specimens, and watched me “eat ‘em up” — figuratively, of course. I knew
that it would have been unethical, if not worse, for him to have offered
to give me a specimen, especially at a time when all that “high-grading”
was going on in Nevada, particularly at the Goldfield Consolidated
Mines.
Satisfied that I had been sufficiently impressed, the manager turned
to Frank—they were old associates, you know—suggesting that he might be
interested in having a look at the work-sheet, blue-print, or something
of other entertaining, on the desk. When Frank was sufficiently
absorbed, with back to me, the manager stepped out the door, “whowhoed”
and gestured—probably held up two fingers — which I afterwards
interpreted to mean he was making known to someone he would have guests
for dinner. And I still think I read the signals aright. Anyway,
my hurriedly selected specimen had only the gold content of one
double-eagle—and that would have been grand larceny in my state.
I do not know if the Keystone maintained a change-room, such as the
management of the Goldfield Consolidated was compelled to install about
this time to cope with its “high-graders,” But the Keystone had had
experience with “high-graders.” Frank said that in earlier days,
off-shift miners would ride the ore-wagons down to the mill in the
Mesquite Valley near the town of Sandy, dropping rich pieces of gold ore
by the roadside for their confederates, following on foot, to gather up.
At the Consolidated Mines in Goldfield every miner on coming off
shift, besides having to shed his work clothes before he could pass
the doorkeeper to get to his street clothes, was compelled to say “Ah!”
Perhaps you can think of some other way a stripped miner might conceal a
bit of gold? The miners did. And the detection of that unique manner of
“high-grading” precipitated a riot that had to be quelled by the state
militia. The Union miners agreed, magnanimously, to submit to the new
order of things—provided that they be permitted to name the doorkeeper
from their own ranks. The Consolidated had broken into some extremely
rich ore, streaks of almost pure gold—and the miners were averse to
overlooking any bets.
Back at the lead-zinc mine, Myrtle told us what she had experienced in
Goodsprings during the week when Frank and I were at Crescent. As
the wife of the partner of Frank Williams—no intent of implying self
importance—she was at once taken into the hearts of the camp people.
Perhaps her own personality was a factor. She had met, at the hotel, Mr
and Mrs. Potter, of the Columbia mine; Mr and Mrs. McCarthy, (he was the
surveyor); and Harry Riddell, the assayer—all late of Boston. And she
had really begun to love the desert, with its ultra-sociable people.
Even Mrs. Yount’s squaw cook—maybe she was only kitchen help—a Paiute
Indian woman from up Pahrump way, Myrtle said, was friendly.
And, best of all, the camp children had supplied her daily—except of
course those two days when Mr. Springer’s Gila Monster had the run
of the camp—with a bouquet of wild flowers gathered from the mountain
slopes. She loved that.
Also, she had enjoyed, particularly when with the children, watching a
reddish-brown dog resembling a cocker spaniel, ride a horse, standing up
behind a man. A prospector working a claim up near the summit, five or
six miles out, rode a bay horse daily out of Goodsprings, to and from
his work—always with the dog standing on the horse’s back. As it was a
daily occurrence, the children had become accustomed to seeing the dog
ride the horse—but they were especially anxious for Myrtle to view the
spectacle, with them. Myrtle had met, and visited with, some of the
children’s mothers. One of the women was from Soldier, Kansas, near our
home. In fact, with faithful Elwood Thomas as escort, Myrtle had been
pretty much all over the camp — except of course saloon row on the north
side—Hobson street I believe it was called. Elwood had told her it was
not the lowest spot in Nevada, but even so, it was no place for a lady.
Myrtle had now really caught the spirit of the West. She was actually
planning on the spending of the yet undelivered profits of the mine, on
a home in Goodsprings. Everyone had told her that we were on the high
road to a big success. Our home would be on the “bench” near Charley
Byram’s place, where we could be sure of getting water. Bachelor
Charley Byram, I believe, had the only private well, with windmill, in
Goodsprings. He was the son of August Byram, former partner of Green
Campbell, in the sensationally rich Horn Silver mine at Frisco, Utah.
