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 Privations of Pioneers -
Life in all new settlements was one of privation and
hardship, where lingering hope often ended in despair and where success,
if it came at all, came too late for the fortunate possessor to enjoy
what, for a lifetime, had been coveted. The history of the boom lands of
California offered many illustrations of the truth of this assertion, and
nowhere was it more strikingly presented than in the San Joaquin Valley.
During a visit to that section since the results of the boom were felt,
the writer had an opportunity of verifying this fact by actual
observation, and the sudden transition from pinching poverty to easy
affluence was so strikingly presented that it left a lasting impression.
Although it has been of frequent occurrence in the history of
Nevada, yet
the conditions here were far different, and here, the favorites of fortune
were not usually placed at such a disadvantage as the early settlers of
the isolated sections of
California.
Nevada was settled with a rush;
almost in a nighttime, towns sprang into existence, and its people were
from the start -- collected as they were from all parts of the world --
brightened and polished by the contact and friction with the different
elements, and were thus enabled to keep up with the times, and in fact,
usually a little ahead. But, such was not the case with the cowboy element
of the San Joaquin Valley. There, progression was at a standstill from the
early settlements until years after, when the boom suddenly lifted into
prominence many of the sleepy denizens who had dropped out of the march of
progress as completely as Rip Van Winkle during his twenty years sleep.
Visiting
San
Francisco
with one of the fortunate pioneers of Fresno, the
writer was introduced by the latter to a noted physician of
San
Francisco
who had, 25 years before, on his first arrival in
California coming
across the plains, stopped for a while near Millerton. The story is best
told in his own words:
The
valley was a vast, vacant and treeless plain. Near the foothills were oak
groves in which the early settlers made their homes, usually under the
trees, and with rude outdoor surroundings; and the doctor said he was
frequently called to attend a childbirth only when a rawhide stretched on
the limbs above protected the patient from sun or rain. Times improved
slowly and people built cheap houses of boards, but, used to outdoor life,
left holes for doors and windows and did not bother about providing any
other floor than mother earth. Horse racing was a favorite pastime and the
social gatherings that resulted induced an early settler to build a big
house for entertainment, and in it he laid a floor. A house warming was
given, a fiddler was imported, and a dance wound up the event. The doctor
went and in honor of the event put on his broadcloth that for long had
been laid away. When he put in an appearance, he observed that none were
attired in conventional costume. The gentlemen wore their pants in their
boots with a red sash at the waist, were in their shirt sleeves, and
instead of collar and tie had a flowing white handkerchief around their
necks, and most of them kept on their heavy Mexican spurs. The ladies were
in calico gowns of the Simple Susan style. The doctor sat down by an
elderly matron who was one of his patients and who suggested that he
should dance with her daughter Mary, a buxom girl of sixteen summers who
sat by her side. The doctor, being a Chesterfield in manners and desiring
to propitiate his friends, offered himself with much gallantry as a
partner for the cotillion then forming. But Mary declined, and without any
explanation stepped out on the floor with one of the boys in vaquero
costume and danced with hearty zest. The doctor bit his lips and talked
with the mother until the dance ended and Mary returned to her seat. Then
the mother said: "Mary, why didn't you dance with the doctor instead of
Jack? He asked you first." And with a look of wounded dignity Mary
replied: "Me dance with him? Him a coming here wearin' a coat and puttin
on airs; not much." "But," said the doctor, "times have changed since
then. Men who were land poor and couldn't pay their taxes unless they went
without tobacco, are now rolling in wealth and wearing coats every day."
Article in the Reno Evening Gazette,
March 17, 1891 .
 Red Frank
Wheeler - A Convivial Pioneer -
The
subject of this sketch needs no introduction to the old pioneers of
Nevada,
for he was known as widely as any Governor the State ever had, and
probably, by generous deeds, endeared himself to a larger circle of hardy
toilers than ever did any of our millionaires. He had his faults, for he
was convivial, and yet his reformation from whisky was complete and was so
unique that it will bear recounting. Frank came from the northern mines of
California
to
Nevada
and was among the first to reach the Reese River mining section. There, he
tried prospecting for a while with indifferent success, and then milling
with no better luck. Then, for a while in Austin, he was Deputy
U.S. Postmaster under old Colonel Allen, but the occupation
he soon found was too confining and he quit it to become manager of King & O'leary's Saloon.
Here,
his desires had full swing, and he could indulge in his favorite pastime
of playing poker without meeting a scowl when he faced his employer, for
that was part of the business. But, he never neglected his duties and when
off shift, aided his employer O'Leary in the store-room back of the saloon
in making "Oregon cider" and reducing the liquors. This opened Frank's
eyes to the adulterations practiced in "fixing" the whisky, and he
resolved to reform, and upon making the resolve he wrote to his old mining
"pard" named Rhodehimer the following letter, which the latter gave from
memory to this writer, and the substance of it is here reproduced because
it tells the story in a style that marks the manner of the man.
