street composed principally of grog-shops and gambling-houses. I was
favored with a front-room about eight feet square. The walls were
constructed of boards fancifully decorated with paper, and afforded
this facility to a lodger--that he could hear all that was going on
in the adjacent rooms. The partitions might deceive the eye, but the
ear received the full benefit of the various oaths, ejaculations,
conversations, and perambulations in which his neighbors indulged. As
for the bed, I don’t know how long it had been in use, or what race of
people had hitherto slept in it, but the sheets and blankets seemed
to be sadly discolored by age--or lack of soap and water. It would
be safe to say washing was not considered a paying investment by the
managers of this establishment. Having been over twenty-four hours
without sleep or rest I made an attempt to procure a small supply, but
miserably failed in consequence of an interesting conversation carried
on in the passage between the chamber-maids, waiters, and other ladies
and gentlemen respecting the last free fight. From what I could gather
this was considered the best neighborhood in the city for free fights.
Within the past two weeks three or four men had been shot, stabbed,
or maimed close by the door. “Oh, it’s a lively place, you bet!” said
one of the ladies (the chamber-maid, I think), “an oncommon lively
place--reely hexcitin’. I look out of the winder every mornin’ jist
to see how many dead men are layin’ around. I declare to gracious the
bullets flies around here sometimes like hailstones!” “An’ shure,”
said a voice in that rich brogue which can never be mistaken, “it’s no
wondher the boys shud be killin’ an’ murtherin’ themselves forninst the
door, whin they’re all just like me, dyin’ in love wid yer beauteeful
self!” A smart slap and a general laugh followed this suggestion. “Git
away wid ye, Dinnis; yer always up to yer mischief! As I was sayin’, no
later than this mornin’, I see two men a poppin’ away at each other wid
six-shooters--a big man an’ a little man. The big man he staggered an’
fell right under the winder, wid his head on the curb-stone, an’ his
legs a stickin’ right up in the air. He was all over blood, and when
the boys picked him up he was dead as a brickbat. ’Tother chap he run
into a saloon. You better b’leeve this is a lively neighborhood. I tell
you hailstones is nothink to the way the bullets flies around.” “That’s
so,” chimes in another female voice; “I see myself, with my own eyes,
Jack’s corpse an’ two more carried away in the last month. If I’d a had
a six-shooter then you bet they’d a carried away the fellow that nipped
Jack!”
Now taking into view the picturesque spectacle that a few dead men
dabbled in blood must present to the eye on a fine morning, and the
chances of a miscellaneous ball carrying away the top of one’s cranium,
or penetrating the thin board wall and ranging upward through his
body as he lies in bed, I considered it best to seek a more secluded
neighborhood, where the scenery was of a less stimulating character
and the hail-storms not quite so heavy. By the kind aid of a friend I
secured comparatively agreeable quarters in a private lodging-house
kept by a widow lady. The rooms were good and the beds clean, and the
price not extravagant for this locality--$12 a week without board.
So much for the famous hotels of Virginia. If there are any better,
neither myself, nor some fellow-travelers who told me their
experiences, succeeded in finding them. The concurrent testimony was
that they are dirty, ill-kept, badly attended by rough, ill-mannered
waiters--noisy to such a degree that a sober man can get but little
rest, day or night, and extravagantly high in proportion to the small
comfort they afford. One of the newspapers published a statement which
the author probably intended for a joke, but which is doubtless founded
upon fact--namely, that a certain hotel advertised for 300 chickens
to serve the same number of guests. Only one chicken could be had for
love or money--a very ancient rooster, which was made into soup and
afterward served up in the form of a fricassee for the 300 guests. The
flavor was considered extremely delicate--what there was of it; and
there was plenty of it such as it was.
