Ballarat. Ghost Town
In the early 1890’s gold discovered on the west side of the Panamint in
Pleasant Canyon caused the rush responsible for Ballarat. For more than
20 years the district had been combed by prospectors holed in at Post
Office Spring, about one half mile south of the site upon which Ballarat
was subsequently built. Here the government had a small army post and
here soldiers, outlaws, and adventurers received their mail from a box
wired in the crotch of a mesquite tree.
The Radcliffe, which was the discovery mine was a profitable producer.
The timbers and machinery were hauled from Randsburg over the Slate
Range and across Panamint Valley, to the mouth of the canyon. There,
under the direction of Oscar Rogers, it was packed on burros and taken
up the steep grade to the mine site.
Copperstain Joe, a noted half-breed Indian made the next strike. With a
specimen, he went to Mojave where he showed it to Jim Cooper. For five
dollars and a gallon of whiskey he led Cooper to the site.
But his deal with Cooper interested me less than the cunning of his
burro, Slick. Copperstain strode into a hardware store and asked for a
lock. “It’s for Slick’s chain. Picks a lock soon as I turn my back—dam’
him.”
The merchant showed him a lock of intricate mechanism, “He won’t pick
this. Costs more, but worth it.”
“I don’t care what it costs,” Copperstain said and bought it. Later he
looped the chain around the burro’s feet, fastened the links with the
lock and tethered Slick to a stake. “That’ll hold you—” he said
defiantly.
The next morning he was back in the store, belligerent. “Helluva lock
you sold me. Slick picked it in no time.”
“Impossible.”
“The burro’s gone, ain’t he?” Copperstain bristled, and reaching into
his pocket, produced the lock. “See that nail in the keyhole? I didn’t
put it there. Slick just found a nail—that’s all.”
The future of Pleasant Canyon seemed assured and it was decided to move
the two saloons and grocery to the flats below, where a town would have
room to grow.
When citizens met to choose a name, George Riggins, a young Australian
suggested the new town be given a name identified with gold the world
over. Ballarat in his native country met the requirement and its name
was adopted.
Shorty Harris discovered The Star, The Elephant, the World Beater, The
St. Patrick. In Tuba, Jail, Surprise, and Goler Canyons more strikes
were made. It is curious that none were made in Happy Canyon.
The production figures of early mines are rarely dependable and the
yield is often confused with that obtained by swindlers from outright
sale or stock promotion. My friend, Oscar Rogers, superintendent, told
me the Radcliffe produced a net profit of approximately $500,000. Less
authentic are figures attributed to the following:
The O. B. Joyful in Tuba Canyon, $250,000; The Gem in Jail Canyon,
$150,000; and Shorty Harris’ World Beater, $200,000.
Among the noted of Ballarat residents was John LeMoyne, a Frenchman. He
discovered a silver mine in Death Valley but the best service he gave
the desert was a recipe for coffee. He walked into Ballarat one day and
had lunch. The lady who owned the cafe asked if everything suited. “All
but the coffee,” John said.
“How do you make your coffee?” she asked.
“Madame, there’s no trick about making good coffee. Plenty coffee. Dam’
little water.”
From one end of Death Valley country to the other, coffee is judged by
John LeMoyne’s standard. You may not always get it, but mention it and
the waiter will know.
For years LeMoyne held his silver claim in spite of offers far beyond
its value, which he believed was $5,000,000. But once when the urge to
return to his beloved France was strong and Goldfield, Tonopah, and
Rhyolite excited the nation, he weakened and decided to accept an offer
said to have been $200,000. “But,” he told the buyers, “it must be
cash.”
After a huddle, John’s demand was met and a check offered. John brushed
it aside. “But this eez not cash,” he complained. No, he wouldn’t go to
town to get the cash. He had work to do. “You get eet.”
Disgusted, the buyers left and John LeMoyne continued to wear his rags,
eat his beans, and dream of La Belle France.
A young Shoshone Indian came into Keeler excited as an Indian ever gets,
looked up Shorty Harris and said: “Short Man, your friend go out. No
come back. Maybe him sick.” It was midsummer, but LeMoyne had undertaken
to reach his claim.
In the bottom of the valley, Shorty identified LeMoyne’s tracks by a
peculiar hobnail which LeMoyne used in his shoes. He followed the tracks
to Cottonwood Spring and there found an old French pistol which he knew
had belonged to LeMoyne. Convinced he was on the right trail, he went on
and after a mile or two met Death Valley Scotty.
“I know why you’re here,” Scotty said. “I’ve just found his body.”
LeMoyne was partially eaten by coyotes and nearby were his dead burros.
Though tethered to the mesquite with slender cotton cords which they
could easily have broken, the patient asses had elected to die beside
him.
And there ended the dream of the glory trail back to the France he
loved. Those who believe in the jinx will find something to sustain
their faith in the record of John LeMoyne’s mine.
After LeMoyne’s death, Wild Bill Corcoran who had made and lost fortunes
in the lush days of Rhyolite, set out from Owens Valley to relocate it.
Never a ranting prohibitionist, Bill believed that the best remedy for
snake bite was likker in the blood when the snake bit. When he reached
Darwin he was not feeling well and stopped long enough for a nip with
friends and to get a youngster to drive his car and help at the camp.
