they played in history, but they also are embroidered with threads of fiction, making the historical accounts so much more fantastic than they probably really were.  

While I was growing up the story that titillated my generation of cousins was the story of our great uncle Ammon Grice, our great-grandmother's baby brother.  Shot to death when he was just 59, the story of his death took on many facades, the most common being that he was having an affair with a neighbor's wife and that the husband took his jealous revenge out on Uncle Ammon during a hunting trip in one of the local cherry orchards.  Now, since his nephew (my paternal grandfather) was a well-known womanizer, it didn't seem too much of a stretch that this trait might have been passed down the family tree from Uncle Ammon.  But there were other intriguing suggestions that had been made.  He was the president of the local cherry growers' association and Blue Pack Canners.  Was it possible he was killed because of his political position?

While my paternal grandmother was still living, at the age of 95, I was just getting involved in genealogy.  My sister-in-law and I were visiting Grandma one afternoon when my sister-in-law, Sharon, suggested that we dig into the story and find out the truth about Uncle Ammon.  My normally reserved grandmother got very upset and said, "Leave it alone!  It's in the past and it's done!  Do not go stirring up trouble!"  She was so upset that we promised we would leave it be, but now we were even more intrigued.  What about this case would cause her to be that upset about finding the truth?  After she passed away, I could wait no longer.  I wanted to know, who shot Uncle Ammon, and why?

AMMON SAMUEL GRICE

Ammon Grice was the 7th child and only son of Larkin and Amanda Grice.  Larkin and Amanda immigrated to Oregon from Roanoke, Virginia, in about 1890, settling in West Salem, Oregon.  To say that Ammon was doted upon by his 6 older sisters would not be a gross exaggeration.  The son of a successful farmer and pillar of their church and community, he participated in work and events that lent him respect and admiration as he grew into a young man.  His family hosted annual Thanksgiving dinners for their entire community, filling their home with young and old.  He was said to have had an extraordinary singing voice, singing bass in the church choir as well as in his high school cadet band.  He played baseball for Salem High School and was said to be able to "connect with the ball whenever it was within his reach."  And, as with the local farmers at that time, he helped in his father's orchards as well as with his neighbors' orchards during the harvest seasons.

When Ammon was 19 he married his high school sweetheart, Florence May Keefe.  They lived with Ammon's family on Orchard Heights Road in an area called "Chapman Corners" and continued to live there after the death of his mother three years later.  They had a daughter, Irene, and both were involved with her education at Mountain View School, with Ammon serving on the school board. After the death of his father, he acquired his father's 200-acre farm and continued raising cherries and prunes as his father had.  He was a member of the Marion County Farmers Union and served as their state president from 1942 to 1944, also serving on their executive board from 1948 through 1958.  He was on the Blue Lake Co-op board of directors from 1944 through 1958 and was appointed by the State of Oregon to serve on a farm advisory council to the state employment service in 1948. Likewise, his wife was involved with the Orchard Heights Womens Club, the Valley View Club, as well as the Mountain View PTA and the Popcorn Methodist Church. 

A HUNTING PARTY GONE WRONG

The morning of Tuesday, October 21, 1958, dawned partly cloudy with the promise of warmer than usual temperatures for that time of year.  Rain was expected the following day, so the farmers of Chapman Corners decided it would be a good time to try and thin out the deer herds that had been causing so much damage to the prune and cherry trees.  Ervin Simmon's orchards had been particularly plagued by the hungry deer so it was decided to begin there.  The party of eight included Ervin and his 24-year-old son, Wayne, their neighbor, Ammon, along with Glen Southwick and his hired hand 36-year-old David McGee.  There were three other local farmers whose names I do not know but may have included Robert Adams, Mr. Schroeder and Mr. Doran, other neighboring farmers.  The eight men trudged up Grice Hill along Winslow Gulch, spread out in the brushy back acres of the Simmon's farm to try and flush out the deer.  According to Wayne, a shot suddenly rang out along with a yell.  As the men all ran to where they had heard the shot they found Ammon leaning against a tree, his octagon-barrelled 0.32 caliber rifle on the ground at his side.  "I've gone and accidentally shot myself!" he exclaimed.  An ambulance was called and soon arrived but the two attendants had to pack him out nearly a mile on a stretcher before they could take him to Salem General Hospital where he was admitted in critical condition.  