Still if we are to credit what the Virginia newspapers say--and it
would be dangerous to intimate that they ever deal in anything save
the truth--there are other cities on the eastern slope of the Sierras
which afford equally attractive accommodations. On the occasion of the
recent Senatorial contest at Carson City, the prevailing rates charged
for lodgings, according to the Virginia _Enterprise_, were as follows:
“For a bed in a house, barn, blacksmith-shop, or hay-yard (none to be
had--all having been engaged shortly before election); horse-blanket in
an old sugar hogshead per night, $10; crockery-crate, with straw, $7
50; without straw, $5 75; for cellar door, $4; for roosting on a smooth
pole $3 50; pole, common, rough, $3; plaza fence, $2 50; walking up
and down the Warm Springs road--if cloudy, $1 50; if clear, $1 25. (In
case the clouds are very thick and low $1 75 is generally asked.) Very
good roosting in a pine-tree, back of Camp Nye, may still be had free,
but we understand that a company is being formed to monopolize all the
more accessible trees. We believe they propose to improve by putting
two pins in the bottom of each tree, or keep a man to boost regular
customers. They talk of charging six bits.”
I could scarcely credit this, if it were not that a friend of mine,
who visited Reese River last summer, related some experiences of
a corroborative character. Unable to secure lodgings elsewhere,
he undertook to find accommodations in a vacant sheep corral. The
proprietor happening to come home about midnight found him spread out
under the lee of the fence. “Look-a-here, stranger!” said he gruffly
“that’s all well enough, but I gen’rally collect in advance. Just fork
over four bits or mizzle!” My friend indignantly mizzled. Cursing the
progressive spirit of the age, he walked some distance out of town, and
was about to finish the night under the lee of a big quartz boulder,
when a fierce-looking speculator, with a six-shooter in his hand,
suddenly appeared from a cavity in the rock, saying, “No yer don’t!
Take a fool’s advice now, and git! When you go a prospectin’ around
ov nights agin, jest steer ov this boulder ef you please!” In vain
my friend attempted to explain. The rising wrath of the squatter was
not to be appeased by soft words, and the click of the trigger, as he
raised his pistol and drew a bead, warned the trespasser that it was
time to be off. He found lodgings that night on the public highway to
Virginia City and San Francisco.
ALDER GULCH
NATHANIEL P. LANGFORD
1863
From “Vigilante Days and Ways.” Reprinted by permission of the
publishers, A. C. McClurg and Company, Chicago.[21]
In May, 1863, a company of miners, while returning from an unsuccessful
exploring expedition, discovered the remarkable placer afterwards known
as Alder Gulch. They gave the name of one of their number, Fairweather,
to the district. Several of the company went immediately to Bannack,
communicated the intelligence, and returned with supplies to their
friends. The effect of the news was electrical. Hundreds started
at once to the new placer, each striving to outstrip the other, in
order to secure a claim. In the hurry of departure, among many minor
accidents, a man whose body, partially concealed by the willows, was
mistaken for a beaver, was shot by Mr. Arnold. Discovering the fatal
mistake, Arnold gave up the chase and bestowed his entire attention
upon the unfortunate victim until his death, a few days afterwards. The
great stampede with its numerous pack-animals, penetrated the dense
alder thicket which filled the gulch, a distance of eight miles, to the
site selected for building a town. An accidental fire occurring, swept
away the alders for the entire distance in a single night. In less than
a week from the date of the first arrival, hundreds of tents, brush
wakiups, and rude log cabins, extemporized for immediate occupancy,
were scattered at random over the spot, now for the first time trodden
by white men. For a distance of twelve miles from the mouth of the
gulch to its source in Bald Mountain, claims were staked and occupied
by the men fortunate enough first to assert an ownership. Laws were
adopted, judges selected, and the new community was busy in upheaving,
sluicing, drifting, and cradling the inexhaustible bed of auriferous
gravel, which has yielded under these various manipulations a greater
amount of gold than any other placer on the continent.
The Southern sympathizers of the Territory gave the name of Varina to
the new town which had sprung up in Alder Gulch, in honor of the wife
of President Jefferson Davis. Dr. Bissell, one of the miners’ judges of
the gulch, was an ardent Unionist. Being called upon to draw up some
papers before the new name had been generally adopted, and requested
to date them at “Varina City,” he declared, with a very emphatic
expletive, he would not do it, and wrote the name “Virginia City,”--by
which name the place has ever since been known.
The road agents were among the first to follow in the track of the
miners. Prominent among them were Cyrus Skinner, Jack Gallagher, Buck
Stinson, and Ned Ray,--the last three as deputies of Plummer in the
sheriffalty. Ripe for the commission of any deed, however atrocious,
which gave the promise of plunder, jackal-like they watched the
gathering crowd and its various industries, marking each and all for
early and unceasing depredation.