It was midsummer, with record temperature but Bill wanted John LeMoyne’s
mine. Becoming worse in the valley he stopped in Emigrant Canyon and
sent the boy back for a doctor. Bill crawled into an old shack under the
hill. When the boy and the doctor came, they found Bill Corcoran on the
floor, his hand stretched toward a bottle of bootleg liquor. His soul
had gone over the hill.
One after another, five others followed Bill to file on LeMoyne’s claim
and each in turn joined Bill over the hill.
LeMoyne’s Christian name was Jean. His surname has been spelled both
Lemoigne and Lemoine. The claim from which Indians had formerly taken
lead was filed upon by LeMoyne in 1882.
Joe Gorsline, a graduate of Columbia, with a background of wealth, came
to Ballarat during the rush, looked over the town. “Wouldn’t spend
another day in this dump for all the gold in the mint,” he announced. He
had a few drinks, heard a few yarns, eyed a few girls in the honkies. It
was all new to Joe, but something about the informalities of life
appealed to him and in a little while he was renamed Joe Goose.
Then the town’s constable shot its Judge and Ballarat chose him to
succeed the deceased. Not liking the laws of the code, he made a batch
of his own, which were never questioned. While watching the flow of time
and liquor, he “went desert” and put aside the things that might have
been for the more alluring things-as-they-are.
When Ballarat became a ghost town, Joe Gorsline took his body to the
city, but his soul remained and years afterward when he died, a hearse
came down the mountain and in it was Joe Gorsline, home again. He is
buried in a little cemetery out on the flat and in the spring the golden
sun cups, grow all around and you walk on them to get to his grave.
Adding a cultural touch to Ballarat was an English nobleman who “going
desert” tossed his title out of the window, donned overalls and brogans
and promptly earned the approving verdict, “An all right guy.” Soon he
was drinking with the toper and dancing with the demimonde. Like others,
he did his own cooking and washing. He lived in a ’dobe cabin which,
because it was on the main street, had its window shades always down.
But there was one little custom of his British routine he never
abandoned and this was discovered by accident. He stopped in John
Lambert’s saloon one evening before going to his cabin for dinner. He
left his watch on the bar and had gone before Lambert noticed it. An
hour later Lambert, having an opportunity to get away, took the watch to
the cabin. John thus reported what he saw: “He was eating his dinner and
bigod—he had on a white shirt, wing collar, and swallow tail.”
Ballarat chuckled but no one suggested a lynching party. They knew how
deep grow the roots in the soil one loves. “Maybe,” said Lambert,
“that’s why John Bull always wins the last battle. They give up
nothing.”
A familiar figure throughout Death Valley country was
Johnny-Behind-the-Gun—small and wiry and as much a part of the land as
the lizard. His moniker was acquired from his habit of settling disputes
without cluttering up the courts. Johnny, whose name was Cyte, accounted
for three or four sizable fortunes. Having sold a claim for $35,000 he
once bought a saloon and gambling hall in Rhyolite, forswearing
prospecting forever.
Johnny advertised his whiskey by drinking it and the squareness of his
game, by sitting in it. One night the gentleman opposite was overwhelmed
with luck and his pockets bulged with $30,000 of Johnny’s money. Having
lost his last chip, Johnny said, “I’ll put up dis place. Ve play vun
hand and quit.”
Johnny lost. He got up, reached for his hat. “Vell, my lucky friend,
I’ll take a last drink mit you.” He tossed the liquor, lighted a cigar.
“Goodnight, chentlemen,” he said. “I go find me anudder mine.”
Johnny had several claims near the Keane Wonder in the Funeral
Mountains, held by a sufferance not uncommon among old timers, who
respected a notice regardless of legal formalities.
Senator William M. Stewart, Nevada mining magnate, had employed Kyle
Smith, a young mining engineer to go into the locality and see what he
could find. Smith, a capable and likable chap, in working over the
districts, located several claims open for filing by reason of Johnny’s
failure to do his assessment work.
It is not altogether clear what happened between Johnny and Smith, but
Smith’s body was found after it had lain in the desert sun all day.
There being no witnesses the only fact produced by sheriff and coroner
was that Smith was dead. Johnny went free. Other escapades with
Johnny-Behind-the-Gun occurred with such frequency that he was finally
removed from the desert for awhile as the guest of the state.
In a deal with Tom Kelly, Johnny was hesitant about signing some papers
according to an understanding. His trigger quickness was explained to
Kelly who was not impressed. He went to Johnny and asked him to sign up.
Johnny refused. Kelly said calmly, “Johnny, do you see that telephone
pole?”
“Yes, I see. Vot about?”
“If you don’t sign, you’re going to climb it.” Johnny signed. He put his
gun away when he acquired a lodging house at Beatty, where he died in
1944.
Reminiscing one day in the old saloon he had owned, Chris Wichts slapped
the bar: “I’ve taken as much as $65,000 over this old bar in one month.”
He had none of it now but in a little cabin in Surprise Canyon with a
stream running by his door, and a memory that retained only the laughs
of his life, he didn’t need $65,000.
“A city fellow came into the cafe one day. Snooty sort. I told him we
had some nice tender burro steaks. He flew off the handle. Said he
wanted porterhouse or nothing. I served him. When he finished he
apologized for being rude and said his porterhouse was good as he ever
ate. I went into the kitchen and came back with a burro shank, shoved it
in his face and said, ‘Mister, you ate the meat off this burro leg.’ I
thought he’d murder me.”