Born in Atchison, Kansas, Charley was now — in Nevada and Los Angeles,
where he lived with his mother and sister — -a typical Westerner,
seemingly without the proper appreciation of a native son for his old
home town. He said to me, “The last time I was back in Atchison,
two years ago, I could have fired a shotgun down the full length
of Commercial street without hitting a soul.” To one who knows the
unobstructed and flat straightness of Commercial street, it seemed as if
he should have been able to do better than that. Charley would have to
up his sights and show marksmanship if he were to hit pay ore on his
claims up in the porphyry zone. I believe he missed in this.
Myrtle said she wanted flowers, lots of roses, and green grass—a show
spot, sort of oasis in the desert as it were. Something that everybody
else didn’t have. Well, I too had been caught by the spell. Why not let
her have them? Contingent, however, on one little reservation. Only if,
and when, the lead-zinc mine should give up its treasure. We couldn’t
spend all that money living a prosaic life.
Before leaving Goodsprings for California, Myrtle said to me, “Let’s
come back this way. I’d love it. And since you think you are so good at
discovering zinc overlooked by your partner, maybe YOU could, after all,
find gold in ‘them thar hills’.”
Might say here that eight years later Myrtle had the chance to repay the
old miner, Elwood Thomas, for his kindness by entertaining him in our
home. Elwood — just in from Nevada — came into the Wetmore hotel one
evening about eight o’clock when I happened to be present. Also, Henry
McCreery—sometimes affectionately called “Henry Contrary”—Elwood’s
brother-in-law, was in the hotel office at the time. We had a good visit
together. When Henry was ready to go home he said, “Well, Elwood, I’d
like to ask you to go home with me for the night — but I’m afraid Becky
wouldn’t like it.” Becky Thornton was Henry’s sister and housekeeper—his
wife Patience, Elwood’s sister, having passed on some years earlier.
Elwood said, “Oh, it’s all right. Maybe I ought to go out and see the
Old Man” — meaning his bachelor brother Manning, living a half mile east
of town. Elwood was the oldest and Manning was the youngest in a family
of seven children—but the older one was the younger in appearance. I
said, “Come along with me, Elwood—I know Myrtle will be glad to see
you.” And she was. They had done Goodsprings all over again before
retiring that night. And, sadly, we were to see our very fine old friend
laid to rest in the Wetmore cemetery within the week. He was fatally
injured in a horse-and-buggy accident while visiting his daughter, Mrs.
Maude Ralston, in Holton.
Elwood had told us that he had a message from a miner in Goodsprings to
deliver to a woman in Wetmore, but he could not remember her name. The
wife and I put in a portion of the night trying to figure out who it
might be with a connection out there. The next morning after breakfast,
I went with Elwood down to the Spectator office. Editor Turrentine
gave him a personal, with comment, naming the man in Goodsprings whose
message Elwood would like to deliver, if he could find the woman. It
brought results. Mrs. Nels Rasmus drove over to Holton the day following
publication — and received her message. Mr. Thomas had gone over there
to visit his daughter. Mrs. Rasmus had lived in the home of P. T. Casey,
the Corning banker. I believe she was an adopted child. The Good-springs
miner was connected in some way with one or the other of the two Corning
families.
Two years later—1917—I chanced to meet this man with a stalled Model T
Ford near the summit west of Goodsprings, on a very slippery road, deep
in snow and slush. In the car with me, were Joe Walter, Frank and John
Williams, and the driver. We were coming down the grade, and he had been
going up. Recognizing the name on introduction, I asked him—just to be
sociable—what was wrong with his car? He answered rather smartly, “If I
knew I wouldn’t be here.” It was probably a very correct answer — but
I thought it was no way to dismiss a fellow who had a message from Mrs.
Rasmus for him.
NOTE—Frank Williams died in a hospital in Las Vegas. Nevada, December
19, 1947. This story is printed, without change, just as it was written
prior to his death.
MONEY MUSK Published in Wetmore Spectator—
January 24, 1936.
By John T. Bristow
The deep snows of the past month recall the winters back a half century,
and more. It seems there was always snow on the ground in the winter
months then.
In the early days, besides making boots and shoes, my father, William
Bristow, hunted and trapped a good deal, whenever he could spare the
time from his business. Always one or more of his boys would go with him
on those outings. We all loved the outdoors—and with my father we were
like pals.
Among his catches were mink, raccoons, lynx, bobcats, and sometimes a
catamount. The catamount was an overgrown wildcat between the bobcat and
the cougar in size. The largest one he ever caught weighed sixty-seven
pounds. There are none here now.
