A Prison Carved from the Frontier
The first nine inmates arrived in Deer Lodge on July 2, 1871, long before the Montana State Prison had proper walls.
In 1867, the U.S. Congress approved $40,000 for a prison, hoping to rein in the lawlessness that ran unchecked across the Montana Territory.
But money could only stretch so far. When the prisoners were handed over to U.S. Marshal William Wheeler, the site had just one tier of fourteen cells—less than half of what had been planned.
By August, the cells were full. More men kept arriving, outpacing construction.
Congress sent another $15,000 in 1880 to help expand the prison, but the original brick structure wasn’t strong enough to support another level.
Instead, the money was used to build a new administration office, barracks for the guards, and a small visitor area.
It was a temporary fix for a place that was already behind.
Overcrowding shaped everything inside those walls. The prison followed the Auburn system—a strict, silent routine where inmates worked in groups by day and slept alone at night.
That might have worked somewhere else, but in Montana, the numbers didn’t allow it.
By 1885, 120 men were packed into just 28 cells. Some slept in makeshift shelters inside the yard, exposed to brutal winters and scorching summers.
Even for those with a roof, conditions were harsh. The prison had no heating, plumbing, or proper ventilation. In winter, men huddled near wood stoves, while in summer, the cells turned into ovens.
The air was thick with the smoke of oil lamps and the stench of unwashed bodies.
A single doctor tended to the inmates, but he had to buy medicine out of his own pay.
Between May and November of 1873, he reported 67 illnesses among 21 prisoners.
By the time Montana became a state in 1889, the prison had finally completed the cell block that was supposed to be finished years earlier.
It was too late to keep up. In March 1890, Montana officially took over the prison, inheriting a problem that wasn’t going away.
The Warden Who Built an Empire (1890–1921)
By 1890, Montana had a state prison, but it didn’t have a plan. The place cost too much to run, and nobody wanted to take responsibility for it.
Instead of managing it directly, the state handed the prison over to private contractors—two men who promised they could handle inmates for just 70 cents a day per prisoner.
One of those men was Frank Conley.
When Conley took control of the prison, he was already working as a guard. He understood something the state didn’t: the prison wasn’t just a burden—it was a workforce.
He put inmates to work right away, first on the prison itself, then on projects that stretched far beyond its walls.
They laid roads, built hospitals, and ran ranches that kept the prison stocked with beef and dairy.
Conley made sure every inmate had a job, believing it would keep them too tired to cause trouble.
The walls that still stand today? Inmates built them under Conley’s orders. The stone came from a quarry just outside Deer Lodge.
Prisoners hauled it, cut it, and stacked it 24 feet high, sealing themselves inside.
He expanded cell blocks, added a women’s facility, and even oversaw the construction of the W.A. Clark Theater—a grand venue that hosted plays, concerts, and boxing matches for both inmates and townspeople.
Conley wasn’t just running a prison; he was building his own empire. He lived in a house right across the street, built by prisoners.
He entertained Montana’s wealthiest men, serving them meals prepared by inmates.
He used prison labor to construct his own private hunting lodge and a racetrack for his prized thoroughbreds.
For 30 years, he controlled every aspect of the prison and much of the town around it.
By 1921, Conley had too much power. Montana’s new governor launched an investigation, accusing him of using state resources for personal gain.
Conley fought back, but the state removed him anyway. He left behind a prison that was bigger, stronger—and completely dependent on him.
Without Conley, the system started to crack.
When the Prison Ruled Itself (1921–1959)
After Conley, the state took back control, but it didn’t have a real plan for what came next.
The new wardens weren’t visionaries—they were political appointees picked by governors with no experience running a prison.
The industries Conley had built started to fall apart. Inmates still worked but without structure, and the prison became a place where routine mattered less than survival.
By the 1930s, the walls were still holding, but the prison inside them was crumbling.
Cells had no plumbing. The ventilation system barely worked. At night, the temperature inside dropped below freezing.
The electricity was so weak that some prisoners’ only light came from the sun, which cut through the bars.
The 1896 cellblock had no running water, so men still used the old bucket system—one bucket for drinking, one for waste.
The guards weren’t much better off. They were some of the lowest-paid prison staff in the country, making about $1,200 a year while the national average was over $2,000.
Many were old—some in their sixties—because younger men didn’t want the job. The ones who stuck around didn’t get much training.
With barely enough staff to manage the prisoners, the wardens turned to an unofficial system: letting the inmates run things themselves.
A group of inmate “con-bosses” controlled the prison’s black market, selling everything from cigarettes to work assignments.
If you wanted a job in the prison’s garment shop or kitchen, you had to go through them.
If you didn’t have money, you’d owe them in other ways. The guards let it happen because it kept the prison running—until it didn’t.
Tension was building by the 1950s. In 1957, inmates refused to pick vegetables in the prison’s garden, setting off the first riot in decades.
In 1958, a sit-down strike shut down operations for 24 hours. The prisoners had demands—better food, fairer parole decisions—but the administration ignored them.
The frustration didn’t go away. It was growing into something bigger, something the guards couldn’t contain. The next time the prisoners took control, they wouldn’t give it back so easily.