One day when Ballarat travel was heavy, a dapper passenger dropped off
the stage, entered the saloon, bought a drink and paid for it with a $20
gold piece, getting $19.50 in change. When he’d gone, Shorty Harris
standing by said: “Chris, that money doesn’t sound right.”
Chris examined it. The gold piece had been split, hollowed out and
filled with alloy. Chris worried awhile, then brightened when he noticed
his place was full of loafers playing solitaire; pulling at soggy pipes;
waiting for a “live one.” “Boys,” said Chris, “old Whiskers ain’t
getting much play. Let’s go down and see him.”
Whiskers was his competitor down the street.
A few moments later the bat-wing doors of Whiskers’ place flew open and
Chris and his bums swarmed in. Chris laid an arm on the bar. “What’ll it
be fellows?” Then he turned to the loafers along the walk “Line up, you
guys and have a drink.”
They did and when the drinks were downed, Chris laid the phony gold
piece on the bar, received his change and with his crowd returned to his
bar. An hour later he was still laughing to himself over the trick he’d
played on Whiskers when his own sawed-off doors flapped open and
Whiskers barged in, followed by his own mob of moochers. Whiskers
ordered for the house and laid down the $20. Chris gulped and gave the
change.
That coin circulated in every store and saloon in Ballarat for more than
a year. Everybody knew it was phony, but accepted it without question
and came to regard it with something akin to affection. Then one day a
gentleman in spats came along and the $20 gold piece left forever.
Billy Heider, a slim, genial fellow who had been a hat salesman in a
smart toggery shop in Los Angeles came not for gold but to escape
alimony. His easy smile masked a stubbornness that nothing could
conquer. “... she got a smart lawyer and dated the Judge,” Billy said.
He hung his bench-made suit on a peg, slipped into overalls, cut off one
sleeve of his tuxedo to cover a canteen, spread the rest on the floor
beside his bed to step on in the morning and so—transition. Eventually
he began to prospect, kept at it for 20 years; found nothing, but he
beat alimony.
Usually mines were “salted” in shaft or tunnel to separate the sucker
from his money, but it remained for a Ballarat woman to find a simpler
way.
Michael Sherlock, known as Sparkplug, because of continual trouble with
that feature of his automobile, gave me her formula: “She owned a claim
in Pleasant Canyon that had a showing of gold. She wanted $10,000 for
it. A rich auto dealer came along to look at it. He was worth at least
$5,000,000. She told him to take his mining engineer and get his own
samples and when he got back she’d have a chicken dinner waiting.
“They got the samples, came down, parked the car in front of her house,
got their bellies full of chicken and went back to the city. A couple of
days later the millionaire was back. Couldn’t get his money into her
hands quick enough. Word went out there would be work enough for all
comers and we figured on boom times. But he couldn’t find ore to match
her samples.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“While he was eating chicken dinner that night, her Indian hired man
went out to his auto and switched samples.”
I asked Sparkplug why he didn’t sue her.
“If you had $5,000,000 would you want the whole dam’ state laughing at
you?”
Randsburg, which boomed in the early Eighties as a result of gold
strikes in the Yellow Aster, the King Solomon, and later the Kelly
silver mine, soon became one of the principal eastern gateways to the
Panamint and to Death Valley by way of Granite Wells and Wingate Pass.
A curious story of a man haunted by his conscience is that of William
Dooley and told to me by Dr. Samuel Slocum, who had come to Randsburg
from Arizona after making a fortune in gold.
A howling blizzard had driven everyone from the streets and the campers
in Fiddlers’ Gulch into Billy Hevron’s saloon. Dr. Slocum, lost in the
blinding snow and stumbling along the street, felt with his hands for
walls he couldn’t see, while a barroom noise guided him to the door.
At the bar he saw William Paddock, mining engineer. “Bill, you’re the
man I’m looking for. I can’t find anyone who can tell me how to get to
Goler Canyon in Panamint Valley. You’ve been there and I want you to
draw me a map.”
Paddock, finishing a drink ordered one for Slocum and introduced him to
a man at his side: “This is Mr. Dooley,” Paddock said, and the doctor
saw a great hulk of a man with black whiskers, small eyes, and an uneasy
look. Before a word was spoken Slocum sensed Dooley’s instant dislike of
him.
Slocum ordered a round of drinks. Dooley refused and walked to the
farther end of the bar.
Paddock followed Dooley after a moment, talked with him and returned to
his drink. He said to Slocum: “I’m in a curious situation. I don’t know
much about Dooley, but down in Mexico he saved my life. Now it’s my turn
to save his. He just killed a man in Arizona and came here to hide out.
I’m taking him to Goler Canyon soon as this blizzard is over. He thinks
you are a deputy U. S. Marshal and claims that he has seen you before
and that you are no doctor.”
“He may have seen me in Arizona at Gold Hill,” Slocum said.
“The best way I can help you,” Paddock continued, “is to sign the road
as I go and after a day or two you can follow us.”
On the day following Paddock’s departure Doctor Slocum set out. The next
day he came upon a newly-made grave, outlined with stone. On a redwood
board used for the marker was carved this inscription:
_“Here lies Bill Dooley who died by giving Wm. Paddock the dam’ lie.”_
With no reason to shed tears, the Doctor following Paddock’s signs,
reached Goler Canyon, made camp and knowing that Paddock intended to
occupy a stone cabin farther up the gulch, he started up the trail. He’d
gone only a short distance when he saw Paddock approaching, waving his
arms in a signal for Slocum to go back. The Doctor stopped.
