Desert Gold. Too Many Fractions
On the Nevada desert wind-whipped Mount Davidson (or Sun Mountain)
guided the Forty Niners across the flat Washoe waste. At its foot they
rested and cursed it because it impeded their progress to the California
goldfields. Ten years later they rushed back because it had become the
fabulous Comstock, said to have produced more than $880,000,000, though
the Nevada State bureau of mines places the figure at $347,892,336. The
truth lies somewhere between.
“Pancake” Comstock had acquired, more by bluff and cunning than labor,
title to gold claims others had discovered and cursed a “blue stuff”
that slowed the recovery of visible particles of gold. Later the “blue
stuff” was blessed as incredibly rich silver. A mountain of gold and
silver side by side. It just couldn’t be.
A new crop of overnight millionaires. New feet feeling for the first
step on the social ladder. The Mackays, the Floods, the Fairs, the
Hearsts.
All this was more like current than twenty year old history to Jim
Butler on May 18, 1900, when his hungry burro strayed up a hill in
search of grass. Soon a city stood where the burro ate and soon
adventurers were poking around in the canyons of Death Valley, 66 miles
south.
Jim Butler, more rancher than gold hunter was a likable happy-go-lucky
fellow, who could strum a banjo and sing a song. But when he found the
burro in Sawtooth Pass he saw a ledge which looked as if it might have
values. Born in El Dorado county in California in 1855, Butler was more
or less gold conscious, but unexcited he stuck a few samples in his
pocket and went on after the burro.
A story survives which states that a half-breed Shoshone Indian known as
Charles Fisherman had told Butler of the existence of the ore without
disclosing its location and that Butler was actually searching for it
when the burro strayed. The preponderance of evidence, however,
indicates that Butler was en route to Belmont to see his friend, Tasker
Oddie, who was batching there in a cabin. He gave Oddie one of the
samples and after his visit, left for home.
Oddie laid the sample on a window sill and forgot it.
In Klondike a few days later, Butler showed another sample to Frank
Higgs, an assayer. Half in jest he said: “Frank, I’ve no money to pay
for an assay, but I’ll cut you in on this stuff if it shows anything.”
Higgs looked at the sample and returned it to Butler: “Just a waste of
time. Forget it.”
Later in Belmont Henry Broderick, a prospector dropped in for a visit
with Oddie and noticed the sample Butler had given Oddie and looked it
over. “This ore has good values,” he told Oddie. “It’s worth
investigating.” Oddie knew that Broderick’s opinion was not to be
underrated.
Oddie was a young lawyer with little practice and a salary of $100 a
year as District Attorney. Belmont had a population of 100. Oddie didn’t
have two dollars to risk, but he took the sample to W. C. Gayhart at
Austin and offered Gayhart a fractional interest if he’d assay it. With
few customers, Gayhart took a chance.
The ore showed values and Oddie was mildly excited. Butler lived 35
miles away in wild, difficult country and Oddie wrote him, enclosing the
assay. Several weeks passed before Butler received the letter. Then
Butler and his wife returned to Belmont only to find Oddie could not go
with them. Jim and Mrs. Butler now returned home, loaded provisions,
tools, and camp equipment in a wagon and three days later, Aug. 26,
1900, they reached Sawtooth Pass and made camp.
The Butlers staked out eight claims. Jim took for himself the one he
considered best. He named it The Desert Queen. Mrs. Butler chose another
and called it Mizpah. Jim located another for Oddie and named it Burro.
The best proved to be Mrs. Butler’s Mizpah.
Returning to Belmont, they found Oddie at home. The matter of recording
the location notices had to be attended to. “That will cost ten or
fifteen dollars,” Butler said. Neither of them had any money. Wils
Brougher was recorder of Nye county and Oddie’s friend, so Oddie made a
proposition to Brougher. “If you’ll pay the recorder’s fees we’ll give
you an eighth.”
Brougher said, “Nye county is one of the largest counties in the United
States, but there are only 400 people in it and I’m not getting many
fees these days. Leave ’em.”
After they’d gone Brougher looked at the assay Oddie had left and
decided to take a chance. The setup was now: Butler and his wife
five-eighths, Oddie, Brougher, and Gayhart, one-eighth each.
They managed to pool resources and obtained $25 in cash to provide
material and provisions.
Brougher, Oddie, Jim, and Mrs. Butler set out in October, 1900. Mrs.
Butler did the cooking while the men dug, drilled, and blasted two tons
of ore. The ore was sacked and hauled 150 miles to Austin and shipped to
a San Francisco smelter. The returns showed high values but still they
had a major problem—money to develop the claims. Because the country had
been prospected and pronounced worthless, men of millions were not
backing a banjo-picking rancher and a young lawyer with no money and few
clients. The answer was leasing to idle miners willing to gamble muscle
against money. The venture made many of them rich. The others recovered
more than wages. As the leases expired the owners took them over.
