[Jared B. Graham, The First Silver Boom, from Handset Reminiscences: Recollections of an Old-Time Printer and Journalist (1915)]

 

The First Silver Boom.

__________

            The journey from Sacramento to Virginia City when stage lines were established, occupying about two days, was not an altogether delightful experience, albeit en route were scenic effects and thrills calculated to satisfy any reasonable tourist.

            Early in the Washoe silver excitement, on in 1861, the trip was made by thousands of fortune hunters on bronchos, mules and burros, and on foot. Those who tramped in the winter season, packing blankets and grub, suffered great hardships. Many were the rude tablets along the old trail marking the last resting places of the weak who fell by the way.

            By the spring of 1863 a forty-mile section of the Central Pacific railroad had been constructed east from Sacramento, landing passengers at Auburn—then a booming terminal. This I believe was the first bit of railroad to be built west of the Missouri river ; though several miles of track between Frisco and the old San Francisco mission was laid earlier, and operated with an engine and car combined that carried passengers.

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            Before reaching the foothills from Auburn there was a stretch of valley road where frequent floods had deposited silt to a depth of four to six inches, so fine and light that with scarcely a breath of air stirring it rolled up in dense clouds, so that weak-lunged wayfarers only saved themselves from suffocation by masking their noses. On my first trip I was so fortunate as to secure the seat beside the driver, above the real smothering zone ; but even so, when we arrived at the first change station there was a deposit half-an-inch deep on the rim of my hat. It was this silt that gave the Sacramento valley perhaps the richest soil in the world for agricultural purposes ; and more wealth has been reaped from its fertile acres than ever came in gold from the overhanging mountains.

            "Ike," our driver, was a joker in his way, albeit some of the "insides" were prone to think it a mean, underhanded way. When the monotony of a steady pull had lulled them into a doze, we came to a little gully where a shower brook had crossed the road. When approaching it, remarking it was "about time for them ducks down thar to wake up," and warning me to hang on, Ike unloosed his whip and hit a fly on the off leaders' ear. The team jumped, and as the wheels hit the

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depression half a dozen heads played tattoo on the, roof, while a streak of oaths issued from the windows that seemed like a blue rainbow on the dusty air.

            Then that hard-hearted wretch went into a silent convulsion that shook the seat, and murmured:

            "G-e-e-zus! 'but didn't that thar jar 'em loose!"

            That was positively the most unique swearword ever uttered. Ike didn't seem to use it in a profane sense any more than Mr. Corntossle swears when he says "dum it." In fact, I don't remember to have heard Ike utter a real oath. He made use of this substitute on all occasions, as a creation of his own, with slightly varying emphasis expressing surprise, pain, irritation, appreciation or contempt. With a deep bass voice he gave a falling inflection to both syllables —the first landing somewhere under his vest, the last with a sudden thud in his throat.

            Long subsequent to this trip I was one day standing by the desk of the manager of a furniture establishment at Lapeer, Mich., where I published a small paper. A clerk was waiting on a customer at one of the counters.

            "G-e-e-zus !" exclaimed the customer. Whereat the manager laughed.

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            "That was odd," I said. "It must be ten years since I last saw the man who uttered that word, if ever; but I'll wager a box of Havanas I know him."

            "Done," said the manager. "Mr. Temple, please step here a moment. I want to introduce you to this gentleman."

            As Mr. Temple approached I turned my face toward him.

            "G-e-e-zus !" he exclaimed, seizing my hand. "I don't need no introduction to this galoot. What on earth are you doing in this God forsaken land of turnips and ruta bagas? You're about the last person I ever expected to meet this side of the Rockies."

            It transpired that Ike Temple, after many years of western life, was visiting a sister whom he had not seen since she was a child, and by way of celebrating their reunion was about to present her with a set of furniture. He had just made himself known to the manager, who with no idea that I ever lived in the far west thought he had some dead easy cigars coming.

            At one of the change stations, reached at daybreak, was a saloon—an inevitable feature in the mountains wherever were gathered together half-a-dozen shacks or tents. On a bench in front sat an Indian

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who might have been Shacknasty Jack, a chief of the Modoc tribe, later noted as a desperate fighter in what was known as the lava bed war. He was a strictly hideous-looking creature, togged mostly in scars, war paint and feathers and heavily armed, with a rifle, resting across his knees, and was sitting bolt upright on the edge of the seat as if about to flash and go off. His gaze was fixed on the eastern horizon, and as the stage came up he did not bat an eye. A tobacco sign might have swayed in the breeze that was blowing, but he did not.

            The respite from the long night ride and pure bracing air stimulated me, and striking an attitude in front of the noble red man I pointed to the east and sang a couple of lines from "Masaniello

                        "Behold, how brightly breaks the morning,

                                    The sun is shining o'er the eastern hills."

