Roughing It
coat, shiny stump-toed boots, and with dainty little slouch hat tipped
over left eye, the small-fry roughs made room for his majesty; when he
entered the restaurant, the waiters deserted bankers and merchants to
overwhelm him with obsequious service; when he shouldered his way to a
bar, the shouldered parties wheeled indignantly, recognized him,
and—apologized.
They got a look in return that froze their marrow, and by that time a
curled and breast-pinned bar keeper was beaming over the counter, proud
of the established acquaintanceship that permitted such a familiar form
of speech as:
“How’re ye, Billy, old fel? Glad to see you. What’ll you take—the old
thing?”
The “old thing” meant his customary drink, of course.
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The best known names in the Territory of Nevada were those belonging to
these long-tailed heroes of the revolver. Orators, Governors,
capitalists and leaders of the legislature enjoyed a degree of fame, but
it seemed local and meagre when contrasted with the fame of such men as
Sam Brown, Jack Williams, Billy Mulligan, Farmer Pease, Sugarfoot Mike,
Pock Marked Jake, El Dorado Johnny, Jack McNabb, Joe McGee, Jack Harris,
Six-fingered Pete, etc., etc. There was a long list of them. They were
brave, reckless men, and traveled with their lives in their hands. To
give them their due, they did their killing principally among
themselves, and seldom molested peaceable citizens, for they considered
it small credit to add to their trophies so cheap a bauble as the death
of a man who was “not on the shoot,” as they phrased it. They killed
each other on slight provocation, and hoped and expected to be killed
themselves—for they held it almost shame to die otherwise than “with
their boots on,” as they expressed it.
I remember an instance of a desperado’s contempt for such small game as
a private citizen’s life. I was taking a late supper in a restaurant one
night, with two reporters and a little printer named—Brown, for
instance—any name will do. Presently a stranger with a long-tailed coat
on came in, and not noticing Brown’s hat, which was lying in a chair,
sat down on it. Little Brown sprang up and became abusive in a moment.
The stranger smiled, smoothed out the hat, and offered it to Brown with
profuse apologies couched in caustic sarcasm, and begged Brown not to
destroy him. Brown threw off his coat and challenged the man to
fight—abused him, threatened him, impeached his courage, and urged and
even implored him to fight; and in the meantime the smiling stranger
placed himself under our protection in mock distress. But presently he
assumed a serious tone, and said:
“Very well, gentlemen, if we must fight, we must, I suppose. But don’t
rush into danger and then say I gave you no warning. I am more than a
match for all of you when I get started. I will give you proofs, and
then if my friend here still insists, I will try to accommodate him.”
The table we were sitting at was about five feet long, and unusually
cumbersome and heavy. He asked us to put our hands on the dishes and
hold them in their places a moment—one of them was a large oval dish
with a portly roast on it. Then he sat down, tilted up one end of the
table, set two of the legs on his knees, took the end of the table
between his teeth, took his hands away, and pulled down with his teeth
till the table came up to a level position, dishes and all! He said he
could lift a keg of nails with his teeth. He picked up a common glass
tumbler and bit a semi-circle out of it. Then he opened his bosom and
showed us a net-work of knife and bullet scars; showed us more on his
arms and face, and said he believed he had bullets enough in his body to
make a pig of lead. He was armed to the teeth. He closed with the remark
that he was Mr.——of Cariboo—a celebrated name whereat we shook in our
shoes. I would publish the name, but for the suspicion that he might
come and carve me. He finally inquired if Brown still thirsted for
blood. Brown turned the thing over in his mind a moment, and then—asked
him to supper.
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With the permission of the reader, I will group together, in the next
chapter, some samples of life in our small mountain village in the old
days of desperadoism. I was there at the time. The reader will observe
peculiarities in our official society; and he will observe also, an
instance of how, in new countries, murders breed murders.
CHAPTER XLIX.
An extract or two from the newspapers of the day will furnish a
photograph that can need no embellishment:
FATAL SHOOTING AFFRAY.—An affray occurred, last evening, in a billiard
saloon on C street, between Deputy Marshal Jack Williams and Wm. Brown,
which resulted in the immediate death of the latter. There had been some
difficulty between the parties for several months.
An inquest was immediately held, and the following testimony adduced:
Officer GEO. BIRDSALL, sworn, says:—I was told Wm. Brown was drunk and
was looking for Jack Williams; so soon as I heard that I started for the
parties to prevent a collision; went into the billiard saloon; saw Billy
Brown running around, saying if anybody had anything against him to show
cause; he was talking in a boisterous manner, and officer Perry took him
to the other end of the room to talk to him; Brown came back to me;
remarked to me that he thought he was as good as anybody, and knew how
to take care of himself; he passed by me and went to the bar; don’t know
whether he drank or not; Williams was at the end of the billiard-table,
next to the stairway; Brown, after going to the bar, came back and said
he was as good as any man in the world; he had then walked out to the
end of the first billiard-table from the bar; I moved closer to them,
supposing there would be a fight; as Brown drew his pistol I caught hold
of it; he had fired one shot at Williams; don’t know the effect of it;
caught hold of him with one hand, and took hold of the pistol and turned
it up; think he fired once after I caught hold of the pistol; I wrenched
the pistol from him; walked to the end of the billiard-table and told a
party that I had Brown’s pistol, and to stop shooting; I think four
shots were fired in all; after walking out, Mr. Foster remarked that
Brown was shot dead.
