Roughing It
Editor and Proprietor of the Gold Hill News.
Despite the insult and wrong heaped upon me by John B. Winters, on
Saturday afternoon, only a glimpse of which I shall be able to afford
your readers, so much do I deplore clinching (by publicity) a serious
mistake of any one, man or woman, committed under natural and not self-
wrought passion, in view of his great apparent excitement at the time
and in view of the almost perfect privacy of the assault, I am far from
sure that I should not have given him space for repentance before
exposing him, were it not that he himself has so far exposed the matter
as to make it the common talk of the town that he has horsewhipped me.
That fact having been made public, all the facts in connection need to
be also, or silence on my part would seem more than singular, and with
many would be proof either that I was conscious of some unworthy aim in
publishing the article, or else that my “non-combatant” principles are
but a convenient cloak alike of physical and moral cowardice. I
therefore shall try to present a graphic but truthful picture of this
whole affair, but shall forbear all comments, presuming that the editors
of our own journal, if others do not, will speak freely and fittingly
upon this subject in our next number, whether I shall then be dead or
living, for my death will not stop, though it may suspend, the
publication of the PEOPLE’S TRIBUNE. [The “non-combatant” sticks to
principle, but takes along a friend or two of a conveniently different
stripe:]
THE TRAP SET. On Saturday morning John B. Winters sent verbal word to
the Gold Hill Assay Office that he desired to see me at the Yellow
Jacket office. Though such a request struck me as decidedly cool in view
of his own recent discourtesies to me there alike as a publisher and as
a stockholder in the Yellow Jacket mine, and though it seemed to me more
like a summons than the courteous request by one gentleman to another
for a favor, hoping that some conference with Sharon looking to the
betterment of mining matters in Nevada might arise from it, I felt
strongly inclined to overlook what possibly was simply an oversight in
courtesy. But as then it had only been two days since I had been bruised
and beaten under a hasty and false apprehension of facts, my caution was
somewhat aroused. Moreover I remembered sensitively his contemptuousness
of manner to me at my last interview in his office. I therefore felt it
needful, if I went at all, to go accompanied by a friend whom he would
not dare to treat with incivility, and whose presence with me might
secure exemption from insult. Accordingly I asked a neighbor to
accompany me.
THE TRAP ALMOST DETECTED. Although I was not then aware of this fact, it
would seem that previous to my request this same neighbor had heard Dr.
Zabriskie state publicly in a saloon, that Mr. Winters had told him he
had decided either to kill or to horsewhip me, but had not finally
decided on which. My neighbor, therefore, felt unwilling to go down with
me until he had first called on Mr. Winters alone. He therefore paid him
a visit. From that interview he assured me that he gathered the
impression that he did not believe I would have any difficulty with Mr.
Winters, and that he (Winters) would call on me at four o’clock in my
own office.
MY OWN PRECAUTIONS. As Sheriff Cummings was in Gold Hill that afternoon,
and as I desired to converse with him about the previous assault, I
invited him to my office, and he came. Although a half hour had passed
beyond four o’clock, Mr. Winters had not called, and we both of us began
preparing to go home. Just then, Philip Lynch, Publisher of the Gold
Hill News, came in and said, blandly and cheerily, as if bringing good
news:
“Hello, John B. Winters wants to see you.”
I replied, “Indeed! Why he sent me word that he would call on me here
this afternoon at four o’clock!”
“O, well, it don’t do to be too ceremonious just now, he’s in my office,
and that will do as well—come on in, Winters wants to consult with you
alone. He’s got something to say to you.”
Though slightly uneasy at this change of programme, yet believing that
in an editor’s house I ought to be safe, and anyhow that I would be
within hail of the street, I hurriedly, and but partially whispered my
dim apprehensions to Mr. Cummings, and asked him if he would not keep
near enough to hear my voice in case I should call. He consented to do
so while waiting for some other parties, and to come in if he heard my
voice or thought I had need of protection.
On reaching the editorial part of the News office, which viewed from the
street is dark, I did not see Mr. Winters, and again my misgivings
arose. Had I paused long enough to consider the case, I should have
invited Sheriff Cummings in, but as Lynch went down stairs, he said:
“This way, Wiegand—it’s best to be private,” or some such remark.
[I do not desire to strain the reader’s fancy, hurtfully, and yet it
would be a favor to me if he would try to fancy this lamb in battle, or
the duelling ground or at the head of a vigilance committee—M. T.:]
I followed, and without Mr. Cummings, and without arms, which I never do
or will carry, unless as a soldier in war, or unless I should yet come
to feel I must fight a duel, or to join and aid in the ranks of a
necessary Vigilance Committee. But by following I made a fatal mistake.
Following was entering a trap, and whatever animal suffers itself to be
caught should expect the common fate of a caged rat, as I fear events to
come will prove.
