Moses Embree Milner--better known as California Joe---was born in Kentucky in 1829. He went west and became a skillful trapper and mountain man. He served as a scout in the Mexican War (1846-1848) and spent several years in California before establishing a cattle ranch in Oregon. He married, had 4 sons and later left to wander the West. His reputation as a scout prompted George Armstrong Custer to promote him to Chief Of Scouts for the Washita Campaign but he was demoted when Custer found him drunk. The 2 men, however, were fast friends and exchanged many letters. Wild Bill Hickok (born 5 miles from here in Troy Grove, Illinois) said, only a few days before his death, that his pistol and California Joe were the two best friends he ever had. When Wild Bill was murdered by Jack McCall, Joe was out on the prairie and when he got back to town, he made sure that McCall knew he wasn't welcome in town any longer. Less than 2 months later, on Oct. 29th, as Moses "California Joe" Milner stood talking to friends at Fort Robinson, Nebraska, a man named Newcomb shot him in the back with a Winchester rifle after a long feud between the two men. Newcomb escaped justice.
This song "CALIFORNIA JOE" was written by John Wallace Crawford about 1875
. He was better known as Captain Jack Crawford--The Poet Scout of the Black Hills. Born in County Donegal, Ireland on March 4th, 1847, Crawford came to the U.S. as a boy. He served with the 48th Pennsylvania Volunteers in the American Civil War and was wounded several times. In the 1870s he was well known in Nebraska and at one time served as a mail carrier between Sidney and the Red Cloud Indian Agency.

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CALIFORNIA JOEbr> (John Wallace Crawford)

Now folks, I don't like stories nor am I going to act
A part around the campfire that ain't a truthful fact,
So fill your pipes and listen; I'll tell you--- let me see---
I think it was in '50---from then to '63.

You've all heard tell of Bridger; well I used to ride with Jim,
And many a hard says scoutin' I've done longside of him,
Once near old Fort Reno a trapper used to dwell,
We called him Mad Jack Reynolds and the scouts all knew him well.

One night in the spring of '50 we camped on Powder River,
We killed a calf of buffalo and cooked a slice of liver,
While eating quite contented I heard 3 shots or 4,
Put out the fire and listened---we heard a dozen more.

We knew that old man Reynolds had moved his traps up here,
So picking up our rifles and picking up our gear,
We moved as fast as lightning---to save was our desire,
Too late--the painted heathen had set the house on fire.

We hitched our horses quickly and waded up the stream,
While down close among the waters I heard a muffled scream,
And there among the bushes a little girl did lie,
I picked her up and whispered, "I'll save you or I'll die".

Lord, what a ride---Old Bridger, he covered my retreat.
Sometimes that child would whisper in a voice so low and sweet
"Poor papa.--- God will take him to mama up above.
There is no one left to love me.---There is no one left to love."

The little one was 13 and I was 22,
I says, "I'll be your father and love you just as true."
She nestled on my bosom--her hazel eyes so bright
Looked up and made me happy through the close pursuit that night.

One month had passed and Maggie---we called her Hazel Eye,
In truth was going to leave me -- was going to say goodbye,
Her uncle, Mad Jack Reynolds --- long since reported dead,
Had come to claim my angel---his brother's child he said.

What could I say? We parted, Mad Jack was growing old.
I handed him a banknote and all I had in gold,
They rode away at sunrise and I rode a mile or two,
And parting says, "We'll meet again, Mag; may God watch over you."

(time passes)

By a laughing dancing brook a little cabin stood,
And weary with a long day's scout, I spied it in the wood,
The pretty valley stretched beyond and the mountains towered above,
Like some painted picture---or a well-told tale of love.

'Twas one grand panorama---the brook was plainly seen,
Like a long thread of silver in a cloth of lovely green,
The laughter of the water, the cooing of the dove,
And near it's willow branches I heard the cooing of a dove.

While drinking in the grandeur I rested in the saddle,
I heard a gentle rippling like the dipping of a paddle,
And turning to the eddy a strange sight met my view,
A maiden with a rifle in a little birch canoe.

She stood up in the center with her rifle to her eye,
I thought for just a moment my time had come to die,
I doffed my hat and told her that if it was all the same,
To drop her little shooter for I was not her game.

She dropped the deadly weapon and leaped from the canoe,
Says she, "I beg your pardon---I thought you were a Sioux,
Your long hair and your buckskin looked warrior-like and rough,
My aim was spoiled by sunlight or I'd have killed you sure enough.

"Perhaps it would have been better if you had dropped me then," says I,
"For surely such an angel could bear me to the sky."
She blushingly dropped her eyelids---her cheeks were crimson red,
One half-shy glance she gave me and then hung down her head.

I took her little hand in mine--I wondered what it meant,
And yet she drew it not away but rather seemed content,
We sat upon the mossy bank and her eyes began to fill,
The brook was rippling at our feet---the dove was cooing still.

I smoothed her golden tresses and her eyes looked up to mine,
She looked in doubt, then whispered, "'Tis such a long long time."
Strong arms were thrown around me---"I'll love you, or I'll die."
I clasped her to my bosom--my long lost Hazel Eye.

The rapture of that moment was almost heaven to me,
I kissed her mid her teardrops, her merriment and glee,
Her heart near mine was beating when sobbingly she said,
"My dear long lost preserver--they told me you were dead."

"But oh, those parting words, Joe, have never left my mind,
You said, 'We'll meet again, Mag.'---and rode off like the wind
Oh, how I have prayed, Joe, for you who saved my life,
That God would send an angel to guide you through all strife.

"The one who claimed me from you, my uncle, good and true,
Is sick in yonder cabin and he's talked so much of you,
'If Joe was living darlin', he said to me last night,
'He would care for Maggie when God puts out my light.'"

We found the old man sleeping---"Hush Maggie---let him rest."
The sun was slowly sinking in the far off golden west,
And though we talked in whispers, he opened up his eyes,
"A dream---a dream", he whispered---"alas, a dream of lies."

She drifted like a shadow to where the old man lay,
"You had a dream, dear uncle---another dream today?"
"Yes, I saw an angel as pure as mountain snow,
And near here at my bedside was California Joe."

"I'm sure I'm not an angel, dear uncle, that I know--
These arms are brawny, my hands are too, my face is not like snow--
Now listen while I tell you for I have news to cheer,
Hazel Eye is happy for Joe is really here."

It was but a few days after the old man said to me,
"Joe, boy, she is an angel---and good as angels be.
For 3 long months she hunted, trapped for me and nursed me too,
God bless you, boy, I believe it---she is safe along with you."

The sun was slowly sinking when Maggie my wife, and I
Came riding through the valley now with teardrops in our eyes,
A year ago today we dug on Mad Jack's mossy grave,
We laid him neath the daisies---her uncle true and brave.

And comrades, every springtime is sure to find us there,
As something in the valley seemed always fresh and fair,
And our love is freshly kindled while resting by the stream,
Where two hearts were united in love's sweet happy dream.

Yes, our love was newly kindled while resting by the stream,
Where two hearts were united in love's sweet happy dream,
Now you've hear the story and this you ought to know,
That Hazel Eye is happy with California Joe.