8. JOURNALS OF HENRY HOLMES GOODPASTURE

November 16, 1880

Venit, Vidit, Vicit. The recent dramatics at the Glass Slipper were eminently satisfactory to all, except, no doubt, McQuown and his men, and Clay Blaisedell has succeeded almost past our wildest hopes in subduing the Cowboys. We have been most marvelously impressed with his demeanor here so far.

A man in his position is, of course, handicapped, but he is evidently experienced with makeshift arrangements. A tiny, one-cell jail, no court, no proper judge this side of Bright’s City — except for a J.P. who is only that on his own mandate and general tolerance, have not fazed our Marshal at all. Thus he has for weapons only his reputation and his own six-shooters, with which to threaten, to buffalo, to maim, or to kill. The first, the inherent threat of his reputation, we hope will serve our purposes.

Blaisedell had various suggestions to make. One was that we set up a deadline; no firearms to be carried past a certain part of town. We were uneasy about this, and Blaisedell readily agreed that the edict might cause more trouble than it prevented. Another suggestion of his was met with more enthusiasm: this is what is known as a “white affidavit.” If it is felt that the peace of this town or the safety of its inhabitants are threatened by any man, or if a criminal is transported to Bright’s City for trial for a major crime, and the Bright’s City jurymen fail to render a true judgment (as is often the case), a white affidavit is to be issued. This is no more than an order on the part of the Citizens’ Committee that an offender is to be forbidden entry to the town by the Marshal. If such a one disregards this posting, he then enters under pain of death — which is to say, he must face Blaisedell’s six-shooter prowess, which, we are hopeful, will strike fear into the bravest hearts.

We are most pleased with ourselves, and with our Marshal, so far. As Buck Slavin points out, Warlock’s bad reputation has long stood in the paths of Commerce and Population. If Blaisedell can effect order here we may expect both to increase, for the peaceable and the timid must certainly shy away from the violence well known to have ruled here. Thus, with an influx of citizens of finer stamp, in time the better element of the population will come to overbalance by far that of the violent and irresponsible, peace will come to enforce itself, and Commerce will flourish. To the good fortune of the members of the Citizens’ Committee of Warlock.

Still, there are doubts. I have been troubled in wondering whether we of the Citizens’ Committee have fully realized the responsibility we have assumed. We have hired a gunman whose only recommendation is a certain notoriety. We are responsible for this man of whom we know, actually, nothing. I suppose our troubled consciences are assuaged by the thought that we have assumed a makeshift authority for a makeshift situation, and a temporary one.

The question of our status remains frozen in suspension. Are we in Bright’s County, or in a new, yet-to-be-surveyed county? What keeps us from being granted a town patent before this matter is settled? Is there more to it than merely General Peach’s carelessness and senility? Is there, as Buck Slavin hints in his darker moods, some official feeling that Warlock is not worth troubling with, since it will soon fade away with its subterranean wealth exhausted, or its mines gradually closing down as the market price of silver continues to fall, or becoming flooded and unworkable?[1]

Poor and makeshift our efforts may be, yet there would seem proof in them that a society of sorts is possible in an anarchistic state. We feel we are ultimately in the Republic, separated from her only by an incredibly inept and laggard territorial government, and so obedience to the forms is necessary. Or are those forms themselves so ineradicably imbedded in men’s minds that we cannot think but in terms of them? The general passive acceptance of Judge Holloway’s fines (which everyone knows he pockets), and his imposition of sentences to our little jail or to unpaid community tasks, would seem to indicate this.

Be that as it may, I think the Citizens’ Committee has been most lucky in their employment of Blaisedell. He might have begun his action here in Warlock against the lesser fry. Instead he waited (and incurred some initial criticism for his inaction), and made his play against McQuown himself. I understand that his handling of McQuown, Burne, et al. in the Glass Slipper was masterful. He could have shed blood, but correctly chose not to do so. It is said that Curley Burne actually saluted Blaisedell in tribute to his gentlemanliness and forbearance, as he departed.

We have not seen McQuown since, nor any of his men. There has been no bloodshed since Blaisedell’s arrival. Blaisedell has had to buffalo a few recalcitrants, and has escorted some Cowboys and drunken miners to the jail, but violent death has removed itself from our midst temporarily.

Blaisedell is an imposing figure of a man, with a leonine fair head, an erect and powerful carriage, and eyes of an astonishing concentration. He seems guileless and straightforward, very dignified, yet I have seen him laughing and joking like a boy with his friend Morgan in the Glass Slipper. It is rumored that Blaisedell has an interest in that gambling hall. He spends much time there in company with Morgan, and on several occasions has engaged himself in dealing faro there. From what we have seen of Blaisedell thus far, he seems to have no excesses; he is not given to whoring, drunkenness, or profanity. I think he must needs be a blessedly simple man, in his position, for does not the capacity to deal in violence without excesses, to deal actually in men’s lives as he must do, denote an almost appalling simplicity?

Or is he, in the end, only a merchant like myself, with his goods for sale as I have mine, knowing, as I know, that the better the goods the better price they will command, and the price variable as well with the Need? I see my mind must seek to bring this man to my terms, or perhaps it is to my level.

November 27, 1880

Pranksters have poured cement into the new piano at the French Palace. The piano, which Taliaferro had brought here at what I am sure must have been enormous expense, is ruined, the culprits unknown. It was a mean and thoughtless trick, in that coarse vein of frontier humor of which I have seen far too much. I have offered my sympathy to Taliaferro, who merely glowered. I suppose he suspects that since I mentioned it, I may be the guilty one.

There has also been another rash of rumors about the presence of Apaches in the Dinosaurs, that Espirato has returned from Mexico and is gathering his band again, preparatory to going on the warpath. This is not given much credence, since it has been several years since Espirato was last heard from. He is widely believed dead, and the bulk of his warriors secretly returned to the reservation at Granite.

In consequence of these rumors, however, we have had the pleasure of again seeing General Peach, who is always sensitive to news of his old adversary. He came through Warlock last Sunday with one troop of horse, another having swept up the far side of the valley. It was a shock to see him, for he has grown incredibly gross, and, viewing him, it is easy to believe that his mind is eaten away with paresis. Still, there is something inherently heroic about him; it is like watching an equestrian statue of the Cid or George Washington wrapped in a cloak of heroic deeds, to the accompaniment of stirring martial music. The man has had the capacity throughout his career for giving miserable and inexcusable fiasco the semblance of a thrilling victory. He rode down Main Street at the head of his troop as in a Fourth of July Parade, wearing his huge hat, his white beard blowing back, his strange, pale eyes fixed straight ahead while he saluted right and left with the leather-covered shaft which is supposed to be that of an arrow that almost ended his days at the battle of Bloody Fork. We watched him fresh from a fool’s errand to the border, and reminded ourselves that he has a harem of Apache and Mexican women out of which he has produced (supposedly) a get of half-breed bastards numerous enough to increase by a good percentage the population of this territory; that, in his senility, he wets his trousers like a child, and must have his hand guided by Colonel Whiteside when he writes his name; and still we could not forbear to applaud his passage — badly as he has treated us here.