12/22/03

I become a newspaperman. The trails and tribulations of an editor. A reform campaign in a wide-open town. The lynching of Bert Wilkinson. The labors of the Miner.

My room in Silverton was in the second story of a ramshackle building in which the town’s only newspaper was published. The editor owned not only the paper but also the building in which it was housed, which is those hectic days was an outstanding accomplishment for a country newspaperman. To divide my room expense, I had a pal by the name of Will Graf, who was rapidly acquiring a fortune by carrying supplies to the mines with his burro trains. Will was a strong, virile, and capable young fellow from Canton, Ohio, generous to a fault and true blue in friendships. Therefore, it was not surprising that, after an intimation from the editor that he wanted to sell the Miner, I should ask Will to finance me to the tune of $50.00, which was to constitute the first month’s rent, with which he readily complied. The balance of the purchase money was in the form of notes, amounting to $1800.00. I then became the editor and proprietor of the La Plata Miner, a nine-column weekly newspaper.

By working day and night, as editor, compositor, pressman, and devil, I made the paper go, much to my astonishment and that of my friends, and with the profits I sent miners to do the assessment work on the Ariadne. In doing this they took up a carload of ore that yielded silver, gold, and lead. This I sold to the Sweet Sampling Works at a loss, for the working charge, added to the transportation and mining, brought me out of in debt. When my first note came due, however, I had the $500.00 ready for it, and also an account at the bank.

The town was wide open, with the lawless element running amuck and the miners from the hills on a continual spree. The problem of maintaining law and order was becoming serious. Sentiment was about equally divided, and I took the reform side by delivering a weekly broadside of vitriolic remarks that called for belligerent preparations before going to press. The sheriff, whose political hide I had punctured on divers occasions, was particularly vindictive, and one morning, when it was presumed his digestive organs were on strike, he suggested a duel. I had a dark room adjoining the office, and proposed that we lock the door from the inside and fight it out with knives. The sheriff said that as soon as he had served an important warrant he would call me down, but Will Graf stepped in as intermediary, and the trouble died of inanition.

On another occasion, a stranger entered the editorial sanctum when I was engaged in writing a column of locals, and reaching over the desk he grasped a monkey wrench that had been left there by a foreman, and in a threatening tone of voice asked: “Are you the editor?”

I gave one glance at the monkey wrench and gulped: “no, he has just gone over to the bank!” The answer probably saved me from a nasty indentation on my cranium, and after that the orders were strict to leave no more tools on the editorial desk.

An exasperated subscriber, after depicting some mythical visit to the Miner Office, wrote: “You bowed me out of your office with the air of a Chesterfield, but nevertheless I shall take it upon myself to shoot you on sight!”

Even Bill Long had grievances, either because he was disgruntled because I had abandoned his wigwam or because it was now open season on editors. When I stepped out of the office one morning he was waiting for me, and kept step with me on the sidewalk for a block, then leaping suddenly to the roadway he pulled a Colt 45 and roared: “Now I’ve got you, you --- -- ---!” But I gave him no time to carry out his intentions or pull the trigger, for I sprang on top of him and bore him to the ground, took away the gun, gave him a stiff clip over the ear with the butt, and his martial air was gone.

In the following years, Silverton was a hotbed of lawlessness. Twenty-one saloons, four of which were dance-halls with full equipment of the gambling, fraternity, made night hideous and daylight a time for repentance. Cowboys from the lower country made their forays, and troops of mounted rowdies raced along Greene Street, shooting their guns into the air, to the consternation of the law-abiding element of the town. So bad did the situation become that a Vigilante Committee was organized, and for a time quiet reigned. Then one night a bunch of cowboys galloped into camp, put up their horses, and began to paint the town. They were known as the Eskridge Gang.

At the “Sage Hen” dance-hall two of the daughters of prosperity, known as “Long Annie” and “Timberline,” ran foul of “Roughhouse Nell,” who wanted the cowmen ejected. The town marshal took a hand and cleared the place. Later in the night, when dancing had been resumed under the marshal’s surveillance, the stockmen gathered around the “Sage Hen’s” corner and began shooting at the building. One bullet went between the logs and killed the marshal. The cowboys mounted their horses and fled down the Animas Valley.

San Juan County offered a reward of $5000 for the capture of the murderer, dead or alive, and a mounted posse scoured the mountains around Durango for a week. Bert Wilkinson, a wild but weak-minded youth, whose only ambition was to have a good time, was picked as the killer, although it was never proven, and his capture was effected through Ike Stockton of another gang of cowboys, who betrayed the boy’s hiding place to the posse.

Bert was brought to Silverton sitting on the front seat of a spring wagon with the driver, one foot on the dashboard, and smoking a cigarette. The wagon was surrounded by the posse as he was hurried to the jail. The next night the Vigilantes secured the keys of the prison and questioned Wilkinson as to his guilt. “I don’t know who fired the shot that hit the marshal,” said he. “I fired with the others.”

A rope was thrown over a bar of the cage, a loop put over his head, and he was told to get up on a chair. The rope was made fast, and with an “Adios, gentlemen,” the chair was kicked away and he swung into eternity. Stockton drew his $5000 blood money, went back to Durango, and was shot dead a short time afterwards.

The need for moral uplift and spiritual guidance in this pioneering community was a source of great worry to the conscientious ministers, who labored long and hard to bring about a more righteous state of affairs. Our sister town of Durango had a young and enthusiastic Episcopal minister who embraced every opportunity to warn the people that they were headed straight for Perdition if they did not mend their ways, not only in his Sunday sermons, but at every gathering where he could corner a few people to listen to him. At the funeral of a young girl he discouraged at great length concerning the ungodly condition of her parents, which of course made the mourning parents very wrathful. A short time after that, one of our Silverton gamblers went down to Durango to get himself buried, on account of being caught with too many aces up his sleeve. Most of the citizens of Silverton turned out to attend the services, and with the many Durango friends of the deceased, the crowd was so large that the Episcopal Church, which had a bell to toll, was selected for the funeral. The minister was given due warning that he had better not repeat the type of sermon he had given before or there would be trouble. However, he could not pass up the beautiful opportunity to reach the ears of some of the Lost Souls with whom the church was packed, and so he launched into a tirade against Sin and all its terrible consequences, and waxed eloquent in showing its relationship to the case at hand. The atmosphere of the church became intense, and outside of the fervid words of the minister booming from the pulpit, you could hear a pin drop, as the congregation waited breathlessly for the fireworks to begin. Just then a girl who was seated near the family and keeping an eye out for trouble, as she watched the brother of the deceased get red and redder in the face, saw him fumble for his pocket. Instantly she signaled to her sister, a soprano in the choir, who sprang to her feet and began to sing at the top of her voice, drowning out the words of the minister. The organ and the rest of the choir chimed in, and the funeral was carried off very successfully.

The minister would arrange musical programs for his church in order to attract a congregation and bring in visitors from the surrounding towns. He would send me a copy of the programs for his services, and I would publish it in the Miner under the heading “Tailings from the Gospel Mill.” This made him very angry, and one Sunday he preached a sermon about me that was red hot. After my friends had returned from the services, there was a rush for my Miner office, and the circulation of the paper took a big jump that day.

Those were happy days for me. My newspaper was so prosperous that, in addition to paying off all indebtedness, I had purchased the plant of a competitor, as well as the new corner building, which it occupied, and was issuing a morning daily.

While these events were taking place I had another level run on the Ariadne. Five feet of mineral had been cut and we were again sacking ore for shipment. The first car from the new strike yielded silver, gold, copper, and lead. On this I had a profit of $48.00 a ton over costs, and the mine was now making money.