My father did not trap for the little fur-bearing, stink-throwing skunk,
but often one would be found in one of his mink traps. Then, from a safe
distance, he would shoot the skunk, carefully remove it, and deodorize
the steel trap by burning before making another set.
The time came, though, when my father thought he might just as well save
the skunk pelts. Skunk fur was in demand at a good price, the best skins
bringing around four dollars. My father was not avaricious. But times
were close—and he had many mouths to feed. And four dollars was four
dollars.
My mother, of course, did not like to have her home polluted with skunk
essence—and her boys refused to help with the skinning. So, when my
father would find a well-marked skunk in one of his mink traps he would
say, rather sadly, as he tossed it aside, “That’s four dollars thrown
away.”
Then, one Sunday when William Peters was along—he was called Methuselah,
or Thuse, for short—my father found a big skunk in one of his traps. It
had fine markings. He said, “I’ll skin this one, if Thuse will help
me.” Thuse said he didn’t mind; he had trapped and skinned a lot of them
without getting stunk up.
It was a cold day—ice and snow everywhere. And while they skinned that
skunk my brother Charley and I built a roaring fire with the scaley bark
ripped off standing shell-bark hickory trees, and some fallen dead tree
limbs picked out of the deep snow.
When they had finished skinning the skunk my father walked over to the
fire and threw the carcass into the flames. He and Thuse then went over
to an open spring that came out from under the roots of a big elm tree
on the Theodore Wolfley farm west of town, and washed their hands. They
had returned to the fire and were bending over the blaze drying their
hands, when my father said, “So you boys think you’re too nice to help
your old daddy skin a skunk.” He laughed. Methuselah chuckled. Then,
spreading his hands with a sort of satisfied air, my father said, “It’s
as easy as falling off a log when you know how.” Thuse chuckled again,
and said, “Pshaw—of course it is!” And then, as if giving instructions
for his sons to note, my father went on, “I shot him in the head before
he had time to kick up a stink and of course we were careful not to cut
into the stink-sack.”
Charley said, “Smart guys—you two.” Father gave him a withering look,
but said nothing.
Thus chagrined, Charley and I started away to gather some more fuel.
Then there was a sharp pop—a sort of explosion, as it were—in the fire.
We looked around into an atmosphere suddenly made blue with sickening
fumes and sulphurous words of condemnation. We saw Pop clawing
frantically at his whiskers—he wore a full beard then—and the two
Willies were dancing around the fire like Comanche Indians.
It was all so sudden. That darned skunk carcass, as if in a last noble
effort of defense, had exploded and the contents of that carefully
handled stink-sack was hurled at those two self-assured skinners, with
my father’s whiskers as the central target for some of the solids. Pugh!
It was awful!
Adopting Indian lingo, Charley laughed, “Heap brave skunk-skinners!”
Father said, “I don’t like the way you said that, young man. One more
crack out of you—and I’ll tan your hide.” But he wouldn’t have done
that. Charley was a model of perfection, and no one appreciated that
fact more than did his daddy.
Now, have a look at Thuse. A weazened little wisp of a man in his
twenties—wrinkled, uncouth, slouched in his clothes always much too big
for him, he looked as if he had already lived a goodly portion of the
long span of years accredited to the ancient Methuselah.
On the way home, Methuselah, speaking to my father, said, “They’ll want
to run us out of town, Bill, when we get back to Wetmore.” My father
said he could bury his clothes, but still he was greatly worried about
his whiskers. And, naturally, he was thinking about my mother, too.
Charley said, soothingly, “Oh, just go on home Dad, and play her Money
Musk, and everything will be fine. Money talks, you know. You’ve got
as good as four dollars in your game sack, and God only knows how much
musk, if you want to call it that, you and Thuse have got on your own
hides.”
My father played the fiddle, and while “Over the Ocean Waves” was his
favorite, he played equally well another tune called “Money Musk.” He
would entertain his family in the home of evenings with his old-time
fiddling.
We reached home about dusk, purposely timed. My father and Thuse were
both increasingly worried. Thinking that it might be more satisfactory
to let father face his problem alone, or with only Thuse present—and for
other reasons—Charley and I went out to the woodpile and stalled around
a bit. Old Piute and Queenie came out of the doghouse to greet us.