When Paddock came down he said, “For God’s sake, Doc, get back to your
camp. Dooley is behind that big boulder above us with a Winchester
trained on you.”
“Why, I thought he was dead....”
“No,” Paddock smiled grimly. “He worked all night digging that grave.
Said it would throw you off his trail. I can’t get it out of his head
you’re a marshal.”
Slocum had made a gruelling trip to free and open country and he had no
intention of being driven out. “I’ll go up and talk to him,” he said.
Paddock warned him that it would be useless and might be fatal, but
Slocum insisted and they went up the trail, Paddock going in front to
shield him.
Dooley was outside the cabin with a rifle in the crook of his arm, his
finger on the trigger.
Slocum was unarmed. He calmly assured Dooley he was not an officer; that
he had no intention of disclosing Dooley’s whereabouts, “But this is
free country and I intend to stay.”
Dooley’s reaction was a noncommittal grunt. However, violence was
avoided. When the Doctor returned to his camp, Paddock decided it would
be best to accompany him as a measure of safety. Explaining to Dooley
that he would remain with the Doctor to inspect a claim, he remained as
a body-guard for three days. On the fourth he went up to the stone cabin
and discovered Dooley had loaded his wagon with all the camp equipment
and supplies, including a green water keg and left for parts unknown.
Just across the range was Hungry Bill’s country. A year or so afterward
Doctor Slocum, crossing the mountains into Death Valley, stopped at
Hungry Bill’s Six Spring Canyon Ranch and noticed a green cask. Hungry
Bill said that he had found the keg floating on the ooze near Badwater.
“Somewhere under that ooze,” Doctor Slocum said, “lies Bill Dooley, his
team, his wagon, and its load.”
An interesting character of this area was Toppy Johnson, who scouted for
Senator George Hearst and later had charge of copper claims belonging to
William Randolph Hearst, near Granite Wells.
While there, Toppy employed Aunt Liza, a negro cook. Aunt Liza came from
Randsburg with an enormous trunk. She was a good cook, but an awful
thief and nearly everything Toppy owned except the furniture disappeared
piece by piece. When his razor vanished he looked through the trunk and
found the loot. He didn’t want to lose Aunt Liza, so he removed a few of
the more needed things, leaving the rest to be recovered by instalments.
Thereafter it was a game of losing and retrieving.
As strange a coincidence as I’ve ever heard attended the end of Toppy
Johnson. Sent to Mexico when Pancho Villa was overrunning the country,
he fled to Mazatlan when Pancho announced he would shoot on sight both
native and foreigners who were not in sympathy with his marauding.
All boats were crowded with refugees, both native and alien, but Toppy
was permitted to join the hundreds willing to sleep on deck. Toppy
unwittingly chose a spot over the saloon where drunken celebrants soon
began shooting at the ceiling.
A shot penetrated the flooring of the craft’s deck and Toppy’s abdomen.
An American physician sleeping alongside was awakened by Toppy’s groans,
attended him, but saw there was no hope. The physician asked his name,
the object being to notify the victim’s relatives.
“If my doctor were only here,” Toppy moaned, “he could save me.”
“Who is your doctor?”
“Dr. Samuel Slocum, of Pasadena,” Toppy said, and died.
The physician was Dr. Slocum’s nephew.
Thirty-four miles south of Ballarat at the end of a narrow canyon
leading from Wingate Pass road into Death Valley, one comes upon a
breath-taking riot of color. Pink hills. Blue hills. Hills of dazzling
white, mottled with black and green. Yellow hills. Maroon and jade
hills.
A gentleman of fine fancy and fluent tongue passed that way, learned
that under the hills was a deposit of epsom salts. Then he went to
Hollywood where salts met money. He talked convincingly of nature’s drug
store. “Just sink a shovel into the ground and up comes two dollars’
worth of medicine recommended by every doctor in the country. No
educating the public. Everybody knows epsom salts.”
There was no flaw in that argument and Hollywood dipped into its
pockets. A mono rail was strung from Searles’ Lake over the Slate Range
through Wingate Pass and up the slopes to the pink hills. There rose
Epsom City. For awhile the balanced cars scooted along that gleaming
rail, bearing salts to market—dreams of wealth to Hollywood.
But the world had enough salts, Epsom City failed. Nothing is left to
remind one of the incredible folly but a few boards and a pile of bones.
The bones are those of wild burros slaughtered by vandals who in a
project as inhuman as ever excited lust for money, went through the
country and killed the helpless animals, to be sold to manufacturers of
chicken and dog food.
A singular character known as Dad Smith, who had come to California with
John C. Fremont was one of the earliest settlers at Post Office Springs.
Smith had been a scout with Kit Carson in the Apache wars in Arizona and
returned to the lower Panamint in 1860, to hunt gold in Butte Valley,
where, nearing 90 he dug a tunnel 100 feet in length. Found there
delirious, with pneumonia, by Dr. Samuel Slocum, he was removed to the
Doctor’s camp where Mrs. Slocum nursed him through his convalescence.
When he recovered he decided to give Mrs. Slocum a token of his
gratitude.