The Hon. Washington Stapleton who had been at work in the Bannack mines
from the time of their discovery, a miner named Dodge, and another
man, each supposed to possess a considerable amount of gold, having
determined to go to Virginia City, Dodge was privately informed by
Dillingham, one of Plummer’s deputies, on the eve of their intended
departure, that Buck Stinson, Hayes Lyons, and Charley Forbes had laid
plans for robbing them on the way, and had requested him (Dillingham)
to join them in the robbery. When the time for their going came, Dodge
expressed his fear of an attack, and announced his determination to
remain. His friends rallied him, until, smarting under their taunts,
he revealed the information given by Dillingham. Stinson, Lyons, and
Forbes heard of it, and determined to kill the informer. Stapleton left
his companions, and started for Virginia City alone. At Rattlesnake
he encountered Hayes Lyons, who rode up and asked him if he had heard
of the robbery which Dillingham alleged had been planned against him.
Stapleton replied in the negative; but when telling the story since,
says that he has felt more comfortable even when sleeping in church,
than when he saw that scoundrel approaching him. He told him, he says,
that this was the first he had heard of it, adding, “If you want my
money, I have only one hundred dollars in greenbacks. You had better
take that, and let me go.”
Lyons replied with an oath that the story was a lie, and that he
was then on his way to kill Dillingham for putting such a story in
circulation, but he feared Dillingham had heard of his intention and
left the country.
Stapleton accomplished his trip without molestation. Lyons and
Forbes rode on to Virginia City, also, and finding Dillingham there,
they, in company with Stinson, met the next day and arranged for his
assassination.
A miners’ court for the trial of a civil case was in session the
following morning near the bank of the creek fronting the town. To the
observation of a person unaccustomed to the makeshifts and customs of
a mining community, the picture presented by this court of justice
would have exhibited many amusing features--not the least of which was
the place wherein it was held. The Temple of Justice was a wakiup of
brush and twigs, gathered from the different coppices of willow and
alder growing upon the banks of the creek, thrown together in conical
form, and of barely sufficient capacity to accommodate the judge,
clerk, parties, and jurors. Spectators were indebted to the interstices
in this primitive structure for a view of the proceedings; and as
no part of the person except the eyes was visible to those within,
the appearance of those visual orbs bore no inapt comparison to a
constellation in a brush heap.
Dr. Steele, president of the gulch, acted as judge. He united with much
native good sense, great modesty of demeanor. He was not a lawyer. On
his trip from the States, while crossing the plains, an unfriendly gust
had swept his only hat beyond recovery, and he came into Montana with
his brows bound in a parti-colored cotton handkerchief, which, for
want of something more appropriate, not obtainable at the stores, he
had worn until some friendly miner possessing an extra hat presented
him with it. Proving too small to incase his intellectual organs, the
doctor had, by a series of indented slits encircling the rim, increased
its elasticity, so that, saving a succession of gaps, through which his
hair bristled “like quills upon the fretful porcupine,” it answered the
purpose of its creation. With this upon his head he sat upon the bench,
an embodiment of the dignity, law, and learning of this little mountain
judiciary.
In the progress of the trial, the defendant’s counsel asked for a
nonsuit, on account of some informality of service.
“A what?” inquired the judge with a puzzled expression, as if he had
not rightly understood the word.
“A nonsuit,” was the rejoinder.
“What’s a--” The question partly asked, was left incomplete. The judge
blushed, but reflecting that he would probably learn the office of a
nonsuit in the course of the argument, he broke through the dilemma by
asking,
“Upon what ground?”
The argument followed, and the judge, soon comprehending the meaning of
a nonsuit, decided that unless the defendant could show that he had
suffered by reason of the informal service, the case must proceed. Some
of the friends of the magistrate, seated near the door, understanding
the cause of his embarrassment, enjoyed the scene hugely, and as it
presented an opportunity for returning in kind some of the numerous
jokes which he had played at their expense, one of them, thinking it
too good to be lost, with much mock sobriety of manner and tone, arose
and said,
“Most righteous decision!”
