A Tenderfoot in Colorado

Richard Baxter Townshend

• Publisher: University Press of Colorado
• Year: 2008
• ISBN:
  9780870819896
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: World History
• Index: History

Now back in print, A Tenderfoot in Colorado is R. B. Townshend's classic account of his time in the wild frontier territory known as Colorado. Townshend arrived in the Rockies in 1869, fresh from Cambridge, England, with $300 in his pockets.

He found friends among some of Colorado's more colorful characters, people who taught him much about life on the frontier. Jake Chisolm taught him how to shoot after rescuing him from two men preparing to skin him at poker. Wild Bill of Colorado taught him the meaning of "the drop" and warned him against wearing a gun in town unless he wanted trouble. Capturing the Western vernacular more accurately than any other writer, Townshend includes vivid details of life in the West, where he killed a buffalo, prospected for gold, and was present for the official government conference with the Ute Indians after gold was discovered on their lands.

CHAPTER VII
WILD JUSTICE

RETURNING to Denver, I parted company with Matthews; to tell the truth, I was a bit tired of his everlasting sneers, so often (as I thought) directed against better men than himself. Besides, I thought I was competent now to stand on my own feet instead of going around on a personally conducted tour. Naturally my first step was to buy a horse. For this I went to Billy and Hi Ford, who had brought some 1500 head of wild bronco stock—bronco is Spanish for unbroken—from California to Denver where they were selling them as rapidly as they could get them broken in. Ford Brothers soon took my measure and for I think $60 fitted me out with a little brown mare, who had been ridden several times. They put me very carefully on her, and I went down the Platte a few miles and put up at a ranch. Along the main freighting roads most ranches would take you in overnight and give you supper, bed and breakfast for $1.50, or if your horse had to be fed also, for $2.25. A snowstorm came on that night and I lay there two days till the weather improved. The little brown mare had done herself uncommonly well in the barn, and when I tried to climb on to her back on the third morning she began to play up. The friendly and much amused ranchman lent me a helping hand, however, and at last I got myself fixed in the saddle with my blanket-roll padding me in well there and the ranchman hanging tight on to her head.

“Do you think shell buck?” I asked nervously as he let her go.

“Guess so,” said he.

And buck she certainly did. But I was so well wedged in with my pack that I did manage to remain, though I can’t say I liked it, and the upshot of it was I rode her back to Denver and traded her (plus $20 more) to Billy Ford for an ancient chestnut “bronc” who had got over all his youthful frivolities. I called him Methusalem, and he turned out an excellent travelling animal for a tenderfoot. On him I rode out to Kiowa Creek to visit an English ranchman I had met in Denver, and I stayed there a few days riding around the prairie and seeing what cattle were like. My friend had a nice American wife and a nice bunch of American cattle, which he milked, while she, like a good ranchwoman, made butter from the milk. Butter was worth, I think, 75 cents a pound. Of course these American dairy cattle, which were just like our ordinary English farm stock, were quite unlike the long-horned, long-legged animals of Spanish breed, of which drovers had just begun to bring up large herds from Texas. The older Colorado stock-men, owners of American stock, rather resented this intrusion, as the wild Texas brutes could be sold for less than half the prices they had been used to getting, and consequently their profits went down; but they had to put up with it. All the disgruntled owner of American stock could do was to chase the others off his range when they invaded it, but this he had no legal right to do, as the range was Government land, and he only did it at the risk of rough handling from the Texas cowpunchers. Nevertheless, I did give my friend a hand at the game of driving them off in the absence of the cowpunchers, and I much enjoyed the good gallops on the prairie even though Methusalem was hardly fast enough to head a wild steer. But I did get my first taste of cowpunching and liked it well.

Next I decided to wander down the Platte and see what that section was like. Ranches extended some fifty odd miles below Denver, about to the point where the South Platte River makes its big bend eastwards, and at this point a new town was just being started. It was named Evans in honour of the man who had been Governor of Colorado before McCook, and its raison d’être was that the first railroad into Colorado was now being opened so far for traffic. This railroad was the Denver Pacific R.R. running from Cheyenne to Denver, and Evans was the half-way house. The city was just three weeks old when I got there, and the site of it was on the north bank of the Platte, across which a bridge was going to be built. I put up at the ranch of a very friendly old ranchman, Godfrey, no relation to the other Godfrey down at Saguache; he had a bunch of American cattle, and a wife and son, the latter a very fine young fellow. Godfrey let me use his rifle, an old-fashioned small-bored muzzle-loader with a heavy octagon barrel nearly four feet long, I should say. Armed with this wondrous weapon I sallied out after antelopes, of which there were any number around there, and I got my first lessons in stalking. Stalking antelope, like everything else, was quite new to me, and I was as keen as possible to take lessons in whatever thing there was to be learnt. There was something, though, to be learnt in that little mushroom city of Evans which I most certainly did not anticipate. When I rode over there I found that it consisted of some forty or fifty houses of raw boards, mostly half-finished or with their roofs in process of being “shingled,” stuck down here and there on the bare prairie. The parched yellow bunch-grass, over which wild Texas cattle had grazed a month before, grew up to, and under, the little frame buildings which were raised for the most part six inches or a foot off the ground on stone or brick props; the earth was cut up in every direction by the ruts of waggon-wheels, and piles of newly sawn lumber lay about. In the middle of all snorted the locomotive, the earliest that ever ran on the plains of Colorado—for the railroad had come at last, and this was the end of the track, the first completed section of the iron road, in Colorado Territory.