When he was admitted, the doctors believed Ammon had somehow shot himself in the left abdomen with the bullet exiting his right hip, shattering his right elbow.  On investigating the scene, State Police Sgt. Jim Darby was having difficulty understanding how Ammon could have fired his own gun to achieve the wounds he had.  Could the shot have come from a different gun? On questioning the other hunters, Sgt. Darby asked David McGee if he had fired his gun.  David replied that he didn't know if his gun had fired or not, but he had been on Ammon's right and it appeared the shot had come from the left.

Back at Salem General, surgeons found a 0.30-caliber bullet lodged just under the skin in Ammon's abdomen near what they had previously thought was the entrance wound.  Based on his wounds they now determined that the shot had come from Ammon's right, hitting his right elbow first, then entering and shattering his right hip and lodging in his left abdomen.  The velocity had left a hole in his abdomen the size of a baseball and his condition was grave.  

Now that the determination had been made that the bullet had come from the right, Sgt. Darby suspected the shot had come from David McGee's gun.  The bullet was sent to the Oregon State ballistics laboratory for verification.

THE DEATH OF AMMON GRICE

On October 24, three days after he was shot, Ammon succumbed to the fatal bullet wound.  An autopsy was performed which verified what the surgeons had already suspected.  The ballistics report came back with the confirmation:  The shot had come from the rifle belonging to David McGee.  David was arrested on charges of manslaughter.  He was arraigned and held in the Polk County Jail with bail set at $5,000 (about $50,000 value in 2023).  The following day, David's bail was paid and he was allowed to return to Glen Southwick's residence and obtain an attorney before entering a plea.  

DAVID MICHAEL MCGEE

In researching the man thought to have fired the fatal shot ending my Uncle Ammon's life, I only found one David Michael McGee in the Salem area in 1958.  His birthdate corresponded with his age at the time of the shooting, as did his occupation.  

David was the oldest child of a single mother of five born in the Siletz Tribe of the Grand Ronde, west of Salem.  Indian Census Records indicate that he had no education and that he worked as a farm laborer.  In 1957 he married Elois Durling in Washington State, and it is presumed they lived together at the residence of Glen Southwick.  While available records are incomplete, it is speculated that this is indeed the David McGee who participated in the hunting party in October 1958.  Based on my conversation with Wayne Simmons, David was well-liked by everyone, and like the other farmers in the area, was always available to lend a hand when needed.  His employer, Glen Southwick, had previously raised his own grandchildren, so perhaps he felt that taking in David and his wife was his way of being able to help them also get a start in their newlywed life.

On November 25, 1958, the Polk County Grand Jury indicted David Michael McGee on a charge of manslaughter, wanton disregard, and culpable negligence.  He pleaded not guilty.  Trial was set for February 2, 1959.

THE FINAL VERDICT

On the day of David's trial, the judge who had been scheduled to hear the case, Circuit Court Judge Arlie G. Walker, was absent.  In his place Pro Tem Judge Fred McHenry of Corvallis, Oregon, was to hear the case.  Before the trial began, David changed his plea to guilty, and Judge McHenry sentenced him to a suspended one-year sentence during which time he was not allowed to drive, use firearms, or leave the Salem area.  

David and Elois McGee continued to live and raise their family in Salem, Oregon.  In August of 1973 at the age of 51, David stopped to help a stranded motorist near the Warm Springs Reservation.  The vehicle exploded, and David was killed. 

A LEGEND LAID TO REST

For all the exaggeration in the telling of the story of the death of my Uncle Ammon, the final truth is that it was simply a very unfortunate accident.  Ammon, wanting to shift any blame away from his neighbor's young farm hand, simply told everyone that he had accidentally shot himself.  Court records indicate that David became startled at hearing the winter brush rattle and shot prematurely before verifying what he was shooting at, something he would have to live with the rest of his short life.  It is likely also that Uncle Ammon was afraid of the prejudice resulting from an uneducated Indian shooting a prominent farmer in 1958.  We will never know these finer details as they were laid to rest with both Ammon and David.  For myself, I am glad to have ferreted out the truth and laid the legend to rest!