Still not a muscle stirred; but when I said, "Pardner, come and have a drink," he grunted, sprang to his feet like something had stung him, and stalked to the bar without giving me a glance. When the scars and paint darkened the door the barkeeper was busily waiting on some passengers ; but he dropped them, filled a glass to the brim with snake juice and

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set it before the chief, who downed it without a gasp. With another grunt Jack stalked back to his perch. When we came out he had again become a wooden image with a far-away gaze.

            Later on this chief made a heap of trouble for Uncle Sam before cold lead persuaded him to become a "good Indian." The barkeeper seemed to feel that he had good and sufficient reason for being mighty polite to him.

            We spent an hour at an eating station; which gave me time to look around. Nothing worth mentioning was in sight, except at the rude hotel — kept by a '49er — was a six-pocket billiard table which, I being a scrub player, attracted my curiosity. It was actually 9 feet long by 7 feet wide. It had a wooden bed, balls that had been "thrice turned," and small gunny sacks for pockets. Looking across its broad expanse, one could figure that having made a round-the-table shot he would have time to sit down and read a paper while his cue ball was coming back. A sound as of distant thunder reverberated as the ivories rolled over the wooden bed. One board was warped by having stood under a leaky roof, so that the relic was now in disuse

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— crippled as well as outlawed by limitation. The proprietor, a bleary-eyed, palsied old man, explained that in bygone days the table was used principally for playing "rondo," a Mexican game at that time popular in the diggings, in which many thousands of dollars changed hands. He had seen as high as a thousand dollars in gold dust bet on a single roll. The game was played with eight balls, the size of pigeon's eggs. They were shoved with the hands, diagonally across the table. If an even number, or all, fell into the corner pocket the player made a "rondo," and won. If the number left on the table was odd, he made a "coolo," and lost.

            Rondo had disappeared before my time, but there was another simple odd and even game, called "props," that in the early sixties caught the boys for their loose change and made coupon cutters of percentage sharks. It was played with four elongated white sea shells, one side of each having been removed and replaced with sealing wax. The player put up say four bits, which was taken by other players, and threw the shells on a green baise-covered table. If two or four came red side up he made a "nick," and won. If but one red or one white showed, it was an "out" and he lost. When he

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had thrown two nicks and doubled his money twice, he usually took down $1.25, left up a four-bit stake, and the dealer put two bits in his till. It took about two minutes to set the game and throw twice, so the dealer's rakeoff was $6 to $8 an hour ; though when the playing was lively for larger stakes he would steal as much more. This game was played "wide open" in all second-class saloons, and became such a craze among wage earners in Frisco the authorities interfered and suppressed it.

            This was the Henness Pass route. There was another, perhaps more popular, called the Placerville route, but the Henness Pass was not excelled for scenery and thrilling features. A real blood-curdler was called the "eleven-mile grade," which in that distance dropped several thousand feet from the summit of the Sierras west into the valley in which beautiful Webber lake is situated. The summit was reached from the east by a toilsome, rocky climb, made by most passengers on foot to lighten the coach. The long grade was a narrow shelf, hewn all the way in solid rock. It was smooth as a floor, but not wide enough for teams to pass safely. At frequent intervals were excavations in the side of the moun-

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tain, into which freighters could drive and clear the track for coaches, which had the right of way. It was the rule for coach drivers to make up on the down grade for time lost in approaching it and the horses were given their heads at full gallop—their clattering and the rumbling coaches making a racket that could be heard half-a-mile, warning approaching and slower jehus to "turn in."

            At the beginning of this descent the scenery was grand, from a safe viewpoint, but lost to the awe-stricken gaze of most pilgrims, they having something to think about more nearly concerning their immediate personal prospects. The outer margin of the roadway was not so wide but that they could see a precipice directly below them with an almost perpendicular wall, so deep that pine trees at the bottom seemed not much larger than sagebrush.

            At the summit I became an insider temporarily, giving up my perch to a weak-hearted pilgrim short of breath. Beside me inside was a former driver on the route, who had been fired for some cause. He was very bitter, and to injure the company was losing no chance to say nerve-racking things. So narrow a margin of road, the awful precipice and the apparently reckless speed we were

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making caused a creepy sensation to cavoort up and down my spine, no doubt shared by all. I asked the fellow if he had ever had an accident on the grade.

            "Dozens on 'em," he replied. "See how that thar right leg of mine is braced, and a holdin' on? That comes of habit, just. I allus braced myself thataway soon as I hit the down haul, ready to jump, in case a wheel run off or the leaders began to get flossy. Them hosses get skeered, all same as a tenderfoot, and sometimes go bughouse and jump over the side. Then I'd jest nach'lly jump t'other way, hear me. Soon as I'd looked over and seen that the layout was on its way, it was for me to hoof it down to the next station, get picked up and taken to headquarters an' put aboard a new outfit."

            "Were no steps taken to rescue the passengers?"

            "You mean to go where they lit? Whar's the use? You don't reckon thar was anybody a hollerin' fer help after fallin' a mile, do ye?"

            "No ; but the company at least ought to have taken steps to recover the bodies, and see that they were decently interred."