Father never took the dogs along when running his trap line.
My mother came to the door and called in her gentle, sweet voice—she
was always gentle and sweet with her boys—”Come on in here, you little
stinkers, and get your suppers!”
My father was not at the festive board that Sunday night. He was
nowhere about the house, that we could see — and we ate our supper in
comparative silence.
Occasionally, my mother would sniff at us, but she offered no protest.
Doubtless her two darling boys carried more than a suspicion of the
polecat’s pollution, but, having just had a whiff of those two Willies,
her keen nose was unable to separate the real from the imaginary.
It was almost two hours later when father came home. Methuselah was
with him. They were both appreciably slicked up—but not really so good.
Father was, more or less, shorn of his beard, and looked “funnier” than
his boys had ever before seen him. And, would you believe it, the first
thing he did was to pick up his fiddle and play Money Musk. I looked
at my mother—then turned to Charley, giggled, and whispered, “I don’t
believe it’s going to work.”
Charley giggled, too, and said out loud, “I betcha I could name some
slick skunk-skinners who are maybe going to have to sleep out in the
doghouse tonight.”
Sitting ramrod straight on the edge of her chair, with a hitherto
wordless dead-pan expression, my mother said, “You tell ‘em, kid.” That
did it. Dad snapped, “You don’t smell so darned nice, yourself, young
man!”
William Peters could play the fiddle almost as well as father. They
teamed well in furnishing music for the town dances, in the old days.
They now played as if there was urgent need for prolonging the agony.
Nero blithely fiddled while Rome burned. And likewise those two Willies
fiddled well into the night while my mother stewed.
GONE WITH THE WIND Published in Wetmore Spectator,
January—1943.
By John T. Bristow
I have been asked to “write up” the Kickapoo Indians. This I cannot do
satisfactorily without more data. I do not know the history of the tribe
and, at this late date, I do not choose to waste time in acquainting
myself with the particulars. It takes a lot of research to do a story of
that nature. And, historically written, it would be rather drab. Anyway,
this is a hurry-up assignment I am writing now to help out Carl, The
Spectator Editor, while he is playing a lone hand during his father’s
sickness.
WANTS WRITEUP OP KICKAPOO INDIANS
From Porterville, California, George J. Remsburg, who formerly lived
in Atchison, and years ago had some excellent historical articles
pertaining to Northeast Kansas printed in the Atchison Daily Globe,
writes:
“A while back I received from you a copy of the Spectator containing
your article, Turning Back the Pages. You have given us a splendid story
of the Old Trail days in Northeast Kansas. I read every word of it with
intense interest, and am preserving it for future reference. Also
accept my thanks for copies of the Spectator containing your Memory’s
Storehouse Unlocked. It is a most interesting narrative, and I am glad
to have it for my historical collection.
“Why don’t you write up some recollections of the Kickapoo Indians?
“Mrs. Robert T. Bruner, of your town, is my much beloved cousin—as good
a girl as ever lived.”
Marysville, Kansas, Dec. 18, 1938. Dear Mr. Bristow:
I have just received the Diamond Jubilee number of the Seneca
Courier-Tribune, and among other feature articles read your article on
“Green Campbell.” I want to congratulate you on this product of your
able pen. It presents the theme in a fascinating, interesting manner;
and incidentally garnishes the subject with a lot of worthwhile pioneer
history.
It is too bad that persons with your ability to write—to draw word
pictures — with words from an apt, concise, and well-stocked vocabulary,
should lay down the pen. Those products, tho very interesting now,
with the passing of years become literary gems. So keep on writing, Mr.
Bristow; we love the articles of your able mind and eloquent pen.
I don’t believe you have ever written up the Kickapoo Indians—right at
your door? Why not reconsider—and do it now?
Under separate cover I am mailing you one of my latest books, “The
Jay-hawkers of Death Valley.” I want to give you the opportunity to read
it. You need not buy it.
John G. Ellenbecher.
Mr. Ellenbecher has been writing historic articles for many
years—principally about the old Overland Trail. In company with Abe
Eley, formerly of Wetmore, Mr. Ellenbecker called on me when I was
writing the Green Campbell story. I told them that it would be my last.
But it was not. I reconsidered. Twelve of the stories in this book have
been written since. And I may write still another one.—J. T. B.