Traps commonly are not set for benevolence. [His body-guard is shut
out:]
THE TRAP INSIDE. I followed Lynch down stairs. At their foot a door to
the left opened into a small room. From that room another door opened
into yet another room, and once entered I found myself inveigled into
what many will ever henceforth regard as a private subterranean Gold
Hill den, admirably adapted in proper hands to the purposes of murder,
raw or disguised, for from it, with both or even one door closed, when
too late, I saw that I could not be heard by Sheriff Cummings, and from
it, BY VIOLENCE AND BY FORCE, I was prevented from making a peaceable
exit, when I thought I saw the studious object of this “consultation”
was no other than to compass my killing, in the presence of Philip Lynch
as a witness, as soon as by insult a proverbially excitable man should
be exasperated to the point of assailing Mr. Winters, so that Mr. Lynch,
by his conscience and by his well known tenderness of heart toward the
rich and potent would be compelled to testify that he saw Gen. John B.
Winters kill Conrad Wiegand in “self-defence.” But I am going too fast.
OUR HOST. Mr. Lynch was present during the most of the time (say a
little short of an hour), but three times he left the room. His
testimony, therefore, would be available only as to the bulk of what
transpired. On entering this carpeted den I was invited to a seat near
one corner of the room. Mr. Lynch took a seat near the window. J. B.
Winters sat (at first) near the door, and began his remarks essentially
as follows:
“I have come here to exact of you a retraction, in black and white, of
those damnably false charges which you have preferred against me in
that— —infamous lying sheet of yours, and you must declare yourself
their author, that you published them knowing them to be false, and that
your motives were malicious.”
“Hold, Mr. Winters. Your language is insulting and your demand an
enormity. I trust I was not invited here either to be insulted or
coerced. I supposed myself here by invitation of Mr. Lynch, at your
request.”
“Nor did I come here to insult you. I have already told you that I am
here for a very different purpose.”
“Yet your language has been offensive, and even now shows strong
excitement. If insult is repeated I shall either leave the room or call
in Sheriff Cummings, whom I just left standing and waiting for me
outside the door.”
“No, you won’t, sir. You may just as well understand it at once as not.
Here you are my man, and I’ll tell you why! Months ago you put your
property out of your hands, boasting that you did so to escape losing it
on prosecution for libel.”
“It is true that I did convert all my immovable property into personal
property, such as I could trust safely to others, and chiefly to escape
ruin through possible libel suits.”
“Very good, sir. Having placed yourself beyond the pale of the law, may
God help your soul if you DON’T make precisely such a retraction as I
have demanded. I’ve got you now, and by—before you can get out of this
room you’ve got to both write and sign precisely the retraction I have
demanded, and before you go, anyhow—you — low-lived — lying —, I’ll
teach you what personal responsibility is outside of the law; and, by—,
Sheriff Cummings and all the friends you’ve got in the world besides,
can’t save you, you—, etc.! _No_, sir. I’m alone now, and I’m prepared
to be shot down just here and now rather than be villified by you as I
have been, and suffer you to escape me after publishing those charges,
not only here where I am known and universally respected, but where I am
not personally known and may be injured.”
I confess this speech, with its terrible and but too plainly implied
threat of killing me if I did not sign the paper he demanded, terrified
me, especially as I saw he was working himself up to the highest
possible pitch of passion, and instinct told me that any reply other
than one of seeming concession to his demands would only be fuel to a
raging fire, so I replied:
“Well, if I’ve got to sign—,” and then I paused some time. Resuming, I
said, “But, Mr. Winters, you are greatly excited. Besides, I see you are
laboring under a total misapprehension. It is your duty not to inflame
but to calm yourself. I am prepared to show you, if you will only point
out the article that you allude to, that you regard as ‘charges’ what no
calm and logical mind has any right to regard as such. Show me the
charges, and I will try, at all events; and if it becomes plain that no
charges have been preferred, then plainly there can be nothing to
retract, and no one could rightly urge you to demand a retraction. You
should beware of making so serious a mistake, for however honest a man
may be, every one is liable to misapprehend. Besides you assume that I
am the author of some certain article which you have not pointed out. It
is hasty to do so.”
He then pointed to some numbered paragraphs in a TRIBUNE article, headed
“What’s the Matter with Yellow Jacket?” saying “That’s what I refer to.”
To gain time for general reflection and resolution, I took up the paper
and looked it over for awhile, he remaining silent, and as I hoped,
cooling. I then resumed saying, “As I supposed. I do not admit having
written that article, nor have you any right to assume so important a
point, and then base important action upon your assumption. You might
deeply regret it afterwards. In my published Address to the People, I
notified the world that no information as to the authorship of any
article would be given without the consent of the writer. I therefore
cannot honorably tell you who wrote that article, nor can you exact it.”
“If you are not the author, then I do demand to know who is?”
“I must decline to say.”
“Then, by—, I brand you as its author, and shall treat you accordingly.”
“Passing that point, the most important misapprehension which I notice
is, that you regard them as ‘charges’ at all, when their context, both
at their beginning and end, show they are not. These words introduce
them: ‘Such an investigation [just before indicated], we think MIGHT
result in showing some of the following points.’ Then follow eleven