            "Oh, I don' know. There's only a bad trail at the bottom of the canyon,

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with boulders a rollin' down like they're shot out of a gun and liable to smash you. Anyway, it would take a couple of days for a rescue party to git thar, an' what 'ud the coyotes an' buzzards an' crows be doin' all that time. I hear roughnecks who don't mind pickin' dead men's pockets have made a big thing down thar, but I wouldn't want none of it in mine."

            Next to this veracious jehu on the danger side, with bulging eyes glued to the window, was a thin-faced, middle-aged man in a frayed black suit, crumpled silk hat and a dirty white cravat, who for all I know might have been a tract dispenser. I couldn't see his face, but imagine all the horror not depicted in the faces of the other passengers was concentrated in his. He was neither seated nor standing — about half cocked as you might say — so that his lean figure swayed to and fro and rose and fell with the motion of the coach. Clutched in his hands were an old satchel and an umbrella, as if he might be loaded to go off suddenly.

            When the ex-jehu ceased talking he took a bite from a pocket flask that must have had a depressing effect, for with tears in his voice he soon began singing a doleful croon that had probably been

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"thought out" by a disgruntled stage driver. I recall the first of about twenty-one verses:

                        "Just listen, me boys, and I'll sidng ye a sogng —

                                    A tadle (tale) of the road that's not very logng —

                        "'Tis about a fine lad who drove very wedll,

                        But hung to his ribbons and landed in hedll."

            It told of a loving old mother, who knitted Jack's socks and mended his clothes, and died heart-broken when she heard of his awful fate ; also, of a "nice yougng girdl" soon to have been his bride, who went to the dizzy brink, and when she "see where Jack had godne," shrieked fearful and went tumbling after.

            Before this horror was ended the tract dispenser collapsed, dropped his belongings, and with chin on breast maintained a limp heap until we halted at the next station. I did not notice until then that his hair was streaked with white.

            If you were a poor devil of a typesticker—a Johnny-come-lately in one of the strangest of strange places—and you had just got in a night at $1 per thousand, and on the way to your room, on the main street, at considerable intervals you should stumble over three horrid

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cadavers, and the cheerful information had been imparted to you that you might expect a similar experience on the following night, and every other night, and that if a policeman were standing in a doorway close by he would merely shrug his shoulders when the several impediments turned up their toes, and in the morning would order a cart and have the remains, boots and all, dumped into a trench in the outskirts, thus closing the incidents; and that the policemen of the place were all instructed to not, under certain conditions, interfere with any amount of shooting, cutting, clubbing, or any other process of cadaver-making that might happen on the main street or any other street, would you have the nerve to continue on to your domicile, partake of a refreshing, dreamless sleep, and next day return to the office to get in "another one," or would you watch for the dawn, go paste your string, turn it over to the "Shylock" and incontinently hit the trail for other scenes?

            This is not a hypothetical question—not a suppositious one, at all events — for it brings up an incident just as it happened to me in the spring of 1862, a few days after my arrival in Virginia City, Nevada. There was a dearth of printers, and cases had been handed me by the

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benevolent and gentlemanly foreman of the Union; and it may be as well to say here that I held them down for two years, when I was fired for insubordination.

            It was during the first silver boom. There were fifteen thousand people in the city — then but two years old as time is counted, but exceedingly old in iniquity. Everybody had money to burn, and it might as well have been burned for all the good the bulk of it did — squandered as fast as made. There were few homes. New corners and old were in luck to find clean rooms and a place where square meals were served. More than half of the population was made up of disreputables, including hundreds of desperadoes who had graduated in played-out gold camps of California and lived to get away. These were doing most of the shooting, and to save being bankrupted by court expenses the authorities allowed them to shoot without let or hindrance, so long as they did not molest or injure reputable citizens.

            And say, maybe you think it wasn't a picnic for those unregenerate cutthroats. On one occasion the blood-letting was so frequent that the Union took on a moral spasm and scathingly denounced not only the bad mien, but the

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authorities for permitting such goings on. That night a man of blood made a break to get back at the Union, and it happened that I had a close call. I have never had to put a peg there to remember it. My stand stood next to a front window. About the hour when graveyards yawn I was "pegging away," and just reaching for a capital C, when a bullet crashed through the glass, and passing close to my, ear, sank into the capital B box. The contents went swarming, like sure-enough bees. So did the printers in my alley, without waiting to be called out by the father of the chapel. After that I never worked in that window at night without a curtain between me and the street; and that was the only time that violence was offered me, albeit I was an eye-witness to many a shooting-scrape and hundreds of bad men got their eternal deservings while I was in the city.

            At this time Mark Twain (Sam Clemens) was a reporter on the Territorial Enterprise, and I presume incidentally gathering his notes for "Roughing It." He did not tell in his book of interesting happenings, humorous and

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otherwise, that would have filled the volumes of a small library. I have in mind one in particular that had Mark himself in the cast.

