There have been rumors that silver will drop again on the market, and there is unrest among the miners, who fear a cut in their wages. Especially those of the Medusa. Some weeks ago, in the collapse of a stope at that unlucky mine, two miners were killed outright, and a third horribly crushed — the doctor says the man, Cassady by name, did not die the same night only because he seemed to feel it would put Miss Jessie out, and so clung to his life until early this week, when he finally gave up the ghost. The Medusa miners are incensed about these deaths, and I understand that talk of the Miners’ Union has begun again. They claim that insufficient lagging-timbers are furnished to support their burrowings. This MacDonald denies heatedly, and calls them overpaid and pampered as it is. The price of lumber is certainly fantastic. There are trees of any size only in the northernmost Bucksaws, Bowen’s Sawmill is small, the water power to run it often insufficient, and breakdowns frequent.
There is this time more sympathy than usual with the miners, of whom a large number have been killed and maimed in mine accidents this year. The doctor is quite beside himself about it, a man rarely given to shows of anger. Still, as I said to him, the fellows do make wages of $4.50 a day, and are free to take themselves elsewhere and to other work, if they choose.
December 14, 1880
A death of note has been that of the little professor, whose piano playing at the Glass Slipper all of Warlock had enjoyed. Poor fellow, apparently, while in his cups, he fell insensible into the street at night, where his skull was crushed by a hoof or wagon wheel; not found until morning. God rest his soul, his passing so tragically has saddened us all.
December 28, 1880
Christmas has come and gone and a New Year is almost upon us. The cold spell has broken, and in this the peaceful season there is peace, but perhaps no more than the usual amount of good will. I have a crèche in my store window, Mary and Joseph bending over the Infant in the manger, attended by kings and shepherds. It is surprising how men stop and stare. I think they are not enraptured at the old story; the star of Bethlehem interests them not, nor do the shepherds and the kings. The baby fascinates them, a hideous little piece, out of scale to the rest of the figures, pink plaster with daubs of deeper pink upon the cheeks. It is not that there are no babies here, for the miners beget them upon their Mexican “wives” in some quantity. But they are not proper babies, being illegitimate; and not pink, being half-breed tan to begin with, which soon becomes a deeper hue due to the lack of frequent applications of soap and water. Most important, I think, is that the Babe is surrounded by His family. For there are no proper families here, and pitifully few proper women. There are Cyprians in quantity (more attentive to my crèche even than the men), there are a few ranch women whom we see from time to time, shapeless and bonneted against the sun and rude eyes. There are, in town, besides Miss Jessie, Mrs. Maple and Mrs. Sturges, the one, as is said, twice the man Dick Maples is and as tough as bootsole leather, the other ancient, huge, and a reformed harlot from the look of her.
The reigning queen is Myra Burbage, to court whom, of a Sunday, a great procession of Warlock’s most affluent young bachelors rides down valley to irritate Matt Burbage. Men are made slaves to women by a cunning nature, who designed lust as the means to the continuation of our kind; we are made slaves as well by a trap of our own devising, whereby we desire to stand, as it were, for one of those stiff and smug photographer’s portraits, as man and wife amid our offspring in that proud and self-contained protective society, a family.
A Christmas party at the General Peach, and all were invited to sip a cup of Christmas cheer — paying two dollars to the miners’ fund for the privilege. Myra Burbage distributing her favors among her admirers, and, wonder of wonders, Miss Jessie apparently much interested and amused in conversation with the Marshal! She looked very pretty with her face flushed by the warmth of her labors — or was it something else that had caused her color to rise? There will be much surmise about this, I have no doubt. The Marshal and Miss Jessie have been observed, before this, buggy-riding together, and now, I am sure, more notice will be taken of their activities.
January 2, 1881
I suppose we should have realized that if the infection were only thrust down here, it would crop up elsewhere. There have been a great number of rustling raids in the lower valley, and stage hold-ups on the San Pablo and Welltown roads — so many, in fact, that Buck Slavin has instructed his stage drivers not to resist road agents, and is refusing to transport any shipments of value, as well as warning his passengers to carry none. The Welltown stage was robbed day before yesterday. This is laid at McQuown’s door by some, while others claim that worthy has merely relaxed his control over the San Pablo hard-cases, who are consequently running wild.
Road agents are none of Blaisedell’s affair, unless a coach were to be assaulted within the limits of Warlock. Schroeder, however, is showing signs of life. There is another deputy with him now: I understand that one of his conditions to Sheriff Keller for taking up the post was that he be allowed an assistant. The other is John Gannon, elder brother to Billy Gannon and at one time a rider for McQuown himself. He seems an odd choice for an assistant on the part of Schroeder (an honest man, although heretofore exceedingly timid), but there has been a sign attached to the wall of the jail for some time now, advertising the need of another deputy, and no doubt Gannon has been the only one to apply. There has been some talk about this, and some suspect darkly that Gannon has come at McQuown’s bidding to corrupt the Warlock branch of the law in some kind of plot against Blaisedell.
Gannon and Schroeder did collaborate to capture a road agent when an attempt was made on the Bright’s City stage a week or ten days ago. The stage, although under fire, ran for it and gained the town quickly, where Schroeder immediately organized a posse including Gannon and a number of Schroeder’s friends, who happened to be passing the time of day at the jail. The posse lost one of the bandits, but captured the other, one Nat Earnshaw. Schroeder then took Earnshaw to Bright’s City for trial, where he now resides, awaiting court session. Great praise has been heaped upon Schroeder for his quick action, and his courage — for Earnshaw, although not actually a member of McQuown’s band, is a San Pabloite, a rustler, and a badman of some repute.
Possibly Schroeder’s triumph has been made the more of because Blaisedell has had a failure of sorts. Wax, one of Taliaferro’s dealers, was shot in the alley behind the Lucky Dollar, and his murderer has not been apprehended. It could have been almost anyone, since the victim was a gunman himself, quarrelsome and overbearing. Wax is not widely mourned. There has been some hint, however, that Morgan was the murderer, in some unnoticed and growing feud between the Lucky Dollar and the Glass Slipper, whose rear doors both open upon the same fatal alley. Morgan has made a great number of enemies here. He can be most unpleasant, brusque and rude, and has a way of looking at a person that expresses all too explicitly an almost unbounded contempt for his fellow man.
January 10, 1881
There has been a Social Event, a Wedding, and we are stuffed with punch and wedding cake, and, perhaps, with envy. Ralph Egan[2] has married Myra Burbage, and the happy couple is by now entrained from Welltown to a honeymoon in San Francisco at Matt’s expense, the bride’s fondest wish having been to see the ocean before she settled down in Warlock.