At the time, Barstow and Daggett were the most convenient stations for
prospectors in the southerly area. At Daggett they likkered at Mother
Featherlegs’. At Barstow they bought at Judge Gooding’s store or at Aunt
Hannah’s, and drank at Sloan and Hart’s saloon. Dad’s money, as was that
of others, was left with them for safe keeping. So he walked every mile
of a ten days’ round trip to get a box of chocolates for Mrs. Slocum. A
little chore like that made no difference to Dad. He encountered a
desert rain and arrived at the Slocum cabin drenched. They persuaded him
to remain overnight and led him to a tent.
Seeing that water dripped from Dad’s blankets, Dr. Slocum went for dry
bedding. When he returned, Dad had his own bedding spread on the ground.
“Here, Dad—take this dry bedding....”
“Not on your life,” Dad said as he crawled into his own. “I’d catch
cold, sure as hell.”
Two noted athletes of the period went into the Panamint for a vacation.
When they asked for a guide, they were told to get Dad, but after
looking him over they decided he lacked stamina, but engaged him when
they could find no one else. The route was over the Panamint into Death
Valley and back through Redlands Canyon—a trip to test the hardiest.
On the third day Dad returned alone. Asked about his companions, he
grumbled: “They’re down and out. Now I’ve got to haul ’em in.”
He took his burros, lashed the victims securely on the beasts and
brought them in.
Remembered by oldsters, was Archie McDermot, a big fellow of
unbelievable strength who was an all-purpose employee of Dr. Slocum.
While they were camped at Barstow one night, Archie went up town to pass
a cheerful hour and during the course of the evening a brawl started and
Archie suddenly found himself the object of a mass attack by five burly
miners. Archie knocked them down as they came, threw them out and
returned to his drinking. The constable went in to take Archie. Archie
tossed him through the door. The officer didn’t want to kill him, and
collecting a posse of four brawny helpers, tried again. Archie pitched
them out.
Being a friend of Slocum, the constable now went to see the Doctor.
“Doc, can’t you come down and do something about Archie? Knowing how you
need him, I don’t want to kill him....”
Doctor Slocum went, discovered that Archie, after throwing everybody out
of the place, had seized the long heavy bar, turned it on its side and
was sitting on the edge with a bottle in each hand. Doctor Slocum
regarded the wreckage and then Archie. “Good Lord, Archie, what have you
done?”
“Nothing, Doc,” Archie said. “Just having a nip. Take one on the
house....”
“What about this fight?”
“Fight?” repeated Archie. “Oh, that—some fellows tried to start a little
ruckus but I didn’t pay much attention to it.”
But if Archie had no fear of a dozen live men, he was terrorized by a
dead one.
Doctor and Mrs. Slocum, with Archie, were leaving their camp in the
Panamint. The thermometer under the canopy of the vehicle registered 135
degrees—hot for an April day, even in Death Valley country. As they
drove along, the Doctor noticed some clothing on a bush. “Seems
strange,” he said. “Let’s look around.”
Archie skirmished through the bushes. Presently he returned, his face
white, horror in his eyes. He grabbed the wagon wheel, his quivering
bulk shaking the heavily loaded vehicle. “For God’s sake, Doc. Go and
look!”
The Doctor saw a sight as pitiable as it is ever man’s lot to see—a
young fellow dying from thirst on the desert. His protruding tongue
split in the middle. Unable to speak, though retaining a spark of life.
The fingers of both hands worn to stubs.
Kneeling, Doctor Slocum asked the victim where he came from; where he
wished to go. No sign came from the staring eyes. Finally the Doctor
said, “We want to help you. We have water. We’re going to take you
home.” At the mention of home, a feeble smile came, and two tears, the
last two drops in that wasted body, rolled down his cheeks and dried in
the desert sun and then he died. There was nothing to do but bury the
body.
“You’ll have to help me, Archie,” the Doctor said.
A look of terror came into Archie’s eyes. “Doc,” he pleaded, “ask me
anything but that....”
The man who’d cleaned up Barstow, quailed in superstitious fear at the
thought of touching the dead.
They looked around for a place to dig a grave. But the country was
covered with malpai and lava rock and they couldn’t dig in it. The
Doctor wrapped the body in a piece of canvas and Mrs. Slocum aided in
lifting it into the wagon. She drove the team while the Doctor and
Archie walked along, looking for loose earth and finally found a spot.
Archie dug the grave. The Doctor lowered the body and Archie with shut
eyes, filled the grave.
A press story of the finding brought a flood of letters from all parts
of the country. Such stories always do. From mothers, wives,
sweethearts—but none from men. It’s always the woman who cares.
Such deaths are due to inexperience. This boy had no canteen. Just
around the corner of a jutting hill was Lone Willow Spring.
Though scarcely a vestige remains, there was once a town at Lone Willow.
Saloons and an enormous dance hall lured the Bad Boys and there the
trail ended for scores reported as missing men.
Cyclone Wilson, a nephew of Shady Myrick who built a sizable export
trade in gem stones, and for whom Myrick Springs is named, was taking a
wagon load of Chinese coolies to work at Old Harmony. All Chinamen
looked alike to Cyclone and he didn’t know that these were newcomers. It
was his custom to discharge his passengers at the foot of a steep hill
near Lone Willow and require them to walk to the top.
