An Old Cherokee Strip Pioneer...
"Some time ago, an article appeared in the Enid Daily written by Mary B. McFadden, entitled An Old Cherokee Strip Pioneer, and as I was in the race into the strip, being at the time nearly seven years old, believe I have the honor of being a young Cherokee Strip Pioneer.
My parents moved from Missouri to Oklahoma in July 1892, and rented a place at Windom, OK. There was a store and Post office on the place and my folks continued to run the P.O. and store for the ensuing year or so. My father, Alex McFadden, and his partner, Will Walkinshaw, put in most of their time on the strip running out lines and looking for the best locations.
They finally decided on the Salt Fork River bottom as being the best location so now all they had to do was to wait until opening day. In the meantime, they had bought three western broncos, and broke them to work and ride, to make the race in, and those broncos, say; they would kick a chew of tobacco out of your mouth if you got close enough.
Finally, the proclamation was signed by the President authorizing the opening of the Cherokee Strip for settlement and 16 September 1893 was the day set for the opening. The land, which my father had selected, was several miles nearer the northern line of the strip as it was called so naturally they wanted to make the race from the nearest point. To do this, it was necessary to go clear around the east end of the strip, which we did, going by the way of Tulsa, Caney, Kansas, and Arkansas City and on west to Honeywell, Kansas, where they intended to start from.
Before leaving home for the north line, several of my father’s friends came to him and told him if her wanted them to, they would go and squat on the places they had selected and keep off other Sooners until my father arrived. Then, all he would have to do would be to stake the place and they would step off.
He told them if he couldn’t get it honestly that he didn’t want the land. They all said he wouldn’t get the land that he wanted. They had all been in the race into old Oklahoma proper in 1889 and knew what they were talking about, as it turned out. Among the ones who volunteered to go hold the land for him was Tom Longfellow, Dick Courtwright, John Brice and Marion Osborn.
The morning of 16 September was bright and clear and the people who were to make the race into the strip were lined up as far as they eye could see in each direction. The place where my father had selected to make the start from was about 2 miles, I believe, west of Honeywell, KS, about a half a mile from the line was a creek called Bluff Creek, which had very steep banks for several miles in each direction and there was only one crossing place. The hour set for the start was 12 o’clock noon and when the starter fired his gun, began such a race as will never be seen again; each one trying to be the first one to the crossing.
I believe my father was about the third or fourth rig across and we were directly behind him in a covered wagon to keep someone from running into the buggy with a heavier rig. I have always wished I had a picture of that race. Every kind of vehicle of that time was represented—two wheeled carts, the hind wheels of a wagon with a box and tongue on it, lumber wagons, spring wagons, horsebackers, people on foot and some even on bicycles. If you who read this will go and see the picture “Cimarron”, written by Edna Ferber, it will give you some idea of what this race was like.
But to get back to my story, after getting across the canyon, we began to drop behind with the heavier wagon and the lighter buggies and rigs swept by us. It was about 25 miles from where the start was made to the place father had picked out, so he held his team down to a fast trot after they had covered about 20 miles. There was only one or two rigs and a few horsemen ahead of him, but, when he reached the place he had wanted, there was a man already there and had his horse unsaddled.
Father’s horses were wet and dripping with sweat and covered with foam and this fellows horse wasn’t even sweaty or even breathing hard, so he must have had a hell of a good horse. He was very likely doing just what father’s friends had offered to do for him.
This all happened 46 years ago next Saturday, the 16th and although I wasn’t quite 7 years old at the time, I can still feel the thrill and see in my mind’s eye the great spectacle-The Greatest Race in history. --W. P. Widd McFadden."
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