CHEROKEE BOB
Intelligence of the discovery in 1861 of extensive placers on the head
waters of Salmon River, excelling in richness any former locations, had
been circulated through all the border towns during the following
Winter. The excitement consequent thereon was intense. Such was the
impatience of the people to effect an early arrival there that many left
Walla Walla and Lewiston in mid-winter, and on their way thither
perished in the snows which engorged the mountain passes. Others, more
cautious, awaited the coming of warm weather, and made the
journey,—tedious, difficult, and dangerous at best,—with comparative
safety. Among the latter number were Charley Harper and his band of
brigands. Mounted on strong, fleet horses which they had acquired during
the winter, the criminal cavalcade with its chief at the head dashed up
the river valley, insulting, threatening, or robbing every one so
unfortunate as to fall in their way. Of the number prominent in the
riotous column were Peoples, English, Scott, and Brockie—men whose deeds
of villainy have blackened the criminal records of nearly all the larger
cities of the Pacific slope. With none of the magnanimity which
characterized Joaquin Murieta and the earlier brigands of California,
and with all their recklessness of crime and murder, a meaner, baser,
more contemptible band of ruffians perhaps never before disgraced the
annals of the race. No crime was too atrocious for them to commit, no
act of shame or wantonness was uncongenial to their grovelling natures.
They were as totally depraved as a long and unchecked career of every
variety of criminal indulgence could make them. Afraid of nothing but
the law, and not afraid of that in these new and unorganized
communities, they were little else than devils incarnate. Insensible to
all appeals for mercy, and ever acting upon the cautious maxim that
“dead men tell no tales,” the only chance for escape from death for
those whom they assaulted was in their utter inability to do them
injury. Human life regarded as an obstacle to their designs, was of no
more importance than the blowing up of a safe, or any other act which
stood between them and their prey. Of course it was impossible that such
a band of desperadoes should pass over the long and desolate route from
Walla Walla to Florence without adventure.
On the second or third day after leaving Walla Walla, when nearing
Florence, they met a company consisting of five men and a boy of
sixteen, who were on their way to a neighboring camp. The brigands
surrounded them, and with cocked pistols well aimed, gave the usual
order, “Throw up your hands.” This order being obeyed, two of them
dismounted to search the persons of their victims for treasure, the
others meanwhile covering them with their revolvers. Five purses,
containing amounts varying from fifty to five hundred dollars, were
taken from them. The boy was overlooked, and had seated himself on a
granite bowlder by the roadside.
Scott, as he tells the story himself, approached him more from curiosity
than expectation, when the following conversation ensued:
“Come,” said Scott, addressing him, “draw your weasel now.”
“How do you know I’ve got any, stranger?” queried the youth.
“No fooling, I say. Hand out your buckskin.”
“You wouldn’t rob a poor little devil like me, would you?”
“Don’t keep me waiting longer, or I’ll cut your ears off,”—and Scott
drew his bowie as if to carry the threat into execution.
“Well, I only get half-wages, you know. Is your heart all gizzard?”
“Get off from that stone and shell out, or I’ll blow your brains out in
a minute,” said Scott.
The boy sprung up hurriedly, and with affected reluctance thrust his
hand into his pocket.
“Well, stra-an-nger,” he inquired with a peculiar drawl and quizzical
expression of the eyes, “what do you take Salmon River dust at, anyhow?”
With this he drew forth an empty purse, and handing it to Scott, said,
“If you think I’ve got any more, search me.”
Pleased with the pluck and humor of the lad, one of the band threw him a
five-dollar piece, and they galloped furiously on towards Florence.
Thundering into the town, they drew up before the first saloon, fired
their pistols, and urged their horses into the establishment. Without
dismounting they ordered liquor for the crowd. All the by-standers
partook with them. Harper ostentatiously threw one of the purses he had
just seized upon the counter, telling the bar-keeper to weigh out the
amount of the bill, and after a few moments they left the saloon, “to
see,” as one of them expressed himself, “whether the town was big enough
to hold them.”
This irruption into Florence occurred while that city was comparatively
in embryo. The great floods of immigration from the East and West had
not arrived. Some months must elapse before the expectations of the
robbers could be realized. Meantime they distributed themselves among
the saloons and bagnios, and by means of gambling and frequent
robberies, contrived to hold the community in fear and pick up a
subsistence until the great crowd came.