As usual, upon reaching this grade he set his brakes and waited for the
coolies to get out. None moved, then he ordered them out. The Chinamen
sat in stony silence. He repeated the order with no result other than
jabber among themselves. Angered, Cyclone reached for his long
blacksnake whip. It had a “cracker” on the end of which was a buckshot.
With unerring accuracy he aimed the whip at the nearest coolie and
overboard he went. The others leaped out and drawing knives from their
big loose sleeves, massed for assault.
Cyclone reached for a pistol—always carried on the wagon seat, and
started shooting. His toll was five Chinamen.
The cause of the murders, it was later learned, was due entirely to the
fact that none of the Chinamen had understood a word Cyclone had spoken.
A Chinaman at Lone Willow, who spoke English made his countrymen bury
the dead.
Today Ballarat is a ghost town and soon every trace of it will be gone.
Roofless walls lift like prayerful arms to gods that are deaf.
In the late afternoon when the shadows of the Argus Range have crept
across the valley, a few old timers come out of leaning dobes and stand
bareheaded to look about. The afterglow of a sun is upon the peaks and
the afterglow of dreams in their hearts. They people the empty streets
with men long dead, some in unmarked graves in the little cemetery on
the flat just beyond the town. Some on the trails, God only knows where.
These dead they see pass in and out of the old saloons. These dead they
hear again. Glasses tinkle, slippered feet dance again.
Tomorrow? Their pale eyes lift to the canyons and though dimmed a
little, they see one hundred billion dollars.
What of Shoshone? It remains with changes of course. The shanties hauled
from Greenwater have been hauled somewhere else. No longer do I step
from my car as I have so often and call to those on the bench. “Move
over, fellows” and hear their familiar greeting: “Where the hell _you_
been?”
Instead, I drive to an air conditioned cabin and stroll back to the
former site of the bench, so long the social center. There I see a sign
over a door which reads, “Crowbar” and I enter a dreamy cavern with
dimmed, rosy lights, hear the music of ice against glass and refuse to
believe the startling sight of an honest-to-goodness old timer tending
bar in a clean white shirt.
Likewise I balk at the white lines I walk between as I cross the asphalt
road to the store.
But above Shoshone the same blue skies stretch without end over a world
apart, and under them are the same uncrowded trails; the same far
horizons for the vagabond’s foot and the peace “which passeth all
understanding.”
INDEX
A
Amargosa River, 96
American Potash and Chemical Co., 33
Archilette Spring, 95
Augerreberry, Pete, 58
B
Ballarat, 175
Ballarat Mines, production figures, 176
Beatty, Monte, 53, 77
Benson, Myra, 68, 133-134-135
Benson, Jack, 133-134-135
Bennett, Bellerin’ Teck, 23
Bennett, Charles, freighter, 31
Bennett’s Well, 21
Black Mountain, story of, 20, 60-61
Bodie, toughest of the Gold Towns, 74
Borax, discovery of, 26
Bradbury Well, 76
Bowers, Sandy, gets a fortune for a board bill, 74
Brannan, Sam, Mormon leader, 95
Brandt, “Arkansas” Ben, 71, 83, 138
Breyfogle, Jacob; stories of, 154
Brown, Charles, Deputy Sheriff at Greenwater; store at Shoshone;
road builder, supervisor, superintendent of Lila C. Mine
at Dale; elected to senate; Chap. XV, 102
Brown (nee Fairbanks) Stella, 69, 71, 104-105, 107, 116, 135
Brougher Wils, at Tonopah, 49
Bruce, Jimmy, private graveyard, 168
Bullfrog Mine, discovered, 53-54-55
Butler, James, discoverer of Tonopah silver, 48-49-50, 59
Bulette, Julia, famed madam of Virginia City, 74
C
Cahill, Washington, Borax Co. official, 35-36
Calico Mountains, 15
Calico, stories of, 15, 16
Carrillo, Jose Antonio, 97
Carson, Kit, guide and scout in Shoshone country, 20, 93-94-95
Casey, John “Cranky,” noted desert character, 136, 137-138
Cave Spring, 134
Cazaurang, Jean, wealthy miser, death of, 100-101
China Ranch, stories of, 80, 94
Clark, W. A., 60
Clark, “Patsy,” 60
Coleman, W. T., 27-28, 30
Comstock, “Pancake,” famous lode named for; buys a woman; suicide,
48, 74
Corcoran, “Wild Bill,” famous prospector; death of, 58, 177
Counterfeit gold piece, 179-180
Cross, Ed, partner and co-discoverer of Bullfrog Mine, 53
D
Dayton, James, superintendent Furnace Creek Ranch, death of,
35-36, 122
Dante’s View, 151
Davis, Buford, buys Noonday Mine; death of, 158
Death Valley, cause of; history of, geology, temperatures; first
settlers, 19
Decker, Judge, convivial Ballarat Justice of Peace, murdered, 62
Delameter, John, early freighter, 156
Diamond Tooth Lil, glamorous madam, 62-63
Dooley, William, bad man, 181-182-183