I was riding past a bar-room where were some men with whisky bottles and glasses set out before them, when one of them sung out to me:

“Come ’n hev’ a drink.”

“No, thank you,” I replied without pulling up.

In a moment out flashed a revolver pointed straight at my head.

“Yes, you will,” said the same voice with emphasis, “or else—”

What “else” meant was left to the imagination, but I didn’t find it hard to guess. My reply was:

“Oh, certainly,” and I sprang from my saddle saying, “I’d rather drink than be shot any day.” And without more ado I took my dose. But I can’t say I liked my society.

“I’ve looked to see ’em have a man for breakfast any morning,” said old Godfrey when I got back to the ranch and told him of it. “According to what I hear they’ve bin shooting at the lamps in the saloons and dancing on the bars, slinging their six-shooters round their heads, and raising Cain generally, every night. I’ve wondered there hasn’t been nobody shot yet, but I reckon they were each one of ’em kind of shy of being the first to begin. But now, if they’ve started in, likely they’ll have another Julesburg here if they ain’t interfered with.”

Julesburg, as I have already said, was a spot that had been the end of the track on the Union Pacific Railroad for some months during its construction, and it had been, perhaps, the most debauched and the most blood-stained little moral pesthouse the Far West ever saw. A young man presently arrived at Godfrey’s where he also found quarters under that hospitable roof; he called himself a schoolmaster by trade, and his object was to see if by chance such a thing was wanted in this three-weeks’-old town. A town, even the newest, almost always had some families, and that generally meant some boys of school age, with, as the obvious and natural consequence, an opening for a schoolmaster. I can’t say that I was much impressed with my new friend’s scholastic qualifications, but I was out to learn all I could of this strange country, and at his invitation I rode with him down to the ford across the South Platte with a view to seeing what opening there might be in Evans. “Crack” came the sharp sound of a pistol-shot as we rode through the icy ford, and we saw men running among the houses, and a couple of horsemen with rifles in their hands galloping after a man who was flying at top speed towards the brush in the Platte bottom.

“The toughs from Cheyenne have been trying to run this town ever since it was started,” said my companion, “but they haven’t killed anyone so far. I wonder if that shot means the first man killed.’’

We rode through the fringe of willow brush and cotton-wood trees that skirted the river, and up the bluff. We had now got fairly into the town and saw all the population—all the male population, that is—swarming like bees in the middle of the main street. Horses and ox-teams stood here and there untended; the shingling hatchets and carpenter’s tools lay around the half-finished houses, just where they had been thrown down. The stores were open, but they were empty, for buyers and sellers had crowded, like all the rest, to the scene of action. There in the centre of the crowd was a sight to remember. Ten men shoulder to shoulder formed a ring, each man facing outwards, each man holding his cocked revolver, muzzle up, the hand that held it being on a level with his chest; the men’s set mouths and searching eyes, turning restlessly on the crowd around, showed them to be sharply on the watch for signs of an attempted rescue.

A rescue, but of whom? It did not take long to recognize who was the object of their care. In the middle of the ring, bareheaded, with his arms bound, stood a prisoner, a sickly smile on his loose lips, and the colour coming and going in patches on his bloated face. By him was a guard, also pistol in hand like those who formed the ring, but his eyes were bent not on the crowd, but on the prisoner; and the pistol he held was pointed not towards the sky, but straight at the prisoner’s heart. Were a rescue attempted, it was clear the rescuers would recover only a corpse. That the toughs would try to set their friend free if they dared was certain; it was useless to try to secure him by locking him up in an extempore gaol, for there was no building in the town that could resist a determined assault for five minutes; but a bodyguard such as now held him could not be maintained for long. These men had their own business to attend to; and standing guard, pistol in hand, expecting to kill or be killed, is a dead loss of time and wages. However, it was not intended by those who were putting their energies, heart and soul, into the building of a new town to waste very much time over guarding a murderer. For it was murder that this wretched captive was held for, and stiff and stark, in a house hard by, with a bullet through his brain, lay the body of his victim. The sound of the loud weeping of the widowed wife and orphan daughters was heard at intervals across the vacant lots, and that agonized crying served to inflame the passions of the crowd. From the bystanders I gathered that old man Steel, a most respectable man who kept a boarding-house, had just been shot by a tough, and that it was more than probable that Judge Lynch would take cognizance of the case. The crying of the wretched widow and orphaned children sounded in the ears of the people, and called for vengeance. The one anxiety was, would the other railroad toughs try to rescue their hero?

