[J. H. Cradlebaugh, The Hatching of the Sage-Hen, Sunset, May 1905]

 

The Hatching of the Sage-Hen

[Being a small boy's recollection of early Comstock days.]

            WHEN the rush to the Comstock mines swept over the Sierra Nevada in the fall of 1859, Carson City sprang into existence with such rapidity that Jonah's gourd was a century plant compared to it. Tents and small frame buildings went up so quickly that the jack-rabbits didn't have time to vacate the plaza. It was a motley crowd that invaded the western confines of Mormondom, including some that was best, and about all that was worst on the Pacific coast. There were lawyers, scouting fat fees and with visions of political preferment in the new El Dorado; doctors with the milling fever and anxious only to "heel" themselves; merchants who realized that here was a place where the fact that profits invaded the realm of larceny would not be too closely inquired into; miners, tough, reckless ; soldiers of fortune, who would invade the lower regions and swear water was abundant and climate slandered, if mines were found there; saloon men, packers. gamblers, teamsters, real-estate sharpers, capitalists, ready to put money into anything; and thugs ready to take it out at the point of a gun if necessary. Good and bad, high and low, rich and poor, an occasional saint and innumerable sinners, all drawn to one common point, by that magical magnet—gold.

            In the spring of 1860 the Kingsbury grade was completed, becoming the main highway between California and western Utah, and over this the black current of wealth seekers flowed. Among the birds of prey who followed this stream as gulls follow a school of herring, was Sam Brown, a big, red-headed Texan, weighing two hundred and fifty pounds, every ounce of which was meaner, viler, and more wicked than all the others put together. When he arrived on the Utah side he assumed, in fact he brought it with him, the rôle of king of the toughs, and his private graveyards, impartially distributed all over California, induced others to let him wear the title with all its honors, without dispute. He went into business without waiting to get a sign painted, killing one man at Virginia City, another at Dutch Nick's (now Empire) and a third at Carson, on one occasion holding his victim on his feet after he had stabbed him, until he had carefully wiped his knife on the victim's coat, after which he permitted the corpse to fall to the floor, while he stretched himself on a billiard table and pretended to go to sleep.

            Brown had been arrested twice, but owing to deficient jails had escaped on both occasions and fled to California. The flush times and easy picking, however, soon induced him to return. On the latter of these occasions he was pursued by United States Marshal Blackburn, a brave officer, but he got across the California line. On this trip, so Brown afterward claimed, Henry Vansickle, who kept a way-side hotel at the foot of the Kingsbury grade, had loaned one of the pursuing posse a revolver. Be that as it may, after the Carson killing Brown again struck out for California. He had under his belt his usual cargo of "valley tan" whisky, and under his hat the firm-set purpose of killing Henry Vansickle.

            He rode a big gray mare, a splendid animal, and took the lower road, as it was called, crossing Clear creek at the old Penrod ranch, and followed the emigrant road by McMarlin's.

            Mrs. McMarlin's place was a well-known stopping point for teamsters, and at this time was run by Mrs. Alice McMarlin assisted

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by Mrs. Kenyon, erstwhile wife of Ace Kenyon, founder of Ragtown and one of the early-day characters. There was also a daughter a little Kenyon, who like myself, had accomplished ten sin-gorged years. She was a pretty little tow-headed, freckle-faced, blue-eyed thing—but—well it was my first case and as usual the woman got me into trouble. My father was building a toll-road across the Carson river bottoms a mile below McMarlin's to give the benighted people of Esmeralda, Mono and the Pizen Switch, as the Walker river country was known, a chance to get to Carson and civilization.

            There wasn't much travel that way, but the head of my family was always progressive, and in those days a man who didn't own a toll-road or two—well he wasn't a gentleman. Anyway I was sent out to my uncles, who were building the road, and I discovered and located, as it were, the little Kenyon divinity the first day I was there. I used to stop in a little cabin with the road gang, at night, but I spent most of the gladsome daylight playing up at the McMarlin ranch with the girl of the golden locks. I would generally stay away until the night began to fall and the coyotes to yap, and then being somewhat of a coward about the dark, I would remember my uncles would want to corral me for the night, and I would make the mile in record-breaking time. On the night in question, when Brown was bidding a temporary adieu to Utah, it was my ill-fortune to meet him in the gloaming when only about half way home. I knew him instantly, for I had seen him dozens of times, and only two months before he had invited me to hold his horse while he went into Hank Dunbar's saloon at McMarlin's, after a dose of "valley tan." On that occasion he cautioned me not to let the horse get away, and I desire to say now that my mind never wandered from the job.  He gave me a twenty-dollar piece when he came out, but I never hung around and watched for him in order to get another.

            Politeness, in those days, at least, was not my chief accomplishment, yet when I met him that evening. I went out in the sage-brush and gave him the whole road. I thought maybe he wanted it, and I knew I didn't. I also took off my cap and by a superhuman effort plucked my voice up from the bottom of my stomach, and in tones Chesterfieldian, said. "Good evening, Mr. Brown," with the accent on the mister. He answered me pleasantly enough, but still I thought it was all off with little Johnny. I was sick with fear—I can almost taste it yet. I wondered if it hurt much to get killed. and ridiculous as it seems I found myself thinking that when I was gone my uncle would eat a dozen eggs I had saved up to set under a hen Mrs. McMarlin had given me. I probably thought of a good many things but I don't recall them now. I remember though looking over my shoulder and seeing that Brown was paying no attention to me, and then I realized I was needed at home. I commenced putting my feet in front of each other in great style, and the red blossoms of hope again sent their fragrance through my soul. It was only for a moment, and then I heard a great shout, and the thunder of the gray mare's feet as she came charging after me, and Brown's big voice bellowing "Run you little blankety-blank," and the bang! bang! bang! of his revolver, and then my feet touched a few high places, the cabin was in sight—and thank God! the door open, and I was under the bunk with my heart trying to break my ribs, and a roaring in my ears as though the Mexican quartz mill was located in my head. I know now he wasn't shooting at me but I didn't know it then, and that made a difference. He didn't follow me of course, but evidently he looked around and saw that I was frightened, and wanted to see how fast a boy could go who really wanted to run and had his whole mind on it.

            It was just one of his little jokes, and Brown had a keen sense of humor. After escorting me home he rode on to Vansickle's, and chased Van out of his house, taking a playful shot or two at him as he went out the back door. He couldn't stop long as he knew he would be followed, so mounted and rode on to Lute Old's place, eleven miles distant. Vansickle at once returned to the house, took his shotgun and a horse, and riding through the sage-brush, got to Old's ahead of Brown. There was a big lantern lighted and hanging in the stable and near it Van hid in a stall. In a few minutes Brown rode in full under the lamp, and Van immediately presented him with the contents of both barrels of his shotgun, some thirty-six buck-hot in all, and Samuel Brown, desperado, tumbled heavily from his good gray mare, and then and there quit. I had a shepherd pup Van had vainly offered me fifteen dollars for, but the next time I saw Vansickle I gave him the little doggie, and refused his money, and he knows not to this day why I did it.

J. H. CRADLEBAUGH.