Wild Goose Bill: The Frontier Ferryman Who Kept a Free Boat for the Poor

The death of Wild Goose Bill is an event in the history of Washington before that of Okanogan Smith, his old friend and boon companion and associate in many enterprises. The men were alike in many respects—notably in their taste in selecting wives. Their life in Washington was contemporaneous, and the nature of their ventures was similar. Both were quaint types of the frontier. Okanogan Smith died more than a year ago, and now that Wild Goose Bill has passed away there will be many a tear to the eyes of the old-timers who knew them.

Rough as they were, they were idolized by the miners they had grub-staked and the unfortunate ones they had fed and clothed when broke.

Bill's name was W. H. Condon. In later years he took pride in his old sobriquet because it associated him with the past, but away back in the '70s it cost the life of a man who dared to call him by it to his face. The story of how it attached to him is an incident of the frontier. Condon was a new arrival from Kentucky then. He had bought a packer's outfit and was freighting over the long road from Fort Walla Walla to Fort Colville. One day a rancher in the sparsely settled country between was startled by several shots. He ran out into the brush to find Condon standing on the bank of a little stream, a smoking gun in his hand.

'Hey! what are you doing there?' he yelled.

'Keep your mouth shut, you damned fool, and I'll bag the whole flock,' the hunter retorted angrily.

'Not if I can help it,' the rancher observed, with rising temper. 'My wife brought the eggs that them geese were hatched from all the way from Illinois.'

The rancher's wife was so angry at the destruction of half a dozen of her pet thoroughbreds that she refused to extend the usual courtesy of Western ranchers to the hunter, and he was compelled to sleep in the brush that night for want of shelter, and to accept a lunch from the husband, who relented when he saw the joke. 'Wild Goose Bill' was Condon's from that day on.

Bill was 68 years old when he died. He had lived in Washington ever since 1866. He was married at least twice, first to Lop-Eared Julia, a Coeur d'Alene woman, and last to Princess Julia, sister of Chief Swepktin, of the San Poil tribe. The San Poils live up in the Okanogan River country and are distinguished by the fact that they have never accepted a cent in money nor a pound of provisions from the government, and have refused assistance in any form. He had two sons by his last wife, both now in Stevens County, and there were a couple of girls, but they didn't count with Condon when he enumerated his property. He was proud of Princess Julia, and occasionally brought her to Spokane. Once, four years ago, he and his little girls sojourned at the Commercial Hotel, where a reporter visited them. Disdaining the chairs around the room, they were seated on a mat in the center of the floor.

'I am going to leave you a moment,' Condon said in the middle of the conversation. 'There's a man downstairs I want to see. I confide in you. Don't elope with Julia while I'm gone.'

It will never be known whether Condon was joking in his quiet, dry way, or felt that he was reposing a great deal of trust in his visitor. Julia was anything but beautiful, but he was proud of her.

'After leaving Walla Walla,' said Major Gwydir last night, 'Wild Goose Bill went up to the present site of his ferry on the Columbia River, below Wilbur. He and his boys, then half grown, put in the ferry some time later, and accomplished the phenomenal feat of building a road from Grand Coulee to the river and, on the opposite side from the ferry, across the reservation to his bridge on the Okanogan River. It is twenty-two miles from the coulee to the ferry and thirty-five miles further to the bridge. He built the bridge, too, and all without outside assistance. That turned travel his way, of course, and he made some money. But he never charged a poor man a cent to go across. His ferry, his table and his stable were always free to needy emigrants and other poor people who passed by.

'He took up land and grew to be pretty well fixed. The townsite of Wilbur was his property at first. He lived there close on to thirty-five years, and the Indians thought a heap more of him than they did of Uncle Sam. His word was their law. He was a radical Republican, and Okanogan Smith was just as strong a Democrat, but they were fast friends. Smith was elected to the state legislature. Bill was tendered several nominations, and had a chance to run for the territorial legislature in early days, but he persistently refused. He was a strong silver man, and was public-spirited to a high degree.

'Wild Goose Bill's killing record was fifteen Native people and one white man, but he was a peaceable man, and after the incident with the fellow who first put "Wild Goose" to his name he was as law-abiding as anyone. Six of the Native people lost their lives by interfering with his domestic relations. I remember once when the sheriff of Walla Walla County and two deputies passed him with three Native prisoners accused of murder. Bill had just sold his revolver to a Chinese placer miner, but the sheriff told him where he could find another. In going after it he noticed the approach of ten Native men in war paint, coming to the rescue of their fellows. Well, Bill stood by the sheriff, and three of the ten escaped. The other seven breathed their last on that battlefield, and the prisoners went to jail. The sheriff, whose name I have forgotten, was shot through both wrists and crippled for life.

'You can't say too much about the goodness of Bill Condon. He had his faults—and who has not?—but with different training he would have been revered and loved by thousands. His latchstring was always out, and his money went to many a good cause. Nor was he charitable alone in that way. He always had a kind word for those who were oppressed and in trouble, and he would go farther to help a friend than any man I know.'

The man with whom Condon fought a duel, according to reports from the scene, was young Parks, son of 'Old Man' Parks, who kept the stage station at Grand Coulee. The trouble is said to have been about a woman, and Condon is reported to have shot her twice in the arm before shooting Parks. Both fired at the same instant. Parks fell first.

'I got the drop—I guess he's got me too,' he shouted, and fell over dead.