            One day, with my sleeves rolled to the elbows, I was "throwing in" when a tall, gaunt, red-headed stranger came, with military tread, into the composing-room, and advancing several paces stood there as if transfixed. He had on a slouch hat, a travel-stained, old-fashioned linen duster, that reached to his heels, and in his hand was a large "carpet-bag," such as our fathers used to carry. Silently he surveyed the dozen or more printers, until his eyes rested on me. Then the bag dropped to the floor as if released by an automatic spring. With a movement like Hamlet's ghost he advanced to my side, seized my arm, stripped it to the shoulder, and tragically pointing to a vaccination scar, exclaimed:

            "Behold, the mark ! It is, it is my long lost brother. Found at last ! Now may all the gods at once be praised. Friends, countrymen and brethren, you votaries of rotgut, let us all repair to the nearest inn and absorb, say, four fingers, by way of celebrating this glad reunion."

            This was Artemus Ward (Charles F. Browne), with whom I had worked on the Cleveland Plaindealer at the time he

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was its local editor and writing for its Saturday issues the sketches that made him famous. No one who had seen him once could ever forget him.

            There was no work for me during his four days' stay. He had been announced by the papers to lecture that night, but not a bill had been posted.

            "Brother," he said to me, "I must say unto all the people, yea, upon the walls of the city, I am come ; lest peradventure, they know it not, and bring not their shekels unto my hopper. Now, therefore, prithee, go thou with me to spread the glad tidings, and verily when we have done this thing we will repair again to the wine cellar of the publican, —which, I know by the cut of his jib he's a d—d sinner."

            These were his exact words, as nearly as I can remember. So overflowing with humor was Charley Browne that he seldom uttered a sober sentence, and one of his favorite modes of expression was in imitation of Holy Writ.

            I thought I was in for a regular bill-posting job, but submitted. We went to the Enterprise office, and procuring a sheet of 24 by 36 news print, with a blue pencil he wrote upon it this legend:

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ARTEMUS WARD

WILL

SPEAK HIS PIECE

HERE

TONIGHT.

            This he tacked on the door of Maguire's opera house, and though the theatre was packed each night of his stay it was the only posting that was done.

            I do not believe Mark Twain ever entertained an idea that he was to really write a book until that lecture gave him a jolt. Anyway, from that time there was a vein of wit all through his newspaper work that was not there before, and many of his brightest hits seemed to have a familiar cast to those who heard the lecture ; though they were really original. He was following a new train of thought — evolving an idea — and I have since believed that, as a genius, he was dreaming until Artemus Ward awakened him to his capabilities; that no doubt the sayings of the greatest American wit preceding him had always been green in his memory.

            A row of seats close to the stage at Maguire's, usually set apart for newspaper men, was called "the printers' pew." In one of those seats was Mark,

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with open mouth. I know, because I sat beside him. The lecture, announced as "Babes in the Wood," without reference to its title was a continuous string of grotesque and absurd witticisms — so keen, dry and far-fetched that for a moment no one could see a point, and each time a laugh was due the lecturer would pause until it came. With the first guffaw the audience seemed to catch on, and then it would go off like a corn-popper.

            When the uproar had subsided, suddenly a spasmodic "Haw, haw, haw!" unreserved as if from a burro corral, would attract all eyes to the "pew," and at each interruption Artemus paused again, and glaring in mock anger, said something funny, like, "Has it been watered today?" once saying, "You must now all admit the truth of the old saw that 'he who laughs last laughs best.' "

            Little did he think that that same laugh convulsed a greater genius than himself. Its tardiness was of a piece with Mark Twain's poky nature—even to his deliberate, drawling way of speaking, so often mentioned as one of his characteristics.

            During his brief stay in Virginia City Artemus had an elaborate introduction to its wild and woolly ways. He visited

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every place where there were "sights," everywhere accompanied by a crowd of convivial spirits who (while enjoying his genial humor) were not unmindful of his prodigal generosity.

            Once as he was passing a gambling den two Philistines ran into the street and began shooting at each other. A dead man was the result. "Poor devil," said Artemus. "They told me over in San Francisco you people often get real mad, like that, but I was hoping my 'Babes' would make you more tractable and better natured. I see it's no use. Thinking of the place he's on his way to makes me thirst for ice water. Let us repair to the deadfall of the publican yet again."

            Artemus went by stage from Nevada to the city of the Saints, where he hobnobbed with Brigham Young, whom he referred to in his book as "the much-married man." On his last night in Virginia City, after the lecture, he with a crowd visited a variety show, and to gratify his inordinate appetite for excitement and fun went on the stage as a blackface artist. Not even the actors knew who he was, and his friends and the manager never gave it away, for he was

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as bad an actor as he was great as a humorist.

*  *

            During the two years I was in Virginia City J. T. Goodman was managing editor of the Territorial Enterprise, while Thomas Fitch, afterwards famous as the "silver tongued orator of the west," was editor of the Virginia City Union—both morning papers. The Union had recently been moved from Carson City, where it circulated as the Golden Age. John Church was its managing editor and Adair Wilson a local writer while Mark Twain and Dan de Quille were the Enterprise locals.

