48. CHAPTER XLVIII.
THE first twenty-six graves in the Virginia cemetery were
occupied by murdered men.
So everybody said, so everybody believed, and so they will
always say and believe. The reason why there was so much
slaughtering done, was, that in a new mining district the rough
element predominates, and a person is not respected until he has
"killed his man." That was the very expression used.
If an unknown individual arrived, they did not inquire if he
was capable, honest, industrious, but—had he killed his man? If he
had not, he gravitated to his natural and proper position, that of a
man of small consequence; if he had, the cordiality of his
reception was graduated according to the number of his dead. It
was tedious work struggling up to a position of influence with
bloodless hands; but when a man came with the blood of half a
dozen men on his soul, his worth was recognized at once and his
acquaintance sought.
In Nevada, for a time, the lawyer, the editor, the banker, the
chief desperado, the chief gambler, and the saloon keeper,
occupied the same level in society, and it was the highest. The
cheapest and easiest way to become an influential man and be
looked up to by the community at large, was to stand behind a bar,
wear a cluster-diamond pin, and sell whisky. I am not sure but that
the saloon-keeper held a shade higher rank than any other member
of society. His opinion had weight. It was his privilege to say how
the elections should
go. No great movement could succeed without the countenance
and direction of the saloon-keepers. It was a high favor when the
chief saloon-keeper consented to serve in the legislature or the
board of aldermen.
Youthful ambition hardly aspired so much to the honors of the
law, or the army and navy as to the dignity of proprietorship in a
saloon.
To be a saloon-keeper and kill a man was to be illustrious.
Hence the reader will not be surprised to learn that more than one
man was killed in Nevada under hardly the pretext of provocation,
so impatient was the slayer to achieve reputation and throw off the
galling sense of being held in indifferent
repute by his associates. I knew two youths who tried to "kill their
men" for no other reason—and got killed themselves for their pains.
"There goes the man that killed Bill Adams" was higher praise and
a sweeter sound in the ears of this sort of people than any other
speech that admiring lips could utter.
The men who murdered Virginia's original twenty-six
cemetery-occupants were never punished. Why? Because Alfred
the Great, when he invented trial by jury and knew that he had
admirably framed it to secure justice in his age of the world, was
not aware that in the nineteenth century the condition of things
would be so entirely changed that unless he rose from the grave
and altered the jury plan to meet the emergency, it would prove the
most ingenious and infallible agency
for defeating
justice that human wisdom could contrive. For how could he
imagine that we simpletons would go on using his jury plan after
circumstances had stripped it of its usefulness, any more than he
could imagine that we would go on using his candle-clock after we
had invented chronometers? In his day news could not travel fast,
and hence he could easily find a jury of honest, intelligent men
who had not heard of the case they were called to try—but in our
day of telegraphs and newspapers his plan compels us to swear in
juries composed of fools and rascals, because the system rigidly
excludes honest men and men of brains.
I remember one of those sorrowful farces, in Virginia, which
we call a jury trial. A noted desperado killed Mr. B., a good
citizen, in the most wanton and cold-blooded way. Of course the
papers were full of it, and all men capable of reading, read about
it. And of course all men not deaf and dumb and idiotic, talked
about it. A jury-list was made out, and Mr. B. L., a prominent
banker and a valued citizen, was questioned precisely as he would
have been questioned in any court in America:
"Have you heard of this homicide?"
"Yes."
"Have you held conversations upon the subject?"
"Yes."
"Have you formed or expressed opinions about it?"
"Yes."
"Have you read the newspaper accounts of it?"
"Yes."
"We do not want you."
A minister, intelligent, esteemed, and greatly respected; a
merchant of high character and known probity; a mining
superintendent of intelligence and unblemished reputation; a
quartz mill owner of excellent standing, were all questioned in the
same way, and all set aside. Each said the public talk and the
newspaper reports had not so biased his mind but that sworn
testimony would overthrow his previously formed opinions and
enable him to render a verdict without prejudice and in accordance
with the facts. But of course such men could not be trusted with
the case. Ignoramuses alone could mete out unsullied justice.
When the peremptory challenges were all exhausted, a jury of
twelve men was impaneled—a jury who swore they had neither
heard, read, talked about nor expressed an opinion concerning a
murder which the very cattle in the corrals, the Indians in the
sage-brush and the stones in the streets were cognizant of! It was a
jury composed of two desperadoes, two low beer-house politicians,
three bar-keepers, two ranchmen who could not read, and three
dull, stupid, human donkeys!
It actually came out afterward, that one of these latter thought that
incest and arson were the same thing.
The verdict rendered by this jury was, Not Guilty. What else
could one expect?
The jury system puts a ban upon intelligence and honesty, and
a premium upon ignorance, stupidity and perjury. It is a shame
that we must continue to use a worthless system because
it was good a thousand years ago.
In this age, when a gentleman of high
social standing, intelligence and probity, swears that testimony
given under solemn oath will outweigh, with him, street talk and
newspaper reports based upon mere hearsay, he is worth a hundred
jurymen who will swear to their own ignorance and stupidity, and
justice would be far safer in his hands than in theirs. Why could
not the jury law be so altered as to give men of brains and honesty
and equal chance with fools
and miscreants? Is it right to show the present
favoritism to one class of men and inflict a disability on another, in
a land whose boast is that all its citizens are free and equal? I am a
candidate for the legislature. I desire to tamper with the jury law.
I wish to so alter it as to put a premium on intelligence and
character, and close the jury box against idiots, blacklegs, and
people who do not read newspapers. But no doubt I shall be
defeated—every effort I make to save the country "misses
fire."
My idea, when I began this chapter, was to say something
about desperadoism in the "flush times" of Nevada. To attempt a
portrayal of that era and that land, and leave out the blood and
carnage, would be like portraying Mormondom and leaving out
polygamy. The desperado stalked the streets with a swagger
graded according to the number of his homicides, and a nod of
recognition from him was sufficient to make a humble admirer
happy for the rest of the day. The deference that was paid to a
desperado of wide reputation, and who "kept his private
graveyard," as the phrase went, was marked, and cheerfully
accorded. When he moved along the sidewalk in his excessively
long-tailed frock-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.
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.
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.