DESERTION OF MINING CAMPS
The decay of a mining town is as sudden and rapid as its growth, and the
causes which occasion it as problematical. Few, comparatively, of the
great number of placer camps in the Rocky Mountains, once peopled with
thousands, survive beyond the third year of their existence. As soon as
the placers fail to remunerate the miners, they are abandoned. The crowd
departs, and if any remain, it is that sober, substantial class which is
satisfied with small gain as the reward of unceasing toil. Intelligence
of new discoveries brought to a failing placer will cause the immediate
departure of great numbers engaged in working it. These stampedes are
among the most notable features of mountain life. Sometimes when the
discovery of a new placer is announced, the entire population of a
mining town is on the alert, each man striving with the next to be the
first to reach it. Horses are saddled, mules packed, sluices abandoned,
and the long and unmarked route is filled with gold hunters. Away they
go, over mountains, across streams, through cañons and pine forests,
with the single object of making the first selection of a claim in the
new location. Not infrequently it is the case that a single company is
the first to learn of the discovery of a new rich placer. If the claim
it has worked is abandoned the succeeding morning, it is received by the
camp as incontestable evidence that a mine of superior richness has been
found,—and hundreds start in pursuit of the missing company. Rumor is a
fruitful cause of stampedes. Disappointments are more frequently the
consequences than rewards. Instances are common where whole camps have
been deserted to follow up a rumor, been disappointed, and glad to
return at last. There is nothing permanent in the life of a gold
miner,—and beyond the moment, nothing strong or abiding in his
associations.
“Whither he goes or how he fares,
Nobody knows and nobody cares.”
Florence had suffered from these causes. The roving portion of the
population had gone, some to Boise, some to Bannack, and some to Deer
Lodge. Cherokee Bob and Cynthia still remained, but Harper had fled, and
Peoples, English, and Scott slept the “sleep that knows no waking.” Bill
Willoughby, a suspected member of Harper’s gang, was Bob’s only
companion.
The New Year was approaching. The good wives and daughters, in
accordance with usual custom, proposed that it should be celebrated by a
ball,—a proposition to which the other sex joyfully acceded. Extensive
preparations were made for the supper, and the ball-room was
attractively decorated. Cynthia made known to Bob her desire to go. He
said in reply, “You shall go, and be respected as a decent woman ought
to be.” So he asked Willoughby to “take his woman to the ball, and,”
said he, “if things don’t go right, just report to me.” Cynthia assented
to the arrangement, and Willoughby promised compliance. The guests had
arrived when Cynthia, hanging on the arm of Willoughby, made her
appearance. Scowls and sneers met them on every hand. A general
commotion took place among the ladies. In little groups of five or six,
scattered throughout the room, they whispered to each other their
determination to leave if Cynthia were permitted to remain. The managers
held a consultation, and Willoughby was told that he must take Cynthia
home. No alternative presenting, he obeyed.
The gentlemen present were prepared to meet any further disturbance, but
none occurred, and the ball passed off pleasantly. The next day Cherokee
Bob marshalled his forces to avenge the insult, but was restrained by
the evident preparation with which the citizens anticipated his design.
He and his companions swaggered around town flourishing their pistols
and bowie-knives, boasting of their prowess, but careful of giving
personal offence. It would have been well for them had their resentment
cooled here, but Bob’s malice was not to be satisfied so easily. Two
days had passed, and Cynthia’s humiliation was unavenged. Before the
close of another it must be propitiated with blood. Accordingly, the
next morning it was agreed between Bob and Willoughby that they would
precipitate the battle.
The most efficient leader of the citizens was a saloon-keeper by the
name of Williams, familiarly called “Jakey.” He was an athletic man, and
a determined enemy of the robbers, by whom he was held in great fear. He
had been the hero of more than one desperate affray, and was regarded by
Bob and Willoughby as the only obstacle in the way of their bloody
project to kill the managers of the ball. The first act, therefore, in
their contemplated tragedy was to dispose of him. Jakey at first sought
to avoid them. They pursued him from house to house, till, tired of
fleeing, he finally declared he would go no farther. Returning by a
circuitous path, he was overtaken and fired upon by his pursuers while
entering his saloon. He fired in return, and springing back, seized a
loaded shotgun, and rushed into the street. Meantime, several citizens
joined in the fight, which soon became general. The ruffians found
themselves contending against fearful odds. Willoughby was slowly
retreating with his face to his assailants, and firing as rapidly as
possible. Cherokee Bob was pursuing the same strategy in an opposite
direction. The twelfth fire exhausted Willoughby’s pistols. He turned to
run, with Jakey in full pursuit. Exhausted from loss of blood, which was
pouring from sixteen wounds, he soon fell, and, throwing up his hands,
exclaimed to one of his pursuers who was in the act of firing,
“For God’s sake, don’t shoot any more. I’m dying now,” and surrendered
himself to death.
Bob beat a retreat at the first fire. Dodging behind a corner, where his
head only was exposed, he fired upon his pursuers until his pistols were
nearly empty. While aiming for another shot, a ball fired from an
opposite window brought him to the earth, mortally wounded. He was taken
to his saloon, and died the third day after the affray, in the full, and
to him, consolatory belief that he had killed Jakey Williams at the
first fire of his revolver. He had a brother living at Lewiston. His
last words were, “Tell my brother I have killed my man and gone on a
long hunt.” His real name was Henry Talbert.
Cynthia was now without a protector. At Bob’s request she soon joined
her old lover, Bill Mayfield, at Boise. This reunion was destined to be
of short duration. The following Spring Mayfield went to Placerville,
Idaho, for a brief sojourn. A quarrel over a game of cards sprung up
between him and one Evans. Mayfield drew his revolver, intending to
settle it by a fatal shot, but Evans interposed,
“I’m not heeled”—the mountain phrase for “I am not armed.”
“Then go and heel yourself,” said Mayfield, sheathing his revolver, “and
look out the next time you meet me, for I’m bound to kill you at sight.
One of us must die.”
The next day, while Mayfield and two friends were walking in the
suburbs, they came upon a muddy spot, across which a narrow plank had
been laid. This necessitated crossing it in single file. Mayfield was in
the centre. Evans was in a cabin beside the crossing, but a few feet
distant. Seizing a double-barrelled shotgun, he fired upon Mayfield from
his place of concealment, through an open window. Mayfield grasped for
his revolver, but fell without power to draw it, exclaiming “I’m shot.”
He died in two hours, illustrating in his demise the Scriptural axiom,
“With what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.” Evans
was immediately arrested, but escaped from jail that night, and being
furnished with a horse by a friend, fled the country, and was never
apprehended.
After Mayfield’s death Cynthia entered upon that career of promiscuous
infamy which is the certain destiny of all women of her class. It is
written of her that “she has been the cause of more personal collisions
and estrangements than any other woman in the Rocky Mountains.”