The Graniteville Stage
On that fateful first of September, 1879, the stage left Graniteville,
as usual, at six o'clock in the morning. Graniteville, in Eureka
Township, Nevada County, is the Eureka South of early days. The stage
still makes the daily trip over the mountains; but the glamour and
romance of the gold fields have long since departed. On the morning
mentioned traffic was light, for people did not travel the twenty-eight
miles through heat and dust to Nevada City for pleasure. Too often it
was a case of running the gauntlet from the gold fields to the railroad
terminus and safety.
This very morning, Charley Chu, who had thrown up his job as mender of
ditches, was making a dash for San Francisco, with five hundred dollars
in dust and a pistol at his belt. The other passengers were Dr. John
Mason and Mamie Slocum, teacher. Mamie, rosy-cheeked, dark-eyed, and
pretty, was only seventeen, and ought to have been at home with her
mother. She was a romantic girl, however, with several beaux in Eureka
Township; and now that the summer session of school was over, she was
going home to Nevada City, where there were other conquests to be made.
Dr. Mason, a tall, lean Scotchman, lived at North Bloomfield, only nine
miles distant, whence he had been summoned to attend a case of _delirium
tremens_. The sparkling water of the Sierras is pure and cold, but the
gold of the Sierras buys stronger drink. With a fee of two double eagles
in his pocket, the doctor could look with charity upon the foibles of
human nature. He thoroughly enjoyed the early morning ride among the
giant pines. In the open places manzanita ran riot, its waxy green
leaves contrasting with the dust-laden asters and coarse grasses by the
roadside. Across the cañon of the Middle Yuba the yellow earth of old
man Palmer's diggings shone like a trademark in the landscape,
proclaiming to the least initiated the leading industry of Sierra and
Nevada Counties, and marking for the geologist the height of the ancient
river beds, twenty-five hundred feet above the Middle Yuba and nearly at
right angles to it. Those ancient river beds were strewn with gold.
Looking in the other direction, one caught glimpses here and there of
the back-bone of the Sierras, jagged dolomites rising ten thousand feet
skyward. The morning air was stimulating, for at night the thermometer
drops to the forties even in midsummer. In a ditch by the roadside, and
swift as a mill-race, flowed a stream of clear cold water, brought for
miles from reservoirs up in the mountains.
Even Charley Chu, now that he was leaving the gold fields forever,
regarded the water-ditch with affection. It brought life--sparkling,
abundant life--to these arid hill-tops. Years ago, Charley Chu and
numerous other Chinamen had dug this very ditch. What would California
have been without Chinese labor? Industrious Chinamen built the railroad
over the Sierras to the East and civilization. Doctor, girl and Chinaman
were too much occupied with their own thoughts to take much notice of
the stage-driver, who, though he assumed an air of carelessness, was, in
reality, on the watch for spies and robbers. For the bankers at Moore's
Flat, a few miles further on, were planning to smuggle several thousand
dollars' worth of gold dust to Nevada City that morning. Mat Bailey was
a brave fellow, but he preferred the old days of armed guards and hard
fighting to these dubious days when stage-drivers went unarmed to avoid
the suspicion of carrying treasure. Charley Chu with his pistol had the
right idea; and yet that very pistol might queer things to-day.
Over this road for twenty-five years treasure to the amount of many
millions of dollars had been carried out of the mountains; and Mat could
have told you many thrilling tales of highwaymen. A short distance
beyond Moore's Flat was Bloody Run, a rendezvous of Mexican bandits,
back in the fifties. Not many years since, in the cañon of the South
Yuba, Steve Venard, with his repeating rifle, had surprised and killed
three men who had robbed the Wells Fargo Express. Some people hinted
that when Steve hunted up the thieves and shot them in one, two, three
order, he simply betrayed his own confederates. But the express company
gave him a handsome rifle and a generous share of the gold recovered; I
prefer to believe that Steve was an honest man.
The stage arrived at Moore's Flat, and Mat Bailey hurriedly transferred
baggage and passengers to the gaily painted and picturesque stage-coach
which, drawn by four strong horses, was to continue the journey. A pair
of horses and a mountain wagon had handled the traffic to that point;
but at the present time, when Moore's Flat can boast but eleven
inhabitants, the transfer to the stage-coach is made at North
Bloomfield, several miles further on. But in 1879, Moore's Flat, Eureka
Township, was a thriving place, employing hundreds of miners. The great
sluices, blasted deep into solid rock, then ran with the wash from high
walls of dirt and gravel played upon by streams of water in the process
known as hydraulic mining. Jack Vizzard, the watchman, threaded those
sluiceways armed with a shot-gun.
At Moore's Flat, six men and two women boarded the stage; and Mat Bailey
took in charge a small leather valise, smuggled out of the back door of
the bank and handed to him carelessly. Mat received it without the
flicker of an eyelash. Nevertheless, he scrutinized the eight new
passengers, with apparent indifference but with unerring judgment. All
except two, a man and a woman, were personally known to him. And these
excited less suspicion than two well-known gamblers, who greeted Mat
cordially.