However, there are some incidents having Indian connections which might
make fairly readable matter. The Kickapoos were, I judge, just like
other Indians — pushed out of civilization to make room for the whites.
They had come here before the white settlement, of course. Where they
came from I do not know—Michigan, maybe.
The Kickapoos did not war with other tribes. Nor did they molest the
whites. Still, they were Indians, and it was hard for the early settlers
to believe that they would have a lasting record as such—since hostile
Indians roamed the country west of the Blue river. Back in the early
90’s when the Kickapoos took up the Sioux “Ghost Dance, or Messiah
Craze,” as it was called, and held all-night pow-wows for several weeks,
there was some nervousness among the whites.
In the early 70’s the Kickapoos came to Wetmore to do their trading.
They had Government money and were good customers of the two general
stores. Later they did their trading at Netawaka, and still later
at Horton. My father, a shoemaker, came to know some of them rather
intimately. I knew many of them too.
Masquequah was Chief then. Many are the times I have sold him white
sugar and red calico—the Indians would not buy brown sugar if they could
get white sugar. This was when I was a clerk in Than Morris’ store.
Associated with me then were Curt Shuemaker, George Cawood and “Chuck”
Cawood. In the good old days we often piled up a thousand dollar sales
of a Saturday.
I should, perhaps, amplify this assertion about the sugar. We sold at
that time about four times as much brown sugar which came in barrels
marked “C” sugar, as we did white sugar. One day the boss said, “The
town’s full of Indians; sell no white sugar to anyone until after the
Indians leave.” When I told the Chief we had no white sugar, he said,
“Ugh, Indian’s money good as white man’s money—maybe. Indians go
Netawaka buy white sugar.” And that is what they did. Sorry, I can’t
tell you why Morris did not want to sell the Indians white sugar that
day. It could hardly have been because it consumed more time-it was a
busy Saturday—to “tie-up” white sugar. We had no paper sacks then. The
system was to weigh-up the sugar, lay a piece of wrapping paper flat
down on the counter, empty the sugar onto it; then tie it up—if you
could. A green clerk like myself could waste a lot of time trying to
wrap up a dollar’s worth of granulated sugar. Brown sugar would pack
together, and wrap more easily.
The story got out that the Netawaka merchant would sell the Indian a
bill of groceries, put it in a box, and a clerk would obligingly carry
it to the Indian’s wagon—and then, while the Indian was loitering in the
store, the clerk would slip out and rob the box, in the interest of the
merchant. But, if this were true, the Indians seemed to like it. They
followed the Netawaka merchant to Horton when that town got started
in 1886. Also, it was said, a certain white farmer living near the
southwest corner of the reservation, would sometimes ride out from
Netawaka with one of his Indian friends, letting his hired hand follow
up with his own rig. At opportune times, the white man would reach back
and throw out packages for the hired hand to gather up. Methinks Sam
would have had hard luck in fishing out a package of granulated sugar
such as those tied-up by me.
The old, old Indians are, I believe, all dead now. Of the younger
generations, I know little—except that they are the descendants of a
once relatively large tribe, and that their once large domain has
been reduced to thirty sections, and that much of the land within the
boundaries of the reservation is now owned by white people.
H. A. Hogard, Educational Field Agent, and Grover Allen, Indian, were
in Wetmore last Sunday practicing archery with George Grubb and Ollie
Woodman. They told me the Indian population now numbers about 280. There
are about fifty families.
For my first episode I shall tell you about a deer-hunt my father and
I had with the Indians. In a former article I told you about an Indian
with a party of deer-hunters we chanced to meet in the John Wolfley
timber, whom my father named Eagle Eye. His Indian name was far from
that, however.
It was Eagle Eye who had arranged this hunt. He brought along from the
reservation, eight miles northeast of here, two extra ponies—one of
normal size and not too large at that, and a little one for me to ride.
While putting the saddle on the little pony my father asked the Indians
if it were a gentle pony. Eagle Eye said, “Him heap gentle like lazy
squaw.”
It had snowed during the night and was still snowing when the Indians
arrived at day-break. Two deer-runs were to be covered and it would take
a full day to do it. Then, too, our party wanted to, if possible, get
onto the grounds ahead of other hunters. It was not very cold, and my
father was pleased with the snow. Tracking would be good. A natural born
hunter, snow always appealed to him. He had killed a great many deer in
his native Tennessee.