All eyes were turned upon the speaker, but before they could comprehend
the joke at the bottom, another arose, and with equal solemnity,
exclaimed,
“Most just judge!”
Dr. Steele, though embarrassed by his ill-timed jocularity, was so
well satisfied with his sagacity in finding out what a nonsuit meant,
without betraying his legal unlearnedness, that the joke was taken in
good part, and formed a subject of frequent merriment in after times.
Charley Forbes was the clerk of the court, and sat beside the judge
taking notes of the trial. After the decision denying the motion, the
plaintiff passed around a bottle of liquor, of which the court and jury
partook. Not to be outdone, the defendant circulated a box of cigars.
And it was while the spectators were giving expression in various forms
to their approval of the decision, that Stinson and Lyons came into
the court, and proceeding to the seat occupied by Forbes, engaged with
him in a whispered conversation inaudible to the bystanders. After a
few moments, Forbes suddenly rose in his place, and, with an oath,
exclaimed,
“Well, we’ll kill the scoundrel then, at once,” and accompanied
Stinson and Lyons out of the wakiup. The audience, startled by the
announcement, hurriedly followed. Dillingham had come over from Bannack
in his capacity as deputy sheriff, to look for some stolen horses. He
had come on the ground a moment before, in search of Mr. Todd, the
deputy at Virginia City, for assistance.
An assemblage of a hundred or more miners and others was congregated
in and about the place where the court was in progress,--some intent
upon the trial, others sauntering through the crowd and along the bank
of Alder Creek. The three ruffians, after a moment’s conversation,
approached in company the spot where Dillingham stood.
“We want to see you,” said Lyons, addressing him. “Step this way a
moment.”
Stinson advanced a few paces, and looking over his shoulder said to his
companions,
“Bring him along. Make him come.”
Dillingham waited for no second invitation. Evidently supposing that
they had some matter of business to communicate, he accompanied them to
an open spot not more than ten paces distant. There they all stopped,
and facing Dillingham, with a muttered curse Lyons said to him,
“Take back those lies,” when with the quickness of thought, they drew
their revolvers,--Charley Forbes at the same time exclaiming, “Don’t
shoot, don’t shoot,”--and fired upon him simultaneously. The groan
which Lyons’ ball drew from the poor victim as it entered his thigh,
was hushed by the bullet of Forbes, as it passed through his breast,
inflicting a mortal wound. He fell, and died in a few moments. Jack
Gallagher, who was in the plot, rushed up, and in his capacity as
a deputy sheriff, seized the pistols of the three ruffians, one of
which, while unobserved, he reloaded, intending thereby to prevent the
identification of the villain who fired the fatal shot.
The deed was committed so quickly that the bystanders hardly knew what
had happened till they saw Dillingham stretched upon the ground in the
death agony. The court broke up instantly, and the jury dispersed.
Aghast at the bloody spectacle, for some moments the people surveyed
it in speechless amazement. The ruffians meanwhile sauntered quietly
away, chuckling at their own adroitness. They had not gone far, until
several of the miners, by direction of Dr. Steele, arrested them.
The reaction from terror to reason was marked by the adoption of
vigorous measures for the punishment of the crime, and but for the calm
self-possession of a few individuals, the murderers would have been
summarily dealt with. An officer elected by the people, with a detail
of miners, took them into custody, and having confined them in a log
building, preparations were made for their immediate trial.
Here again, as at the trial of Moore and Reeves, the difficulty of
a choice between a trial by the people, and by a jury of twelve,
occasioned an obstinate and violent discussion. The reasons for the
latter, though strongly urged, were finally overcome by the paramount
consideration that the selection of a jury would devolve upon a deputy
sheriff who was in league with the prisoners, and, as it was afterwards
ascertained, an accomplice in the crime for which they were arrested.
The people assembled _en masse_ upon the very spot where the murder
had been committed. Dr. Steele, by virtue of his office as president
of the gulch, was appointed judge, and at his request Dr. Bissell, the
district judge, and Dr. Rutar, associates, to aid with their counsel
in the decisions of such questions as should arise in the progress of
the trial. E. R. Cutler, a blacksmith, and James Brown acted as public
prosecutors, and H. P. A. Smith, a lawyer of ability, appeared on
behalf of the prisoners.