Leaving them for a season, we will return to Cherokee Bob, whom we left
in his ignominious flight from Walla Walla to Lewiston, on a stolen
horse. That worthy had established himself in a saloon at Lewiston, and
while there, renewed an acquaintance with an old pal known as Bill
Mayfield.
Mayfield was a fugitive from justice from Carson City, Nevada, where in
the Winter of 1861–62 he renewed an acquaintance with Henry Plummer,
whom he had known before that time in California. The Governor of
California had issued a requisition for the surrender of Plummer, and a
warrant for his arrest was in the hands of John Blackburn, the sheriff
at Carson City. Though efficient as an officer, Blackburn, while in
liquor, was overbearing and boastful of his prowess. His reputation was
bad among the leading citizens of the town. Foiled in his search for
Plummer, who, he believed, was in the Territory, and knowing of
Mayfield’s intimacy with him, he accused the latter with concealing him.
Mayfield denied the charge, and to avoid a quarrel with Blackburn, who
was intoxicated, immediately left the saloon where the interview
occurred, but as a measure of precaution armed himself with a
bowie-knife. Blackburn, rendered desperate by liquor, soon followed in
pursuit of him, and at a later hour of the same day found him in another
saloon. As he entered the front, Mayfield tried to leave by the rear
door. Failing in this, he drew his knife, and concealed it in his
sleeve. Approaching Mayfield in a bullying manner Blackburn said to him,
“I will arrest Plummer, and no one can prevent it. I can arrest anybody.
I can arrest you if I wish to.”
“You can arrest me,” replied Mayfield, “if you have a warrant for my
arrest, but you can’t without.”
“I tell you,” rejoined Blackburn tauntingly, “that I _can_ arrest you,
or any one else,” and added with an oath, “I will arrest you anyhow,”
accompanying this threat with a grasp for his pistol. Mayfield, with
flash-like quickness, slipped his knife from its place of concealment,
and gave him an anticipatory stab in the breast. Blackburn then tried to
close with him, and being much the stronger man would have killed him
had not Mayfield jumped aside and plied his knife vigorously until
Blackburn fell. He died almost instantly. Mayfield surrendered himself
for trial, was convicted of murder, and sentenced to be hanged.
While awaiting execution in the penitentiary, two miles distant from
Carson, a plan for undermining the prison was successful, and he
escaped. The friends who effected this were among the best citizens of
Carson. They deemed the sentence unjust, and as soon as he was out of
confinement, mounted him on a good horse, provided him with arms, and
bade him leave the State as rapidly as possible. When his escape was
discovered the next morning the jailer started in pursuit. He struck the
track of the fugitive, and by means of relays, gained rapidly upon him.
Mayfield’s friends meantime were not idle. They managed to be apprised
of his progress, followed close upon his pursuers, and by a short cut at
a favorable point, overtook him, and, doubling back, concealed him at a
ranche in Pea Vine Valley, only forty miles from Carson City. There he
remained six weeks,—many of the leading citizens of Carson meantime
watching for an opportunity to aid his escape from the State. A careless
exposure of his person led to his recognition and the discovery of his
retreat. His friends were the first to learn of it, and before the
officers could arrive at the ranche, Mayfield was on his way to
Huffaker’s ranche on the Truckee River, which was nearer Carson by half
the distance than the ranche he had left. While the officers were
scouring the country in pursuit of him, he remained there until Spring,
sharing a box stall with a favorite race-horse. When Spring was far
enough advanced to afford pasturage and comfortable travel, he was
furnished by his friends with a good “outfit,” and made the journey
unmolested to Lewiston, where he joined his old friends Plummer and
Cherokee Bob.
Here he trumped up an intimacy with a woman calling herself Cynthia, at
that time stewardess of a hotel in Lewiston, and the fallen wife of a
very worthy man.
In June, Cherokee Bob, accompanied by Mayfield and Cynthia, left
Lewiston for Florence. Soon after their arrival the jealousy of Mayfield
was aroused by the particular attentions of Bob to his mistress. On his
part Bob made no concealment of his attachment for the woman, and when
charged with harboring an intention of appropriating her affections,
boldly acknowledged the soft impeachment. Cynthia possessed many charms
of person, and considerable intelligence. She had, moreover, an eye to
the main chance, and was ready to bestow her favors where they would
command the most money. Bob was richer than Mayfield, and this fact won
for him many encouraging smiles from the fair object of his pursuit.