            Joe Goodman was a handsome, reckless young fellow, talented and brilliant, and could fill his editorial page off hand with articles on leading topics that would have done credit to a seasoned veteran. Tom Fitch was older, of wider experience, and handled a caustic pen. (By the way, he acted as private secretary to James Buchanan during the campaign of 1856, in which Mr. Buchanan was elected president.)

            Goodman and Fitch took a strong dislike to each other, and as sometimes happens even to this day, through their columns indulged in bitter personalities, in which Fitch seemed to rather have the

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best of it until one morning the Enterprise contained a sharp attack on his private character (more or less true) that called for blood. So Fitch challenged Goodman.

            Now this was just what Joe wanted, for he was mad enough to kill Fitch; and the chances were in his favor, for he was rated one of the nerviest and best shots in the territory. One of his favorite resorts for pastime being a shooting gallery, it was common talk among his friends that he could hit a short bit four times out of five at ten paces. Nothing was known of Fitch's ability in that line.

            Seconds had perfected arrangements for the affair to take place near the city, at 5 o'clock next morning; when friends having interfered, the principals were placed under $1000 bonds each to keep the peace by Judge C. C. Goodwin, then a justice of Storey county.

            It was then secretly agreed that the meeting need not necessarily be postponed, as it was but twenty-eight miles to the California line, beyond which of course the Nevada court had no jurisdiction. So some time after midnight two hacks, containing principals, seconds and trusted friends, left the city and crossed the line in due time.

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            Being challenged it was Goodman's privilege to name the weapons, and he chose duelling pistols. By agreement they were to stand at fifteen paces and fire at the dropping of a handkerchief. Should the first exchange be sans result, "reload and repeat or retract and retreat."

            Joe Goodman went to his ground as jauntily as if on the way to a fair, his features betraying neither concern nor thought of the grave business before him. He wore a boutonaire of wild flowers, and as he stood there, bent to inhale their fragrance. Fitch, on the other hand, was pale, and with nerves at high tension walked stiffly to his place. It was believed that at the last moment he would develop a yellow streak; but he proved to be game clear through. At the signal he swiftly raised his weapon, and fired before the handkerchief touched the ground. This was the first time he had ever pressed a hair trigger, and it betrayed him. Though really a good shot his bullet went aimless and wide of the mark. He then dropped his arm, looked daggers at his adversary and coolly awaited his fate.

            Goodman now had Fitch at his mercy. Deliberately raising his weapon he aimed straight at his head and held the bead a

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moment. But if he thought a flinch was coming, he was off wrong. By his pose and glare of defiance Fitch said, as plainly as in words: "Shoot, you coward — I am at your mercy !"

            No doubt the thought came to Goodman that he was about to kill a defenseless man, in cold blood; for suddenly his bearing changed — hesitation took the place of wicked determination. Glancing toward the spot where his party was standing he winked, then deliberately lowered his aim, and Fitch hit the ground with a thud and a hole in a fleshy part of his right leg.

            One of the first to reach him was his antagonist, now "seeming more in sorrow than in anger." Goodman's first words were something like this : "Fitch, I'm sorry I hurt you — couldn't be hired to do it again, this way. You can take another shot at me, any time, and then if you like we'll call it off."

            The proposition was of course preposterous, but Fitch was overcome by its generosity. They afterwards became pretty good friends.

            In the Enterprise office was a printer named Stephen Gillis, who took great interest in this affair. Being a Mississippian

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born and bred, Steve had the duelling bug in his system to a fighting degree, and at times it seemed his greatest ambition was to meet an adversary on the field of honor, "by Gad, suh !" Wrathy because Goodman would not carry the meet to a sensational ending, Steve resolved then and there to seek satisfaction on his own hook. It was a cinch that with opportunity he would fight all right, for being handy with his fists he had been the hero of many encounters in a rough and tumble way, always getting off without a scratch. Traveling with "Little Ward," also an Enterprise printer, and on the side an all-around athlete, it was a dull Saturday night when they did not clean up a saloon or get the best of a street quarrel.

            Only the night before the big duel Steve had met with "Red Ed," foreman of the Union job room, and engaged in an argument with him as to the merits of the difficulty. Now Red, standing six feet in his stockings, was quite muscular and had for years been a teacher of boxing and gymnastics in a gym. He was a red-haired, freckled-faced, good-natured Vermonter, not very easy to get "riled ;" but when Steve made several gratuitous remarks about "flat-footed Yanks" and "mudsills," something came into Red's

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steel blue eyes that did not look real good, and Steve craftily concluded not to chance his record in a fistic encounter, albeit a remark had been made by Red that any gentleman must construe as a "coa'se insult, suh !"

            So it came to pass that next day after the meeting, as Red was at the imposing stone locking a form, a messenger came from the Enterprise office and handed him a note. It was couched in as mean, insulting language as the young southerner could command, and informed Red that though he was no gentleman — "a low-bred, cowardly scrub, suh," if he wanted satisfaction he could have it, and knew where the writer could be found.