The camp where Mrs. Butler cooked became the site of the Mizpah Hotel
and the City of Tonopah and the hill where the burro strayed produced
many millions.
There are several versions of the Butler discovery and the writer does
not pretend that his own is the true one. He can only say that he knew
many of those who were first on the scene and some of those who held the
first and best leases, and his conclusions are based on their personal
narratives.
Oddie became one of the moguls of mining, Nevada’s governor, and a
senator of the United States.
Twenty-six miles south of Tonopah was a place known as Grandpa, so named
because there were always a few old prospectors camped at the water hole
known as Rabbit Springs. These patriarchs had combed the desert about,
for years without success.
Al Myers, a prospector working on a hill nearby, came to the Grandpa
Spring to fill a barrel of water and found his friend, Shorty Harris,
who had been camping there, packing his burros to leave. “Better hang
around, Shorty,” Al advised. “I’m getting color.”
“Luck to you,” Shorty laughed. “But any place where these old grandpas
can’t find color, is no place for me.”
In six weeks Myers and Tom Murphy made the big strike (1903) and Grandpa
became Goldfield—one of the West’s most spectacular camps. Some of the
more promising claims of Goldfield were leased, the most valuable being
that of Hays and Monette, on the Mohawk. In 106 days the lease produced
$5,000,000.
Out of the Mohawk one car was shipped which yielded over $579,000 and
ore in all of the better mines was so rich that Goldfield quickly became
the high-grader’s paradise. Though wages at Tonopah were twice those
paid at Goldfield, miners deserted the older camp for the lower wage and
made more than the difference by concealing high-grade in the cuffs of
their overalls or in other ingenious receptacles built into their
clothing. Miners and muckers took the girls of their choice out of
honkies and installed them in cottages. More than one of these gorgeous
creatures, having found her man in her boom-town crib, later ascended
life’s grand stairway to live virtuously and bravely in a Wilshire
mansion or a swank hotel.
To stop the stealing, a change room was installed but many had already
secured themselves against want. A wealthy resident of California once
told me: “With the proceeds of the high-grade I took home I built
rentals that led to bank connections and more lucky investments.
Everybody was doing it.”
Tex Rickard, a gambler and saloon man, already known in Alaska and San
Francisco for spectacular adventures, here began his career as a sports
promoter in the ill-advised Jeffries-Johnson fight.
One morning his Great Northern had more than its usual crowd. Men stood
three deep at the bar, games were busy and Billy Murray, the cashier was
rushed. It was not unusual for desert men to leave their money with
Murray. He would tag and sack it and toss it aside, but today there was
a steady stream being poked at him. Finally it got in his way and he had
it taken through the alley to the bank, but the deluge continued.
When it again got in his way, his assistant having stepped out, Billy
took it to the bank himself. There he learned the reason for the flood
of money. A run was being made on the John S. Cook bank. He satisfied
himself that the bank was safe and returned to his cage. As fast as the
money came in the front door, it went out the back and Billy Murray thus
saved the bank and the town from collapse.
A resourceful youngster who knew that wherever men recklessly acquire,
they recklessly spend, dropped in from Oregon, got a job in Tom
Kendall’s Tonopah Club as a dealer. Good looking and likable, he made
friends, took over the gambling concession and was soon taking over
Goldfield and the state of Nevada. He was George Wingfield, who, when
offered a seat in the United States Senate, calmly declined it.
Goldfield is only 40 miles from the northern boundary of Death Valley
National Monument and was in bonanza when Shorty Harris walked into the
Great Northern saloon. “I’ve been drinking gulch likker,” he told the
bartender. “Give me the best in the house.”
The bartender reached for a bottle. “This is 100 proof 14 year old
bourbon.”
Shorty drank it, laid a goldpiece on the bar. “Good stuff. I’ll have
another.”
“You must be celebrating,” the bartender said.
“You guessed it,” Shorty said and laid a piece of high-grade beside his
glass. “I’ve got more gold where that came from than Uncle Sam’s got in
the mint.”
A faro dealer noticed the ore and picked it up. “Good looking rock,” he
said and passed it to a promoter standing by. In a moment a crowd had
gathered. “Looks like Breyfogle quartz,” the promoter said and led
Shorty aside. “I can make you a million on this. Want to sell?”
“Not on your life,” Shorty said, but after pressure and a few drinks, he
agreed to part with an eighth interest. The deal closed, he left to see
friends around town. He found each of them in a barroom. News of his
strike had preceded him and each time he laid the ore on the bar someone
wanted an interest. Someone called him aside and someone bought the
drinks.
Within an hour every fortune hunter in Goldfield was looking for Shorty
Harris, each believing Shorty had found the Lost Breyfogle.
When he left town, weaving in the dust of his burros, sixteen men wished
him well, for each had a piece of paper conveying a one-eighth interest
in Shorty’s claim.