Mayfield’s jealousy flamed into anger, and he resolved to bring matters
to a crisis, which should either secure his undisturbed possession of
the woman, or transfer her to the sole care of his rival. He had
confidence enough in Cynthia to believe that when required to choose
between him and Cherokee Bob, her good taste, if nothing else, would
give him the preference. He had not calculated on the strength of her
cupidity. Confronting Bob in her presence, he said, as he laid his hand
on the butt of his revolver,
“Bob, you know me.”
“Yes,” replied Bob with a similar gesture, “and Bill, you know me.”
“Well, now, Bob, the question is whether we shall make fools of
ourselves or not.”
“Just as you say, Bill. I’m al’ys ready for anything that turns up.”
“Bob, if that woman loves you more than me,” said Mayfield, “take her. I
don’t want her. But if she thinks the most of me, no person ought to
come between us. I call that on the square.”
“Well, I do think considerable of Cynthia, and you are not married to
her, you know,” replied Bob.
“That makes no difference. If she loves me, and wishes to live with me,
no one shall interfere to prevent it.”
“Well, what do you propose to do about it?” asked Bob, after a brief
pause.
“Let the woman decide for herself,” replied Mayfield. “What say you,
Cynthia? Is it Bob or me?”
Thus appealed to, greatly to the surprise of Mayfield, Cynthia replied,
“Well, William, Robert is settled in business now, and don’t you think
he is better able to take care of me than you are?”
This reply convinced Mayfield that his influence over the woman was
lost. The quarrel terminated in a graceful surrender to Bob of all his
claim upon her.
“You fall heir,” said he to his successor, “to all the traps and things
there are around here.”
Cherokee Bob insisted upon paying for them; and Cynthia, true to the
course of life she was pursuing, tried to soften the pangs of separation
from her old lover by reiterating the question if he did not “think it
the best thing that could be done under the circumstances.”
Cherokee Bob forced a generous purse upon Mayfield, who left him with
the parting injunction to take good care of the girl.
The woman shed some tears and, as we shall see at a later stage of this
history, showed by her return to Mayfield that she entertained a real
affection; and when, a year later, she heard of his violent death, was
heard to say that she would kill his murderer whenever opportunity
afforded.
An explanation of the circumstances under which Bob became “settled in
business” is not the least interesting part of this narrative. The
senior proprietor of the leading saloon in Oro Fino died a few days
before Bob’s arrival. He was indebted to Bob for borrowed money, calling
upon the surviving partner soon after his arrival, Bob informed him of
the indebtedness, and declared his intention of appropriating the saloon
and its contents in payment.
“How much,” inquired the man, “did you lend my partner? I’ll settle with
you, and pay liberal interest.”
“That’s not the idee,” rejoined Bob. “Do you think me fool enough to
lend a fellow five hundred dollars, and then after it increases to five
thousand, square the account with a return of what I lent and a little
more? That’s not my way of doing biz. How much stock have you got here
on hand?”
Bob carefully committed to writing the invoice verbally furnished.
“Now,” said he, putting the memorandum in his pocket, “I’ll hold you
responsible for all these traps—the whole outfit. You’ve got to close up
and get out of this without any delay. I’ll give you twenty-four hours
to do it in. You must then deliver everything safe into my hands.”
The unfortunate saloon-keeper knew that the law as administered in that
mountain town would afford him no redress. He also knew that to refuse
compliance with the demand of Cherokee Bob, however unjust, would
precipitate a quarrel which would probably cost him his life. So when
Bob, accompanied by two or three confederates, came the next morning to
the saloon to take possession, he was prepared to submit to the
imposition without resistance. Walking within the bar, Cherokee Bob
emptied the money drawer and gave the contents to his victim. He then
invited his friends to drink to the success of the new “outfit,” and
finding himself in undisturbed occupancy, increased the amount of his
gift to the man he had expelled to several hundred dollars. This was the
manner in which he became, as Cynthia said, “settled in business.”