A separate trial was assigned to Forbes, because the pistol which
Gallagher had privately reloaded, was claimed by him, a fact of which
he wished to avail himself. In fact, however, the pistol belonged to
Stinson. It was midday when the trial of Lyons and Stinson commenced.
At dark it was not concluded, and the prisoners were put under a strong
guard for the night. They were confined in a small, half-roofed,
unchinked cabin, overlooking Daylight Creek, which ran through a
hollow filled with willows. Dr. Six and Major Brookie had charge of
the prisoners. Soon after dark their attention was attracted by the
repeated shrill note of a night-hawk, apparently proceeding from
the willows. After each note, Forbes commenced singing. This being
noticed by the guard, on closer investigation they discovered that
the note was simulated by some person as a signal for the prisoners.
They immediately ordered Forbes to stop singing. He refused. They then
proposed to chain the prisoners, they objecting, and Forbes remarking,
“I will suffer death before you shall do it.”
He receded, however, under the persuasion of six shotguns drawn upon a
line with his head, and in a subdued tone, said,
“Chain me.”
During the night Lyons sent for one of the citizens, who, under cover
of the guns of the guard, approached and asked him what he wanted.
“I want you,” said he, “to release Stinson and Forbes. I killed
Dillingham. I came here for that express purpose. They are innocent. I
was sent here by the best men in Bannack to kill him.”
“Who sent you?” inquired the citizen.
After naming several of the best citizens of Bannack, who knew nothing
of the murder until several days after it was committed, he added,
“Henry Plummer told me to shoot him.” It was afterwards proven that
this was true.
Hayes Lyons was greatly unnerved, and cried a great part of the night;
but Buck Stinson was wholly unconcerned and slept soundly.
The trial was resumed the next morning. At noon, the arguments being
concluded, the question of “guilty or not guilty,” was submitted to the
people, and decided almost unanimously in the affirmative.
“What shall be their punishment?” asked the president of the now eager
crowd.
“Hang them,” was the united response.
Men were immediately appointed to erect a scaffold, and dig the graves
of the doomed criminals, who were taken into custody to await the
result of the trial of Forbes. This followed immediately; and the
loaded pistol, and the fact that when the onslaught was made upon
Dillingham, he called out, “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,” were used in
evidence with good effect. When the question was finally put, Forbes,
who was a young man of fine personal appearance, and possessed of
good powers as a speaker, made a personal appeal to the crowd, which
so wrought upon their sympathies, and was so eloquent withal, that
they acquitted him by a large majority. In marked contrast with the
spirit which they had exhibited a few hours before while condemning
Stinson and Lyons to a violent death, the people, upon the acquittal
of Forbes, crowded around him with shouts and laughter, eager to shake
hands with and congratulate him upon his escape. Months afterwards,
when the excitement of the occasion, with the memory of it, has passed
from men’s minds, Charley Forbes was heard vauntingly to say that
he was the slayer of Dillingham. He was known to deride the tender
susceptibilities of the people, who gave him liberty to renew his
desperate career, and chuckle over the exercise of powers of person
and mind that could make so many believe even Truth herself to be a
liar. Among the villains belonging to Plummer’s band, not one, not even
Plummer himself, possessed a more depraved nature than Forbes; and with
it, few, if any, were gifted with as many shining accomplishments. He
was a prince of cut-throats, uniting with the coolness of Augustus
Tomlinson all the adaptability of Paul Clifford. On one occasion he
said to a gentleman about to leave the Territory,
“You will be attacked on your way to Salt Lake City.”
“You can’t do it, Charley,” was the reply. “Your boys are scattered, we
are together, and will prove too many for you.” Nevertheless, the party
drove sixty miles the first day out, and thus escaped molestation.
His early life was passed in Grass Valley, California. While
comparatively a youth, he was convicted of robbery. On the expiration
of his sentence, he visited his old friends, and on his promise of
reformation, they obtained employment for him in McLaughlin’s gas
works. For a while his conduct was unexceptionable, and he was rapidly
regaining the esteem of all; but in an evil hour he indulged in a game
of poker for money. From that moment he yielded to this temptation,
until it became a besetting vice. Not long after he entered upon this
career, he provoked a quarrel with one “Dutch John,” who threatened to
kill him.