"It hurts business, Mat, to ship so much dust out of the country," said
one.
"Damn shame," said the other.
Mat paid no attention to these remarks, pretending to be busy with the
baggage. Quite accidentally he lifted an old valise belonging to Will
Cummins, who, dressed in a long linen duster, had just boarded the
stage. Cummins exchanged glances with the driver, and luckily, as Mat
thought, the gamblers seemed to take no notice.
Will Cummins had been in the gold regions twenty-five years. He had
already made and lost one small fortune, and now at the age of
forty-five, with all his available worldly goods, some seven thousand
dollars in bullion, he was homeward bound to Reedsville, Pennsylvania.
In the full vigor of manhood, he was a Californian of the highest type.
He had always stood for law and order, and was much beloved by decent
people. By the other sort it was well understood that Will Cummins was a
good shot, and would fight to a finish. He was a man of medium height,
possessed of clear gray eyes and an open countenance. The outlines of a
six-shooter were clearly discernible under his duster.
In a cloud of dust, to the clink of horse-shoes, the stage rolled out of
Moore's Flat, and was soon in the dark woods of Bloody Run.
"Good morning, Mr. Cummins."
It was the school-teacher who spoke; and Cummins, susceptible to
feminine charms, bowed graciously.
"Do you know, Mr. Cummins, it always gives me the shivers to pass
through these woods. So many dreadful things have happened here."
"Why, yes," answered Cummins, good-naturedly. "It was along here
somewhere, I think, that the darkey, George Washington, was captured."
"Tell me about it," said Mamie.
"Oh, George was violently opposed to Chinese cheap labor; so he made it
his business to rob Chinamen. But the Chinamen caught him, tied his
hands and feet, slung him on a pole like so much pork and started him
for Moore's Flat, taking pains to bump him against every stump and
boulder _en route_."
Charley Chu was grinning in pleasant reverie. Mamie laughed.
"But the funny thing in this little episode," continued Cummins, "was
the defense set up by George Washington's lawyer. There was no doubt
that George was guilty of highway robbery. He had been caught
red-handed, and ten Chinamen were prepared to testify to the fact. But
counsel argued that by the laws of the State a white man could not be
convicted on the testimony of Chinamen; and that, within the meaning of
the statute, in view of recent amendments to the Constitution of the
United States, George was a white man. The judge ruled that the point
was well taken; and, inasmuch as the prisoner had been thoroughly
bumped, he dismissed the case."
The story is well known in Nevada County; but Mamie laughed gleefully,
and turned her saucy eyes upon Charley:
"Did you help to bump George Washington?"
The Celestial was an honest man, and shook his head:
"Me only look on. That cullud niggah he lob me."
Will Cummins glanced at the Chinaman's pistol and smiled. By this time
the stage had crossed Bloody Run and was ascending the high narrow ridge
known as the Back-Bone, beyond which lay the village of North
Bloomfield. By the roadside loomed a tall lone rock, placed as if by a
perverse Providence especially to shelter highwaymen. For a moment
Cummins looked grave, and he reached for his six-shooter. Mat Bailey
cracked his whip and dashed by as if under fire.
From the Back-Bone the descent to North Bloomfield was very steep, and
was made with grinding of brakes and precipitate speed. Arrived at the
post-office, Dr. Mason and the two gamblers left the coach; and a
store-keeper and two surveyors employed by the great Malakoff Mining
Company took passage to Nevada City. In those halcyon days of hydraulic
mining, the Malakoff, employing fifty men, was known to clean up
$100,000 in thirty days. It was five hundred feet through dirt and
gravel to bed-rock, and a veritable cañon had been washed out of the
earth.
The next stop was Lake City,--a name illustrative of Californian
megalomania; for the lake, long since gone dry, was merely an artificial
reservoir to supply a neighboring mine, and the city was a collection of
half a dozen buildings including a store and a hotel. Through the open
door of the store a huge safe was visible, for here was one of those
depositories for gold dust locally known as a bank. As the stage pulled
up, the banker and a lady stepped out to greet Will Cummins, who
alighted and cordially shook hands. Miss Slocum, apparently, was
somewhat piqued because she was not introduced.
"I was hoping you would accompany us to Nevada City," Cummins said,
addressing the lady, who regarded him with affection, as Mamie thought.
"You must remember, Will," said the banker, "that Mary hasn't been up to
Moore's Flat yet to see her old flames."
"Too late!" said Cummins. "The Keystone Club gave a dinner last night,
to wish me a pleasant journey. Eighteen of the twenty-one were present.
But by this time they have scattered to the four winds."
"Never fear," cried the lady; "I shall find some of our boys at Moore's
Flat. You are the only one travelling in this direction; and the four
winds combined could not blow them over the cañon of the Middle Yuba."