            Red's prevailing color may have deepened a little, but he uttered not a word. Writing at the bottom, "Go soke your head!" he returned the note to the messenger, resuming the mallet and shooting-stick as though nothing had happened.

            Whether Steve followed Red's laconic advice I did not learn, but something must have taken the swelling out of his thinker, for this affair of "honah" ended there.

            After this veracious account was written my attention was called to an autobiography of Sam Clemens, quoted in his

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"How to Tell a Story." Therein it is related that Clemens had a difficulty with a Mr. Laird, editor of the Union, a challenge was passed, and they went out to fight with navy revolvers at fifteen paces. Steve Gillis acted as Clemens' second. While preliminaries were under way, Steve hauled off and killed a sparrow at forty paces or such a matter. The shot was attributed to the great humorist, and Laird fled from the field.

            As a matter of fact, Jim Laird was not a writer though one of the Union company and manager of the jobbing department. All that was "dead game" about him was a wooden leg. He was anything but a fighter — didn't look like he could shoot without shutting his eyes. So far as Clemens was concerned, the only time I ever knew him to get next to an explosive was one Fourth of July, when he tied a bunch of crackers to a whiffet's tail. He may not have told the biographer about his duel except as a joke; but he had a weakness for posing as a star in his stories, and at a late day saw no harm in relating the Gillis affair to suit his fancy.

            I shall have to let my version of it go uncorrected.

* *

            Virginia City had a big fire in 1863, would have been wiped out but for the

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sudden changing of a strong wind. With the exception of two brick structures all the business buildings and tenements at that time were mere shells, constructed of mountain pine or fir, with tapestry walls. They burned like timber. The Virginia hotel with three stories and containing upwards of two hundred rooms, was consumed in twenty minutes; and though it was midday few guests saved even their gripsacks. As I remember, about one-third of the city went up in smoke.

            There were two-hand engines, manned by companies largely composed of dive keepers, gamblers, toughs and bums. They were practically rival aggregations, those companies — each having desperate characters for their chiefs, while the chief engineer easily carried the trumpet as the champion brute.

            The water supply was scant, its only source being one of the Comstock's mine tunnels. In the midst of the morning it went dry and the chiefs decided to move their engines to possibly better positions. No. 1, working in D street was ordered up to C, while No. 2, in C street, started at the same time to go down to D. The chiefs were not on speaking terms, or what happened might have been avoided.

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They undertook to pass each other in Taylor street, little wider than an alley and guttered by freshets from Mount Davidson until the roadbed was a deep, V-shaped cut. The engines slid to the center and locked. Accusations of carelessness passed, one word brought on another, and a fight ensued in which over a hundred choice spirits took part. As they were "cribbed, cabined and confined" in the narrow space, it was like tying a couple of cats together and throwing them over a clothes line — Kilkenny cats at that. Pistols, knives, wrenches and wagon stakes were instantly at a premium. Broken heads were too numerous to mention. Among the casualties were four or five men killed. Jack Williams, city marshal — a bad man himself — when the hostilities ceased had several kinds of lead in his system. It was necessary to plug such a case-hardened wretch through the heart to kill him, but only his kidneys, lights and liver were damaged, so he soon recovered.

            The Union office, was in the second story of a building siding on Taylor street. Looking down on the melee we boys took it all in, as safely as grandees at a bull fight. It seemed to have lasted an hour, though ten minutes is a long time under

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such circumstances. In the grand windup Macbeth and Macduff used to cut and slash and back and fill for hours, it seemed to me as a boy; but I am now satisfied Macbeth made a hideous face and turned up his toes inside of two minutes.

            Caught in the alley during the unpleasantness and endeavoring to make his getaway was a young printer with whom I was chummy, Ed. T. Plank. He was passing by an old wagon when a double-fisted fireman, armed with a stake, sneaked up from behind and struck a vicious blow at his head. I yelled, but the warning was too late, my friend landed in a limp heap under the wagon, and I believed him dead. That night at Maguire's I sat beside a man whose head was so bandaged I could not get a glimpse of his features, only visible from the stage. At the close of the play, when he arose and turned, I found it was my chum who had got his in the fireman's fight.

* *

            A young fellow who had tramped to Virginia from the coast and arrived with such loud pedal extremities as to suggest the soubriquet of "Sugarfoot," for incurring the jealousy of a barkeeper died

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with his boots on, so dramatically that I must relate the incident.

            Though Sugarfoot made his living around gaming tables, he was always well dressed, quiet, never profane or vulgar and seemed to have been bred a gentleman. If there was the trade-mark of a gambler about him it was not in sight. So he came to mingle quite freely with the more respectable class. I thought of him that there might be an influence somewhere, maybe a mother's love, that would yet reclaim him from the downward course.