Driscoll, Dan, partner of Shorty Harris, 91, 120
Dublin Gulch, 69
Dumont, Eleanor, (Madame Moustache), charmer of the Forty Niners,
74
E
Eichbaum, Bob, toll road, 21
Egbert, Adrian, at Cave Spring, 134
Epsom City, salts deposit; mono rail, 184
F
Fairbanks, Ralph Jacobus, at Ash Meadows; at Greenwater; at
Shoshone, stories of; death; Ch. XVI, 104-105, 108,
110-111
Fairbanks, Celestia Abigail, 105
Fennimore, James, “Old Virginny”; named Virginia City; swapped
Ophir Mine for blind pony, 74
Flake, Sam, old timer, poker student, death, 68, 78
Fremont, John C., 93
French, Dr. Darwin, seeks Lost Gunsight, names Darwin Falls and
town of, 21
Funston, General Frederick, identifies and names Death Valley
flora, 24
G
Gayhart, W. C., assayer, part owner of Tonopah Discovery Mine,
49-50
George, “Rocky Mountain,” 76
Godey, Alex, Fremont scout, fights Indians at Resting Springs, 94
Goldfield, named, 50
Goodwin, Ray, park official, 147, 149
Gorsline, Joe, Ballarat Judge, 177-178
Gower, Harry, Borax Co. official, mgr. Furnace Creek Ranch, 41
Grandpa Springs, hole-in for old time prospectors, 50
Grantham, Louise, girl prospector, 139
Gray, Fred, Ballarat prospector, 116
Gray, W. B., 77
Greenwater, copper strike, stories of, 60, 63
Gunsight Mine, 21-22, 157-158
H
“Happy Bandits” (Small and McDonald), 164-165, 167-168
Harris, Frank “Shorty,” Ch. XVII, 113
Harrisburg, scene of gold strike, 57, 114
Harmon, Pete, misses millions, 117
Hellgate Pass, 64
Heider, Billy, flees alimony, 180
Heinze, August, Copper King, 60
Henderson, W. T., names Telescope Peak, kills Joaquin Murietta,
famous bandit, and pickles head; sees victim’s ghost,
164-165
Hilton, Frank, finds body of James Dayton, 36
Hoagland George, burial of, 72-73
Holmes, Helen, story of thriller, “Perils of Pauline,” 127
Hungry Hattie, Ballarat character, 119
Huhn, Ernest (Siberian Red), diligent prospector, 68
Hungry Bill, Panamint chief, 87
Hunt, Capt. Jefferson, Mormon guide; prominent in California
culture, 21
I
Ickes, Harold, visits Shoshone, 149-150
Indians of the desert, conflicting opinions of, Ch. VII, 43
Indian George Hansen, owner of Indian Ranch, discovered silver at
Panamint City, 154, 155, 171-172-173
Ishmael, George, 152
J
Johnnie Mine, 90
Johnson, Albert, owner and builder of Scotty’s Castle, 133
Johnson, Bob, tamps friend’s grave, 72-73
Johnson, Toppy, supt. of desert mine of W. R. Hearst, 183
Jones, Herman, discovered Red Wing Mine, road builder, 72, 142
Jones, J. P., Nev. silver king at Panamint city, 23, 166, 170
Johnny-Behind-the-Gun, 178-179
K
Kellogg, Lois, owner of Manse Ranch, 101
Kempfer, Don, mining engineer, official of Sierra Talc. Co., 158
L
Lee, Philander, owner of Resting Springs Ranch, 97
Lee, Cub, built first house at Shoshone, slays wife and son, 98
Lee, John D., established Lee’s Ferry; executed for massacre of
emigrants at Mountain Meadows, 90
Lee, “Shoemaker,” 98
Legend of Swamper Ike, 173-174
Le Moyne, Jean, recipe for coffee, story of mine, death, 176-177
Lone Willow, murders at, 186
Longstreet, Jack, Ash Meadows bad man, 90
Lost Mines, all of Ch. XXII, 154-163
M
Main, Eddie, 69, 78
McDermot, Archie, Strong Man, 185
McGarn, “Whitey Bill,” 70, 78, 138
Manly, William Lewis, 23, 157, 161
Manse Ranch, 155
Metbury Spring, first name of Shoshone, 72
Myers, Al, discoverer of Gold Field, 50
Modine, Dan, deputy sheriff, early owner of China Ranch, 63, 68,
84
Montgomery, Bob, owner of Montgomery Shoshone Mine, buys Skidoo
discovery claim on sight, 54-56
Murray, Billy, saves John S. Cook Bank and Goldfield from “run,”
51
Murietta, Joaquin, 95
Myrick, Shady, exports gem stones, 186
N
Nadeau, Remi, genius of transportation, 169
Nagle, Dave, 166
Naylor, George, sheriff, treasurer, supervisor of Inyo Co., 102
Nels, Dobe Charlie, at Bodie; at Shoshone, 74-75
Noble, Levi, geologist, 39-40-41
O
Oakes, Sir Harry; in Alaska; at Greenwater; at Shoshone; makes
strike in Canada; builds palace at Niagara Falls; knighted
by King George V; slain by son-in-law, it is said—a
renegade French count, in Bahamas, 105, 111-112
Oddie, Tasker, mining tycoon, 49-50, 60
Owens Valley, rape of, 147-148
P
Pacific Coast Borax Co., organized, 28-29
Pahrump Ranch, 23
Panamint City, 166-167-168
Panamint Tom, story of, 23, 109
Perry, J. W. S., supt. Borax Co., designer of 20 mule team wagons,
31
Pietsch, Henry, shot Ballarat judge, 62
Plato, Joe, on the Comstock Lode, 76
Post Office Spring, early army post, 175
R
Radcliffe Mine, 175
Raines, E. P., genial crook, 165-166
Randsburg, gold discovered at, 181
Rasor, Clarence, Borax Co. official, 151
Resting Springs, named by Mormons, 96
Rich, Charles, Mormon pioneer, 96
Rickard, sports promoter, 51
“Rocky Mountain” George, prospector, 76, 77
Rogers, John, Bennett-Arcane party, 21