"I remember you think that cañon deep and terrible, Mary," Will replied;
"but it is not wide, you know. Remember our walk to Chipp's Flat, the
last time you were here? Nothing left there but the old cannon. As the
boys say, everything else has been fired."
"All aboard!" shouted Mat, who felt that he was wasting time in Lake
City. And so Mary Francis, sister of Henry Francis, bade adieu to Will
Cummins, little knowing that they would never meet again, either in
California or "back home" in Pennsylvania. The stage rolled on, past a
grove of live oaks hung with mistletoe. Cummins had passed this way many
times before. He had even gathered mistletoe here to send to friends in
the East. But to-day for the first time it made his heart yearn for the
love he had missed. Mary Francis was thirty-five now. Twenty-five years
ago he was twenty and she was a little bashful girl. Her father's house
had been the rendezvous of Californians on their occasional visits in
the East. His mind traveled back over old scenes; but soon the cañon of
the South Yuba burst upon his vision, thrilling him with its grandeur
and challenging his fighting instincts. For after winding down three
miles to the river, the road climbed three miles up the opposite
side--three toiling miles through the ambushes of highwaymen. There was
the scene of many a hold-up. And to-day, at his age, he simply must not
be robbed. It would break his heart. In sheer desperation he drew his
six-shooter, examined it carefully, glanced at his fellow-passengers and
sat silent, alert and grim.
Except for the Chinaman, the passengers were feeble folk. At sight of
the revolver the men began to fidget; and, except for Mamie Slocum, the
romantic, the women turned pale.
Down the coach plunged into the deep cañon! Little likelihood of a
hold-up when travelling at such a pace. Down, down, safely down to the
river, running clear and cold among the rocks. And then the slow ascent.
Mat Bailey, perched on his high seat as lordly as Ph[oe]bus Apollo, felt
cold shivers run down his spine. From every bush, stump and rock he
expected a masked man to step forth. Could he depend upon Cummins and
the Chinaman? How slowly the horses labored up that fatal hill, haunted
by the ghosts of murdered travelers! Why should he, Mat Bailey, get
mixed up in other men's affairs? What was there in it for him? Of
course, he would try to play a man's part; but he sincerely wished he
were at the top of the hill.
At last they were safely out of the cañon, and the horses were allowed
to rest a few minutes. Cummins replaced his pistol and buttoned up his
duster; and the passengers fell to talking. The store-keeper from North
Bloomfield began to tell a humorous story of a lone highwayman who, with
a double-barrelled shot gun waylaid the Wells Fargo Express near
Downieville. As he waited, with gun pointed down the road, he heard a
wagon approach behind him. Coolly facing about, he levelled his gun at
the approaching travellers, three workmen, and remarked,
"Gentlemen, you have surprised me. Please deliver your guns, and stand
upon that log," indicating a prostrate pine four feet in diameter.
Needless to say, the men mounted the log and held up their hands. Then a
load of hay approached, and the driver mounted the log with the others.
Then came another wagon, with two men and a ten-year old boy, George
Williams. The robber ordered these to stand upon the log, whereupon
little George, in great trepidation, exclaimed,
"Good Mr. Robber, don't shoot, and I will do anything you tell me!"
About this time one barrel of the robber's gun was accidentally
discharged into the log, and he remarked:
"That was damned careless," and immediately reloaded with buckshot.
At length the stage came along; and promptly holding it up, he tossed
the driver a sack, directing him to put his gold dust therein. This
done, he sent each separate vehicle upon its way as cool as a marshal on
dress parade.
With Nevada City only four miles away, the cañon of the South Yuba
safely passed, and the stage bowling along over an easy road, it seemed
a good story.
"Halt!"
Two masked men emerged from behind a stump by the roadside, and Charley
Chu drew his revolver. The passengers in a panic took it away from him.
Mat Bailey pulled up his horses.
While one robber covered Mat, the other covered the passengers, who at
his command lined themselves up by the roadside with hands raised.
Cummins got out on the side of the stage opposite the robber; and but
for the duster, buttoned from chin to ankles, he would have had the dead
wood on that robber. It was not to be; and Cummins, hands in air, joined
his helpless companions. The robber then proceeded to rifle the baggage.
Charley Chu lost his five hundred dollars. Mat Bailey gave up the
leather bag from Moore's Flat.
"Whose is this?" demanded the robber, laying his hand on Cummins' old
valise. As if hypnotized, Mamie Slocum answered,
"That is Mr. Cummins'."
The robber seized it. Cummins exclaimed: "It is all I have in the world,
and I will defend it with my life." With that he seized the robber,
overpowered him, and went down with him into the dust. If only there had
been one brave man among those cowards!
"Is there no one to help me?" shouted Cummins; but no one stirred.
In the gold regions of California each man is for himself. To prevent
trouble his fellow-passengers had disarmed the Chinaman. The other
robber, seeing his partner overpowered, passed quickly along in front of
the line of passengers, placed his gun at Cummins' head, and fired. The
struggle had not lasted fifteen seconds when Will Cummins lay murdered
by the roadside.