            One evening I sat with other printers in a game for pastime (and the beer) when Sugarfoot came up and asked if he might take a hand. He stayed through a game then excused himself saying he had an engagement on C street, a block away. He had not been gone five minutes when we heard the report of a gun. As that, in Virginia City, meant trouble, we left the table and went out into the open. Several persons were running toward C street and our party followed. Turning into that street, we were confronted by a crowd on the walk, gathered around the body of a man. It was poor Sugarfoot, with his face and part of his head blown off. It transpired that as

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he was passing the saloon where his rival was employed, the barkeeper seized a double-barreled shotgun charged with buckshot and, from behind the counter emptied both barrels at his victim.

            There was no arrest. On the other hand the assassin had his wages raised for having attracted a crowd of customers, who called to learn the particulars.

* *

            Speaking of gamblers, one of the slickest short-card players that ever struck "the land of Washoe" was Andy Blessington, mentioned by Mark Twain in his "Roughing It." I knew him well by sight. He was a bundle of nervous energy, full of fun, and when on the street usually the center of a crowd of idlers who appreciated good jokes. It was said of him that he could not get into a poker game with gamblers, it being a cinch that he would soon have all the money.

            One night in the Gould & Curry saloon, I was watching a game, when Andy addressed me:

            "Do you want to see some fun?"

            "Yes," I replied. "Where and what is it?"

            "Those fellows there are tenderfeet, just from over the divide, and ought to be initiated. They don't know me, or the

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game, more'n a jack rabbit. I'm broke. Stand in with me ten dollars' worth and watch. I pledge you my word that in half an hour I'll have them standing around with their hands in their pockets wondering how it happened."

            "No, I'm not looking for that kind of easy money."

            "Well, then, lend me ten dollars and if you're not here when the jig is up I'll return it tomorrow."

            It was as safe as a bank to lend any gambler a small sum, for in the code of their fraternity it was understood to be a reflection on all for any one of them to owe money borrowed on the outside. They were all liable to strike a lean streak at any time and need "the price." So, if one went back on his word that way, he was tabooed by the gang — boycotted — which meant that he might as well hunt for pastures new.

            Impulsively I handed him the money and lingered to see the result. As he left me he lifted a pack of cards from his coat pocket and winked, which gave me to understand that it was a "cold deck." All he said was, "Watch me," and a moment later he was in the game.

            The first thing he did was to place the "stacked" cards on his right knee.

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Then he got busy. The game was played with quarters and halves for chips, and it was a rule that the winner of a "pot" also won the deal. Every time considerable bets were made before the draw, Andy would pile the coin in a single stack, and somehow two or three halves would stick to his palm. In this way he had nearly doubled his capital, when he won a pot, again doubled his money and took the deal. His movements were so smooth and quick that, though watching, I actually did not see him swap the cards, but after they were dealt he looked up at me and winked again, as he slyly took the discarded deck from his knee and put it in his pocket.

            Then the fun began. The "sucker" next to Andy made a small bet and it was called and raised three times successively. Then Andy stacked up the contributions, a couple of dollars again stuck to his palm, and he came back with his whole bundle. All stayed, while the man with the next best hand made several bets on the side.

            The show down was great. There were three "full hands" and two sets of "fours !"

            The nerve of him ! Any other man making a deal like that would have been shot on the spot, but Andy was wise —

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had hypnotized his victims with funny stories, and that made them too good natured to quarrel. Three of the players went broke. He of the side winnings had about twenty dollars, and Andy proposed to cut cards for the whole. He accepted and lost. There was then not a dollar on the table outside of Andy's pile. The end had come in less than half an hour.

            All Andy said was: "Well, I'm d—d! That was the biggest luck I ever saw in a poker game. Boys, the drinks are on me. Whad'll you have?"

* *

            At Maguire's opera house one night, while the audience was waiting for the curtain it was entertained with a byplay not on the bills. A notorious gunman named Howard, without prelude, whipped out a, big navy and began firing at another roughneck, named Macnab, who was seated in the same circle on the opposite side of the house. Instantly there was a rush from the seats in the vicinity of Macnab, who sat with his hands up, signifying that he was unarmed.

            "An' you call yourself a sport," yelled Howard, a'goin' around without a gun on? Go heel yerself, 'cause I'm goin' to git ye on sight."

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            Macnab obeyed the order. Howard, a few days later, trying to keep his word, died with his boots on. He had seven nicks on the butt of his pistol—a record of the number of men he had killed.

            The temporary account of empty boxes and a few damaged seats around where Macnab was sitting were the only other results of the theater shooting. I happened to be in the stampede.

* *

            I left the Virginia Union by "special request," as the sequence of an incident that happened six months previously. Subs were scarce then, and I had put in two or three ringers under compulsion, when one morning a printer named Joe Eckley, just in from California, showed up and went to work for me.

            Joe was a first-class compositor, without a blemish, but had the misfortune to be slightly deaf.

            Next morning as I entered the office the foreman — Sam Glessner — said to me:

            "J. B., you'll have to go to work today, or put on another sub."

            "How so?"

            "I don't want that man Eckley around here. You have to throw a mallet at him to make him hear."

