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 Absent Minded in Pioche -
During the rushing days in White Pine in the exciting times
of 1869, one of the busy men of Hamilton was Ed Estes. He was a saloon
keeper, and connected with it, was a large gambling hall that was always
crowded. Ed did not gamble, but he paid the State licenses on the tables
and leased them out to others who paid the rents, furnished the money and
threw an extensive patronage into the bar. This involved altogether a very
large capital, and as an illustration of the amount required, the
quarterly licenses alone came to $2,800. Large sums were nightly deposited
in the saloon safe and a special watchman employed to guard it. The house
was doing a large business, and Estes was also interested in mining
enterprises that called for heavy outlays. He handled money carelessly,
and when the collapse came he found himself without any, and utterly
unable to tell what had become of it. In the midst of his financial
distress some eastern parties appeared to look at his mining properties,
and desiring to make a good impression upon them he determined to
entertain them royally during their brief stay. This would involve an
expense of $200, and as he was short, he tried to borrow it from a friend,
but he didn't have it, and suggested to Estes that he should try to obtain
a loan from the First National Bank.
Estes was doubtful about getting it, as the
bank was refusing loans unless accompanied with gilt edged security.
But, as a last resort he walked in and accosting the cashier, said:
"Good morning Mr. Gilmore; by the way I hear you are getting pretty
close in banking matters lately; how does my account stand?" He did
not express himself clearly, nor did not mean what he said, for he
supposed the account was balanced and closed long before, and the
remark was thrown out to pave the way to the favor of a loan. The
cashier turned to the balance book and pleasantly informed him that
there was $1,750 to his credit. It startled Estes so that he could
barely speak, but he succeeded in saying, "You may give me $250 that I
need this morning." The cashier replied, "All right; fill out a
check," and handed a blank one to him. Estes was too nervous to write
and asked the cashier to fill it out for him, which he proceeded to
do. This gave Estes time to gather his wits and he said: "I believe I
will need it all today, so fill it out for the total." This was done
and the money counted out to him, and Estes hurried out to conceal his
surprise, and he confidentially informed a friend that he had no
recollection of having made the deposit, and added, as he invited him
to take a drink, "I must have been pretty drunk when I did it, and I
guess that's what was the matter."
First appeared in the Reno Evening
Gazette, March 23, 1891
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 Zinc Barnes –
Rich in
Ingenuity -
Sometime in the early 1860's, Zinc Barnes was engaged in
the livery business in Gold Hill and had Dick Dey in his employ as
bookkeeper. After an unsuccessful season, during which the business went
from bad to worse, Zinc failed and petitioned the court to be declared an
insolvent. In due time, the case came on for a hearing, and that morning
Zinc met Dick and said that he desired him to go into court and attend to
the matter. Dick replied in much surprise that there wasn't anything to be
done that he knew of, and asked, "What do you want me to do?"
Zinc's knowledge of books and accounts was very limited, but in a general
way, he thought the bookkeeper would be wanted, and so he said, "Well, go
up to court and make a showing of some kind for me." "A showing," said Dick, "why, there is no showing that can
be made. It is a clear case of insolvency, and the books and accounts are
all on file in the court."
"Well," said Zinc, "Go up anyhow, and if you can't do nothin' else, charge
somethin' up to sundries."
Dick
picked his teeth and went on his way, and the case came to a conclusion
without any "showin'." Some years afterwards, Zinc made a raise in the
sale of water rights at Pioche, and again engaged in the livery business.
At this time, he called in and engaged as his bookkeeper, J. F. Hallock.
Zinc
was liberal and the matter of salary was easily agreed on, and then
Hallock asked how he wanted the books kept, in double or single entry.
"Oh,"
said Zinc, "single entry will do for me. I don't want to charge a man but
once. It makes a better showin' in the assets if a man fails."
"Very
well," said Hallock, "I merely wanted to know, so as to be guided in
closing up the books, when you may wish it done."
"Oh,
never mind about closing them," said Zinc, "the sheriff will attend to
that."
In
due time, the Sheriff did so, for Zinc was too liberal and reckless, and,
of course, failed. Then, he fitted out a prospecting party from the
remnant that was exempt from execution and, as liberal as ever, took a
couple of broken down companions -- "old stiffs" he called them -- and
started off for
Arizona. They spent the winter in prospecting, and, when
all their supplies were gone, started across the deserts for
Los Angeles,
and ultimately San
Francisco, or any other seaport and without any
definite object in view. It was before the Southern Pacific Railroad was
built and the trip to
Los Angeles was fatiguing and not without many
dangers. One by one, their animals gave out and died and then they were
all on foot and dead broke. Zinc had left, as a relic of better days, a
pair of sleeve buttons made from $10 gold pieces, which, as soon as they
arrived, he took to a jeweler and sold and divided the proceeds with his
two comrades. He then sent a dispatch to a friend in San
Francisco,
saying, "Just arrived from
Arizona. Took breakfast on a sleeve button.
Send me some money for steamer fare. Answer." His comrades had left him to
"see the town" and Zinc heard nothing of them until noon, when he learned
they were in jail for being drunk and disorderly.
Without any delay he hurried around and put up all the money he had left
and bailed them out. Getting no reply from his telegram, he concluded his
friend was out of San
Francisco, and something must be done and, as he
expressed it, "p.d.q.," and at once he drew on his fund of ingenuity.
He
had already discovered that the people there were very boastful of their
climate and also very sensitive about any adverse opinions. He was
begrimed with dust and tanned like a tramp and fully as ragged. His boots
were run over at the heels and out at the toes, and his general appearance
was such, that at the present day, they would arrest any one in such a
condition for a vagrant, but then it was different.
Los Angeles was
advertising climate and offering bonds for railroads; anything, in fact,
to get emigration headed that way. Zinc took in the situation, and
lounging up to the crowd of dons and land-owners in front of the bar at
the Pico House, be began an energetic soliloquy in tones loud enough to be
heard by all, and which is reported as follows. Said he: "It's a fine
climate here in Southern
California. A man can live on the climate. I
haven't had anything else for three weeks, and I'm getting fat. I went out
to Santa Monica today, and there, I found a lot of big, lusty Irishmen
surf bathing, but shivering and blue with the cold. A one-lunged tourist
on the wharf asked one of them how long he had lived there, and he
answered: 'Sure, sir, I was born here.' And when nobody was watching they
all come out of the surf and stood on the sunny side of the bathhouse to
get warm. Senator John P. Jones of
Nevada hires 'em at $4 a day to bathe
there and advertise the climate. Oh, he'll get up a boom, and don't you
forget it. He knows all the tricks on the stock market, he does. All you
want is water down here, and that's all they need in h--l."
By
this time all the tourists in the hotel were out listening to Zinc, and to
choke him off and stop the disastrous effect of his diatribe on the
climate, a number of leading citizens, among them being Temple, Hellman,
Mesmer and Downey, made up a purse and hustled Zinc off on the afternoon
train to San Pedro to catch the steamer for San
Francisco. And they always
regarded it a good investment to get rid of Zinc Barnes at any price.
Article in the Reno Evening Gazette, July 14, 1891.
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