The Riot That Shook Montana (1959)
On April 16, 1959, Montana State Prison erupted. It started quietly—just a few inmates loitering near the catwalks of Cellblock 1, waiting for the right moment.
Then, in an instant, it turned violent. A guard, Gus Byars, felt something splash across his face. It was gasoline. Before he could react, a match was struck. Flames lit up the catwalk.
Jerry Myles and Lee Smart had been planning this takeover for months. Myles, a career convict, had studied riots at Alcatraz.
Smart, just 19 years old, had nothing to lose. They moved fast. Within minutes, they had control of both cellblocks, three guards as hostages, and two stolen rifles.
Deputy Warden Ted Rothe didn’t have time to react. He was in his office when Myles and Smart stormed in. Rothe raised a wooden letterbox to defend himself, but Smart pulled the trigger first.
The shot hit Rothe in the chest. He slumped over, dead before he hit the floor.
With Rothe gone, the inmates set their demands. Myles wanted reporters inside the prison, thinking exposure would give them leverage.
He ordered Warden Floyd Powell to call the governor. Powell made the call, but the governor wasn’t available. Myles wasn’t interested in waiting.
For 36 hours, Montana State Prison belonged to the inmates. The guards, now locked in cells, braced for the worst. The National Guard gathered outside.
On April 18, just before dawn, they made their move. A bazooka shell blasted into the southwest tower, followed by gunfire and tear gas.
The riot leaders had no way out. Myles turned his rifle on Smart, then on himself. The riot ended the way it began—with gunfire in a place where survival was never guaranteed.
The End of an Era (1959–1979)
After the riot, Montana State Prison changed. Warden Powell ordered every inmate locked down.
Guards stripped the cells, hauling away truckloads of contraband. They found 382 knives, hidden weapons made from bed frames, and scrap metal.
Powell wanted to modernize the prison, but money wasn’t coming. In 1961, the state cut funding by $500,000.
A new facility was supposed to be the answer, but voters refused to pay for it. So the prison kept running—overcrowded, outdated, and crumbling.
The walls weren’t the only things falling apart. In 1975, fire gutted the W.A. Clark Theater, the same one inmates had built decades earlier.
Investigators called it arson. Nobody was ever charged, but the fire signaled what many already knew: the prison couldn’t last much longer.
Finally, in 1979, the new facility was ready. The old prison—once a fortress of stone and silence—stood empty.
The Prison After the Last Lockdown (1979–Present)
The last bus left Montana State Prison on September 5, 1979. Inmates were transferred three miles west to a new facility built on land that had once been Warden Conley’s ranch.
The old prison, abandoned by the state, sat empty. But its thick stone walls weren’t going anywhere.
At first, nobody knew what to do with it. The state considered tearing it down, but Deer Lodge saw an opportunity.
Local businesses and residents pushed to preserve the site, arguing it had value beyond its history as a prison.
In 1980, Powell County took over the property, handing operations to the Powell County Museum and Arts Foundation.
By 1987, it had officially reopened—not as a correctional facility, but as a museum.
Visitors now walk through the same gates where prisoners once entered in shackles.
The tour starts at the Cell House, where heavy iron bars still slide open with a deep, metallic groan.
The isolation cells—small, windowless boxes—are a reminder of how punishment worked long before modern corrections.
Even the old gallows remain, a display of Montana’s execution history before lethal injection replaced the noose.
Beyond the cellblocks, the prison complex has expanded into a broader historical attraction.
The Montana Auto Museum, housed in one of the former prison buildings, features a collection of over 200 vintage cars.
There’s also the Frontier Montana Museum, showcasing cowboy-era firearms, and Yesterday’s Playthings, a toy exhibit with dolls and board games spanning generations.
The Old Montana Prison is now a centerpiece of Deer Lodge tourism. It’s a stop for history buffs, travelers, and ghost hunters—especially during October’s after-dark tours.
The walls still echo the past, but today, the only people locked inside are those who choose to be there.
A Prison That Won’t Stay Quiet
Montana State Prison closed, but the stories never left. Former guards and inmates talk about the voices they heard when nobody else was around.
Even today, visitors report strange footsteps, flickering lights, and the feeling of being watched.
Some believe it’s just the old stone settling. Others aren’t so sure.
Ghost tours have become part of the experience.
Guides take groups through the empty corridors, stopping at places where the past lingers strongest—the mess hall where hostages were held during the 1959 riot, the tunnels where guards moved unseen, and the cells that once held Montana’s most dangerous criminals.
Some tours end in total darkness, letting visitors stand in silence and listen. It doesn’t always stay quiet.
Paranormal investigators have spent nights inside, using heat sensors and audio recorders to track unexplained activity.
The reports are always similar—cell doors moving without cause, whispers caught on tape, and shadows shifting in places where nobody should be standing.
Most of the reports come from the old maximum-security wing, once used for solitary confinement.
The museum embraces the prison’s haunted reputation, but history remains the focus.
The facility still preserves inmate records, artifacts, and firsthand accounts of prison life.
Schools and researchers visit to study the evolution of incarceration, from the Auburn system to modern reforms.
Although prisons no longer house convicts, they remain places where people come to understand what life behind bars really means.
The Old Montana Prison isn’t just a museum—it’s a place where the past never quite fades.
The walls have seen too much to ever be silent.