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            "But Sam, he has worked for years on the coast without that objection ever being raised. Besides, he knows the business and don't have to be spoken to often. His card, and humanity, should insure him from being fired for such a reason."

            "Well you heard what I said, and it goes."

            I was indignant, and did not return to the office for a week.

            Nothing had been said about my being fired, so when in the humor I returned to my cases. As Sam, came in he gave me a stony stare that told me two things. On second thought he had concluded that to bar Eckley for such a cause would involve him in a personal difficulty, and might bring on a strike; while to let me out for keeping him on would have a like effect. Secondly, he had a grudge laid away for me, that would be untanned on the first opportunity. He was a pusilanimous cur that no one liked—given to grudges and contemptible ways.

            What followed proved that I had the situation down pat. Eckley subbed in the Union as long as he liked, and so far as I know never learned of the attempt to bar him. Years after he was appointed state printer of Nevada, holding the position for a number of terms.

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            Incidentally, there was a grudge on the side that may have had something to do with my ultimate "layoff." In the first year of the rebellion, when the government was hard pressed for specie and had not yet issued the fractional paper currency which proved such a boon to the country, postage stamps were used in the eastern states for change. No greater abomination was ever circulated as money. If one happened to have a pocket full and they got damp, just imagine how they resolved themselves into a stuck up, impossible wad, until laundried not worth a beer.

            On the other hand, at this time there was a United States mint at Virginia City, coining bullion from the Comstock lode, and the town was overrun with new silver quarters and halves until the government found a way to transfer the mint's output to the national treasury. Then came an order forbidding the issuing of a dollar of specie locally. Previously it had become so plentiful as to go at 3 per cent discount, and the Union company, with many other business firms, was turning an honest penny by exchanging its gold collections at the mint for silver. So it followed that week after week when the ghost walked the Union boys needed gunnysacks in which to carry away their plunder. For

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instance, if one had made $50 he was certain to be handed $10 in quarters and $40 in halves. Following a protest, one week the force refused to accept the all-silver proposition; whereupon in a rage the company changed the silver to all gold, and after that none was paid to us except in odd change of less than $2.50.

            This tale is none too long for the size of the cat. Within six weeks after the government order went into effect silver actually went to a premium, so scarce it had become. The banks no longer paid it out; and the city being dependent on freighters, they received for their goods and carried away about all the currency in circulation. Then we were up against a condition more disagreeable than the first. If one's name was on the roll for $62.50, he would receive three twenties and a $2.50 piece, then could hunt for change in vain the city over.  About the only way to break a twenty was to buy a stack of faro checks. I remember of tendering one successively for a meal check, room rent and current expenses, and at the end of the week still having the piece, mortgaged for more than its face.

            In time the change famine was eased up by importations from California; but

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the Union office had a grouch, just the same, that could be felt for a long time. Frequent sarcastic remarks handed out by Sam Glessner gave me to understand I had been spotted as a chief instigator of the "gold strike."

            In the summer of 1864 one day the bottom fell out of Virginia City. To be more explicit, at the beginning of a certain week the boom was on, with everything moving pretty much as usual — the miners were employed, new properties were developing, capital was being invested, and there seemed the usual amount of money in circulation. At the week's end something like a panic was on. Capital had gone into hiding, non-producing mines and wildcats had closed down, many men were idle, money was scarce. This was the legitimate result of incautious investments and a scandalous amount of wildcatting, with dark transactions on the local and San Francisco mining exchanges that had been going on for many months. The prodigiously rich Comstock lode, with its steady outpour of wealth and limitations not yet defined, seemed to have impressed many with the belief that all Washoe was underlaid with a blanket of silver. When the break came such alarm took possession of everybody engaged in mining, legitimate

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and otherwise, that a long period of dullness followed.

            The effect of this panic can be well illustrated by telling what it did to the newspapers. Within a month the Enterprise and Union were on hardtack rations, while a couple of struggling sheets had furnished stiffs for the beginning of a newspaper boneyard. Whereas, before the scare the big papers were crowded with ads and used 5 and 6-point body type, the Union's editorials were now in 10-point, its news in 7-point and miscellany in juicy 11-point. It was awful.

            As I entered the office one morning my friend Sam sat in the bull pen, red-eyed, an hour before due. He looked almost glad about something, and before a word was spoken I had a hunch that he had dug it up.

            "J. B., you'll have to lay off for a while," he said.

            "For which, though mine are among the oldest cases, I venture to hope you won't allow your feelings to unnerve you."

            "Back talk isn't necessary. Your cases are vacant."

            "Oh, I was just joshing, you know. I'm going to bottle my back talk for future use. You'll have to go a flying out of here yourself within three months, and

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then, Sam, if you hoof it to the coast, my turn will come."

            Many of the boys had to leave Virginia City, and there was but one way out — coastward. I never saw Glessner again. He, with other printers, forming a stock company, took over the Union and plant for what was coming to them. But the daisies had blown over its final resting place long before 1867, when Virginia City was entering upon its second boom —the biggest in its history.

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