Oh, there was no excitement about it—he merely “remarked” the small
circumstance!
Four months later the following item appeared in the same paper (the
Enterprise). In this item the name of one of the city officers above
referred to (Deputy Marshal Jack Williams) occurs again:
ROBBERY AND DESPERATE AFFRAY.—On Tuesday night, a German named Charles
Hurtzal, engineer in a mill at Silver City, came to this place, and
visited the hurdy-gurdy house on B street. The music, dancing and
Teutonic maidens awakened memories of Faderland until our German friend
was carried away with rapture. He evidently had money, and was spending
if freely. Late in the evening Jack Williams and Andy Blessington
invited him down stairs to take a cup of coffee. Williams proposed a
game of cards and went up stairs to procure a deck, but not finding any
returned. On the stairway he met the German, and drawing his pistol
knocked him down and rifled his pockets of some seventy dollars. Hurtzal
dared give no alarm, as he was told, with a pistol at his head, if he
made any noise or exposed them, they would blow his brains out. So
effectually was he frightened that he made no complaint, until his
friends forced him. Yesterday a warrant was issued, but the culprits had
disappeared.
This efficient city officer, Jack Williams, had the common reputation of
being a burglar, a highwayman and a desperado. It was said that he had
several times drawn his revolver and levied money contributions on
citizens at dead of night in the public streets of Virginia.
Five months after the above item appeared, Williams was assassinated
while sitting at a card table one night; a gun was thrust through the
crack of the door and Williams dropped from his chair riddled with
balls. It was said, at the time, that Williams had been for some time
aware that a party of his own sort (desperadoes) had sworn away his
life; and it was generally believed among the people that Williams’s
friends and enemies would make the assassination memorable—and useful,
too—by a wholesale destruction of each other.
It did not so happen, but still, times were not dull during the next
twenty-four hours, for within that time a woman was killed by a pistol
shot, a man was brained with a slung shot, and a man named Reeder was
also disposed of permanently. Some matters in the Enterprise account of
the killing of Reeder are worth noting—especially the accommodating
complaisance of a Virginia justice of the peace. The italics in the
following narrative are mine:
MORE CUTTING AND SHOOTING.—The devil seems to have again broken loose in
our town. Pistols and guns explode and knives gleam in our streets as in
early times. When there has been a long season of quiet, people are slow
to wet their hands in blood; but once blood is spilled, cutting and
shooting come easy. Night before last Jack Williams was assassinated,
and yesterday forenoon we had more bloody work, growing out of the
killing of Williams, and on the same street in which he met his death.
It appears that Tom Reeder, a friend of Williams, and George Gumbert
were talking, at the meat market of the latter, about the killing of
Williams the previous night, when Reeder said it was a most cowardly act
to shoot a man in such a way, giving him “no show.” Gumbert said that
Williams had “as good a show as he gave Billy Brown,” meaning the man
killed by Williams last March. Reeder said it was a d——d lie, that
Williams had no show at all. At this, Gumbert drew a knife and stabbed
Reeder, cutting him in two places in the back. One stroke of the knife
cut into the sleeve of Reeder’s coat and passed downward in a slanting
direction through his clothing, and entered his body at the small of the
back; another blow struck more squarely, and made a much more dangerous
wound. Gumbert gave himself up to the officers of justice, and was
shortly after discharged by Justice Atwill, on his own recognizance, to
appear for trial at six o’clock in the evening. In the meantime Reeder
had been taken into the office of Dr. Owens, where his wounds were
properly dressed. One of his wounds was considered quite dangerous, and
it was thought by many that it would prove fatal. But being considerably
under the influence of liquor, Reeder did not feel his wounds as he
otherwise would, and he got up and went into the street. He went to the
meat market and renewed his quarrel with Gumbert, threatening his life.
Friends tried to interfere to put a stop to the quarrel and get the
parties away from each other. In the Fashion Saloon Reeder made threats
against the life of Gumbert, saying he would kill him, and it is said
that he requested the officers not to arrest Gumbert, as he intended to
kill him. After these threats Gumbert went off and procured a double-
barreled shot gun, loaded with buck-shot or revolver balls, and went
after Reeder. Two or three persons were assisting him along the street,
trying to get him home, and had him just in front of the store of
Klopstock & Harris, when Gumbert came across toward him from the
opposite side of the street with his gun. He came up within about ten or
fifteen feet of Reeder, and called out to those with him to “look out!
get out of the way!” and they had only time to heed the warning, when he
fired. Reeder was at the time attempting to screen himself behind a
large cask, which stood against the awning post of Klopstock & Harris’s
store, but some of the balls took effect in the lower part of his