Mother Featherlegs Monument
By Bruce Armstrong

Like many parents we tried to feed our children’s inherent curiosity by showing them nifty things and taking them to interesting places. Inevitably a time came when we thought that a major road trip to show our offspring the wide world was in order. This malady struck us in the late 1970’s when our two boys were about 7 and 8 years old.

We were living in Wausau, Wisconsin and our family car was a bright orange Volkswagen Campmobile. It was economical and roomy, the perfect conveyance for a long trip. We decided to drive to Denver, Colorado. We just knew that our two repositories of endless questions would be glued to the windows watching the scenery as farms turned to prairies and flat land rose up to become the Rocky Mountains.

Ten miles from home their eyes became blind to anything outside of the vehicle. They colored, fought, slept, whined, made disgusting noises, argued, laughed at stupid stuff; anything to avoid watching the world outside pass by. Our attempts to engage them in the voyage met little success. After a while, we eased up, but we didn’t give up.

We found we needed to stop and get them out of the car to see things. Once they were removed from proximity to an operating internal combustion engine, their curiosities returned. They loved Wall Drug Store, the Corn Palace, the Badlands, and Mount Rushmore as we traveled west. Getting them out of the car worked. But there are a lot of miles between Wausau and Denver and there aren’t that many big attractions. And we would be retracing our route coming back. What to do?

Historical markers! We decided to stop at those historical markers you find along the roadsides. You know, the ones that are previewed by a sign saying “Historical Marker ½ mile”. The best ones caused an actual parent-child conversation to take place for a while, talking about what they had just been exposed to. The worst ones at least allowed a short break from the driving with no harm done.

We had just begun our return trip heading north on Route 85 through Wyoming when we saw the sign, “Historical Marker - Mother Featherlegs Monument” with an arrow pointing left. To the left was a paved road heading straight into open country. “Mother Featherlegs” sounded intriguing, so off we went.

After about two miles, the pavement ended, but the gravel road was in good shape, so we slowed down and continued. The boys looked up at the change in road noise. Another three miles on and the gravel road became a dirt road, but it was in good shape, so we slowed down some more and on we went. The boys began watching the dust cloud we kicked up behind us.

Another couple of miles went by as the dirt road gradually deteriorated into dirt ruts and we were creeping along very slowly in second gear. The boys were watching intently now. The road began to climb twistingly through a shallow rise between two buttes. We crawled in first gear avoiding deep washed out ruts, exposed rocks and tumbleweeds in the trail that could no longer be called a road. The boys were completely silent. We met a four-wheel drive vehicle coming the other way. “Mother Featherlegs Monument?” “Just over the rise.”

Mother Featherlegs Monument was a 3,500-pound chunk of pink granite set inside an iron railing and guarded by a few stray cattle. It sits isolated from any sign of civilization; we could see no houses, roads, utility poles or fences in any direction. On the face of the monument, the inscription reads:

“Here lies Mother Featherlegs. So called,
As in her ruffled pantalettes she looked like
A feather-legged chicken in a high wind.
She was a roadhouse ma’am.
An outlaw confederate, she was murdered by
“Dangerous Dick Davis the Terrapin” in 1879”

We had traveled some many miles over questionable terrain, risking our vehicle, to find the only known monument dedicated to the memory of a prostitute in the United States. Our boys were now full of questions; some we didn’t know the answers to, and others we did know but didn’t choose to share.

We later found out that the people of Lusk, Wyoming erected the monument in 1964 in conjunction with a reenactment of the Cheyenne to Deadwood Stage run. In 1876 Charlotte “Mother Featherlegs” Shephard established her roadhouse along the stage route near Muskrat Canyon. Before he was hanged, Dangerous Dick Davis confessed to the murder.

Our adventure complete, we returned to the road and continued on our journey.

About the author:
            Bruce and Susan Armstrong spend their winters living in Naples, Florida and their summers traveling aboard their 35-foot Nordhavn trawler, Gulf Cart. You can contact them at bansjarm@aol.com. 

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