Rosie, squaw, love life of, 88
Ryan, Joe, desert philosopher, 70-71, 73, 82
Rhyolite, discovery of gold, 54-55
S
Saratoga Springs, 93
Schwab, Charles M., at Rhyolite; at Greenwater, 55, 60
Scott, Bob, discoverer of Confidence Mine, 91
Scott, Mary, squaw, 90
Scott, Walter, “Death Valley Scotty,” 69, Ch. XIX, 130
Scrugham, James, Governor and U.S. Senator of Nevada, 77
Searles, John, 32-33, 159
Sherlock, Michael, “Sparkplug,” 180
Skidoo, gold strike, 55-56
Slim, Death Valley, bad man, 102-103
Slim, Jackass, Ch. II, 20; Ch. XI, 64-65
Slocum, Dr. Samuel, 181-186
Smith, Francis M. (“Borax Smith”), 29-33, 38
Smith, “Dad,” Old Man of the Mountains; came with Kit Carson, 184
Smith, Pegleg, 97-98-99
Snake House, 78
Sorrells, Maury, 138
Stewart, Wm. R., Nevada Senator, mines at Panamint City, 23, 170
Stiles, Ed, first driver of 20 mule team, 31, 35, 37
Stump Springs, 23
Stovepipe Wells, 21
T
Teck, Bellowin’, 23
Tecopa Cap, Indian Chief, 78, 79
Tecopa Hot Spring, 79
Tecopa, John, discoverer of Johnnie Mine, 90
Telescope Peak, 22, 93, 139
Temperature in Death Valley, 41, 42
Tonopah, discovery of silver, 50, 51
Towne’s Pass, named, 21
Trona, 33
Twenty-mule team, first driver, design of, 31
Tule Hole, story of, 35, 36-37
V
Vasquez, Tiburcio, bandit terror, 169
Volmer, Joe, 141
W
Wagons, 20 mule team, design of, 31
Wamack, Bob, at Confidence Mine, 91
Weed, Tom, noted Indian, death of, 89-90
Wichts, Chris, noted Ballarat character, story of, 61, 179
Williams, George, 142
Williams, Bill, preacher and plunderer, 96-97
Wilson, Cyclone, massacre of Chinamen at Lone Willow, 186, 187
Wingfield, George, famous gambler, luck of, 51
Winters, Aaron and Rosie, discovered borax in Death Valley, 26
Wolfskill, 92
Y
Younger, Tillie, member of Jesse James guerrillas, dies at
Shoshone, 73
Yundt, John, Lee and Sam, owners of Manse Ranch, 99-100
_The Author_
Nearly every newspaperman looks forward to the time when he can get away
from the pressure of his journalistic job and retire to a little cottage
by the sea, or a cabin in the mountains, and write a book.
The only difference between William Caruthers—Bill, to his friends—and a
majority of the others is that he did write his book on the spot,
preserved it and after retiring to his orange grove near Ontario,
California he got around to the job of revision, which resulted in these
pages.
Born on the banks of the Cumberland River in Tennessee, Caruthers’
career as a journalist began when he became editor of the local weekly
paper at the age of 16. He took the job, he explains, because no one
else wanted it.
His family wanted him to be a lawyer, and in compliance with their
wishes he returned to school and was admitted to the bar in Tennessee
when he was 19. But he wanted to be a newspaperman, and vowed that when
he won his first $2,000 fee he would quit law. Successful as a young
lawyer, the time soon came when he won a tough case against a big
insurance company—and that was his chance. He closed his law office
forever.
For a time he was editor of Illustrated Youth and Age, the largest
monthly in the South. He wrote feature articles for the Nashville
American, Nashville Banner, the old New York World, the Christian
Science Monitor, fiction for Collier’s Weekly and other important
magazines. His writings have appeared in most Western magazines.
After coming to California he first went to work on the Los Angeles
Examiner, quitting that job to become a publisher and his little
magazine, _The Bystander_ gained nationwide circulation. While editing
this magazine he became editor of Los Angeles’ first theatrical
magazine, _The Rounder_, which was a “must” on the list of early movie
stars and soon discovered that the most lucrative field for a journalist
was in ghost writing. As a “ghost” he addressed big political
conventions, assemblies of governors and mayors and in one instance, a
jury as the prosecutor. One eastern industrialist paid him a fabulous
fee when the address Caruthers wrote for him brought a great ovation.
Finally his physician warned him to slow down. It was then—in 1926—that
he came to the desert, and, during the intervening 25 years, has spent
much of his time in the Death Valley region. He has witnessed the
transition of Death Valley from a prospector’s hunting ground to a mecca
for winter tourists. This is a book of the old days in Death Valley.
Transcriber’s Notes
—Retained publication information from the printed edition: this eBook
is public-domain in the country of publication.
—Corrected a few palpable typos.
—Added page numbers to plates (in roman numerals).
—Included a transcription of the text within some images.
—In the text versions only, text in italics is delimited by
_underscores_.