After
the usual introduction, Frank said: "I have a surprise in store for you
which will seem so incredible that I fear you will dismiss it by saying I
don't mean it. I have resolved at this late day in life to follow the good
advice you gave me 'many a time and oft' and which went unheeded through
pure cussedness on my part. It is really startling and hence I have
prepared you for it by this slight introduction. Know then, my dear old
boy, that your wayward friend, over whom you have so many times shed tears
of honest grief for his persistent indulgence in the cup that inebriates,
know, I say, that I have resolved to stop drinking whisky.
I
fear that you will doubt my resolution and, therefore, I must again assure
you that I am in deep earnest and mean what I say. Never again will I
permit a drop of the pernicious liquid to trickle down my gullet. Never,
on my sacred honor, do I swear it. And I would have all my friends go and
do likewise, and for the sake of the ties that bind us together as old 'pards,'
I sincerely trust you will follow my example. Promise me this and I will
be happy. It will be easy for you to take the pledge. Nothing will ever
tempt you to break it. You will have no desire when once your eyes are
opened as mine have been. In fact you will admit as I do, that any man is
a d-----d fool to drink whisky when he can get good brandy. From now on I
shall drink brandy." He kept his pledge to the end of his life, and
although his last days were spent in affluence and luxury even, through a
pointer got from Sam Jones, by which he made $50,000 in Belcher, yet he
never broke his pledge, and the last act of his life was to take a sip of
brandy.
Article in the Reno Evening Gazette,
April 24 , 1891.
 Two
Years in Prison -
During the first mining excitement in
Utah
in 1870-71, the great influx of
strangers crowded the hotels of
Salt Lake City
to their utmost capacity.
This was particularly the case with the Gentile hotels, which were few,
because the newcomers naturally sought their kind. Among the guests of the
old Revere House was Bob Howland, who was known extensively among
Nevada
people as being a jolly, good-natured wag, full of the latest good
stories, which he was an adept in telling, and always ready to perpetrate
a joke if a chance presented itself. The hotel was filled every night and
beds were at a premium at the established prices of $1 for single and $2
for double ones. As a favor to the landlords, as much as for economy, Bob
occupied a single bed in a room containing "two of a kind," as Bob called
them, with an open privilege to let the other bed to any respectable
looking guest, if duly sober and not addicted to snoring.
On a
late train one night there arrived an elderly gentleman from the East, who
registered as Mr. Robinson of Saratoga, New York, and asked for a room. He
was duly informed of the crowded condition of the House and that the best
that could be done was to assign him to a bed in the room with Mr.
Howland. Mr. Robinson objected on the grounds that he could not possibly
sleep in the same room with a stranger; but the clerk assured him that Mr.
Howland was a perfect gentleman and a mining operator that enjoyed a high
standing throughout the Territory and in the adjoining State of
Nevada ,
and he added with cunning diplomacy, that he would not intrude upon Mr.
Howland anyone but a respectable and reputable guest. Led to consent
against his will, Robinson accepted the alternative and was led to the
room door, where he asked further questions and was further assured of
Howland's high standing. Bob was in bed but not asleep and overheard the
conversation. Robinson tip toed in with his lamp, passing Bob's bed, to
the other side of the room, and when partly disrobed, Bob rolled over,
gave a yawn and said: "Hello, pard; going to bed?"
"Ahem! Yes," said Robinson, "I'm sorry to disturb you."
"That's all right," said Bob; "I like company."
"Ahem!" said Robinson; "but I am not used to sleeping among strangers."
"Oh!"
said Bob, "we are used to that out here."
"Yes!
yes! I presume," said Robinson, "but I should not have intruded had not
the clerk recommended you very highly."
"The
h--1 he did," said Bob. "He had no business to recommend me, for I was two
years in the
Nevada State Prison. But it's all right, pard; good night,"
and rolling over Bob soon simulated the deep breathing of contented sleep.
Robinson was uneasy, and after turning out the light, was debating the
propriety of making his escape from the convict's room, and lay in uneasy
wakefulness for some time, when he was startled into fright and trembling
by Bob's sudden burst into the smothered yells of a nightmare. Robinson
started from his bed to awaken Bob, who lay with the light shining through
the transom full on his face, which, with the wrinkles and crow's feet of
mirth around his eyes, looked pretty hard. As Robinson touched him, Bob
gave a snort, sprang up and flourishing a revolver, said in deep tragic
tones: "Hold; let go, or I'll shoot." That was enough for Robinson; he
made a break out the door, reached the main staircase, slid down the
banisters into the office, and informed the astonished clerk that he had
just escaped from a madman.
Explanations were of no avail, and the clerk finally conducted him to his
personal room, where he passed the night. On the following morning,
Robinson was introduced to Judge Haydon of Genoa, then visiting Salt Lake,
and was relating his remarkable experience of the night before with a
Nevada
convict, and asked the Judge if he knew the man.
"No,"
said the Judge, "I don't, but here comes Bob Howland, and as he was Warden
of the State Prison for two years under Governor Nye's administration,
perhaps he will know him."
Robinson looked amazed as the light dawned upon him, stroked his gray
beard and stood an introduction, which Bob made smooth by saying in a
laughing tone of badinage: "Hello, pard! You left me last night in a
hurry. I was only fighting bed bugs--why didn't you stay and see the
fun."
Article in the Reno Evening Gazette,
April 7 , 1891.
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