Presently an empty lumber waggon was run out a little way from the town on the bare prairie; from the box end of this a few nail kegs were arranged in a double row, perhaps eight feet apart, and boards were laid on them for seats. A man sprang up on the waggon, and said:

“A crime has been committed here, and I move that a People’s Court be constituted to try the case. Those in favour will say ‘Aye.’”

“Aye, aye,” came from all quarters, like a dropping fire.

“Contrary, ‘No,’” the temporary chairman added, as if by an afterthought.

I fancied I heard a few muttered remarks, but no man said “No” openly. Perhaps the railroad toughs were lying low for the present.

Up jumped another man, so quick and pat that it dawned upon me that there was a prepared scheme being put in operation.

“I move that Captain Sopris be elected judge of this court,” he said.

As before, the “Ayes” had it.

“Captain Sopris was a People’s Judge in Denver, and he hanged a heap of men there, too, time of the Pike’s Peak boom,” said an old-timer near me. “The captain knows the ropes.” There was a grim double meaning in the way he said “ropes.”

Captain Sopris mounted the waggon box in his turn and took his seat, throwing a keen eye over the crowd.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I have been elected to try this case by you, the people. Is it your will that I should select a jury? Those who are in favour say ‘Aye!’”

Once more the full-throated chorus of “Ayes!” arose from the crowd.

“Contrary, ‘No,’” said the judge to the crowd in matter-of-fact tones, turning at the same time to speak to a man beside him. It was his art, I think, to appear to take it all as mere matter of course, yet I am certain he and his supporters were sharply on the watch for any sign of opposition from the prisoner’s friends. But the “people” had got a leader now, and any who would have liked to interfere were cowed by the almost unanimous ‘Aye!’ “of the majority. When the judge said” Contrary, ‘No!’” there may have been a murmur here and there, but no man durst answer “No,” square and bold.

The people were rousing to their work. We were all packed tight round the court, for that farm waggon and the nail keg seats had become the Court of the People out there on the prairie under the open sky. I had dismounted and wedged myself in next the seats where my neighbour said the jury would be. Quickly a dozen jurors were chosen and took their places. A Bible was produced, and every juror was sworn to give an honest verdict. Each man as soon as he was sworn took his seat, on one or other of the impromptu benches, till there were six on one side and six on the other.

“And now,” said the judge, “bring in the prisoner.”

Accordingly the guards, with the prisoner in their midst, moved up to the open side of the court; but as they did so it was seen that something had occurred, for beside the prisoner stood little Pat Egan, who was believed to represent the majesty of the law in some sort of capacity or other.

“Captain Sopris,” he began in somewhat plaintive accents, “this hyar thing ain’t reg’lar at all. By rights this hyar man’s my prisoner, and I can’t consent to no proceedings of this sort.”

The judge took no more notice of him than if he had been a piece of wood; less, indeed, for he did not appear to see him.

“But,” continued the little Irishman, “I’m a county officer, I am, and I’m liable to be called in question for this business. And I can’t give up this man,” he went on piteously, “without some excuse, ye know I can’t.”

The audience smiled audibly, but the judge, the jury and guards never looked at him, never heard him, never knew he was there, so to speak, but went on with their own business, arranging the order in which the witnesses should be called.

Pat Egan continued his pitiful demands for an excuse. The crowd was jammed thick round the court, the foremost men leaning over the backs of the jury on both sides. Eager to catch every word, I had tied my horse to a post in the street and had squeezed myself in up to the very seat where the jury sat, so that I was within a couple of yards of Mr. Egan and the prisoner. Leaning on me was a great yellow-bearded giant in a slouch hat. He reached down to his hip and produced an enormous revolver, one of the old dragoon Colt’s, with a barrel about a foot long. Bearing on my shoulder with his left hand, he extended his long right arm over the heads of the jury till the pistol-muzzle was within a few inches of Pat’s head. Pat, with his face to the judge’s bench, was still volubly explaining that he was a county officer and couldn’t consent.

“Mr. Egan,” breathed the giant with the big pistol, in the softest tones.

Mr. Egan was absorbed in his own ardent utterances, and didn’t hear.

“Mr. Egan,” a little louder.

Pat turned round sharp and looked into the muzzle of the formidable weapon.

“Mr. Egan, will that do ye for an excuse?” said the giant with an air of gentle sarcasm.

Mr. Egan recoiled several feet with an air of comic alarm.

“Oh, certainly, sir,” he responded with alacrity. “Certainly, certainly, quite sufficient; that will do.” And he, the sole representative of the lawful Government of Colorado, disappeared promptly and finally from the scene.

And now the serious business of the court began.

“Is there a lawyer in town?” asked the judge. “If so, fetch him. The prisoner can have counsel.”

There was a Mr. Tallboys, a lawyer, a very young one, who came. The people of this mushroom town had arrived with a rush from everywhere, and every profession was represented.

“Understand,” said Sopris, leaning over from the waggon to the counsel for the accused, “this is a People’s Court. Any arguments you can use for your client will get a fair hearing. But you are not to object to the competence of the court...