FORT CHURCHILL

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

(Paisley is quite ill, but recovering. In the meantime, this is a post she wrote several years ago when she still lived in the Pacific Northwest.)

One of my friends recently visited Fort Churchill. I was intrigued by the buildings making up this fort and thought to share them with you and give you a little bit of history. I live over the mountain from Carson City, Nevada, and had never heard of this place before. It was small, but seems to have had an integral part in our history. Talk of Indian atrocities at Williams Station, a Carson River outpost located 30 miles east of Carson City, filtered back to settlers in the Carson Valley. Because of the fear of impending attacks, the settlers demanded immediate protection.

The so-called Pyramid Lake War began on May 12, 1860, when three white men living at Williams Station kidnapped and held two Indian girls prisoner. Their action and refusal to release the girls led to reprisals. Indians killed the three men, released the girls and burned the station. Because rumors exaggerated the number of whites killed and the number of Paiutes thought ready to move against white settlements, hasty and ill-conceived plans resulted in the movement of 105 volunteers to Pyramid Lake to avenge the deaths of the white men.

The out-numbered whites suffered a major defeat in the battle that followed. They lost two-thirds of their original force. The Indians' momentous victory led to immediate white retaliation. Urgent calls went out to California for regular armed troops. The troops, bolstered by additional volunteers, moved against the Indian forces in early June. In this second battle, the out-numbered Indians were forced to retreat. Casualty reports ranged from four to 160 Indians killed while only two whites died.

Captain Joseph Stewart and His Carson River Expedition were then ordered to establish a post on the Carson River. Starting July 20, 1860, tens of thousands of dollars were spent to construct Fort Churchill, the desert outpost that guarded the Pony Express run and other mail routes. Between expeditions against the Indians, hundreds of soldiers were based there.

The fort was named in honor of Sylvester Churchill, the Inspector General of the U.S. Army. It was built as a permanent installation. Adobe buildings were erected on stone foundations in the form of a square, facing a central parade ground. The Civil War made the fort an important supply depot for the Nevada Military District and as a base for troops patrolling the overland routes.

The fort was abandoned in 1869, and the adobe buildings were auctioned for only $750. In 1884, the remains of soldiers buried in the post cemetery were moved to Carson City. The remaining graves are those of the Buckland family, pioneer ranchers who sold supplies to the fort.

Fort Churchill sits at an elevation of 4,250 feet and is flanked on the south by rolling desert hills and higher areas of the Pine Nut Range. The Carson River originates in the Sierra Nevada Mountains to the west. It forms the major water resource in the area and is the only perennial source of surface water near the fort.

Photos by Judy Newberry Ashley

A Chance Encounter With James Bowie

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

In 1858 Xavier Eyma published a short story about encountering James Bowie while traveling the United States. Since the hero in my first published story, Night Angel, also carried this same knife, I found the encounter very interesting.

One day while traveling the U.S. Eyma found himself in a carriage with three people: a lady, her husband, and a third individual who was wrapped in a cloak and apparently sound asleep. Suddenly an enormous Kentuckian got into the coach. He was smoking a cigar and he cast a glance around him that seemed to say: "I am half hoss and half alligator, a true son of Kentucky, flower of the forests."

Then he puffed out thick clouds of smoke, without any regard for his fellow travelers, and especially for the young lady whom the smoke very evidently made sick. Thus the husband courteously asked the Kentuckian to stop smoking. The latter replied: "I have paid for my seat. I shall smoke as much as I please, and nobody in the world shall stop me."

After saying this, he rolled his eyes fiercely and looked around him with a provocative air as if daring anyone to counter reply.

Eyma hesitated a moment, wondering whether he should intervene, but realized he would have little chance against such an athletic adversary, and thought of the impotence of the law which offered no recourse against him.

It was then the traveler, who had been asleep, calmly unwrapped his cloak and sat up straight. He was a man of medium size, rather frail looking, buttoned from top to bottom. He fixed two piercing gray eyes on the Kentuckian and before pronouncing a single word, reached behind his neck and drew out a long knife, sharp as a razor. "Sir," he said to the Kentuckian, "my name is Colonel James Bowie well known, I believe, in Arkansas and Louisiana. If, within one minute you do not throw your cigar out of the window, I shall stick this knife into your belly just as true as I am going to die someday."

The strange expression in Colonel Bowie's glance was something magnetic and fascinating. The Kentuckian bore it for a few seconds and then he lowered his eyes, took the cigar from his mouth and threw it out of the window.

Colonel Bowie then restored his knife to its peculiar sheath between his shoulders, wrapped himself in his cloak, closed his eyes, went to sleep, and did not say another word during the whole trip.

Since that time, Colonel Bowie's weapon has acquired a sinister celebrity, and its use has become too frequent in the U.S. If on one occasion, that terrible knife performed the good deed of teaching manners to a coarse Kentuckian, it has since then created many mayors, aldermen, and judges. It has become the last argument in many elections in the U.S.A.

Written by Robert E. Pike, found in the May-June, 1955, True West magazine.

AMAZON: http://amzn.com/B00909PON0

B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/night-angel-paisley-kirkpatrick/1117551757?ean=2940014889667

Historical Smith Flat House

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

I was excited during my first visit to the historical Smith Flat House, a unique building from the time of the 1849 gold rush. Because it was built on the Placerville wagon and stage road, it was the perfect location for a hotel and toll station. Originally known as The Three Mile House, now known as the Smith Flat House, it was built at this location in 1853. The owners positioned it over the entrance of the Blue Lead Mine to conceal the mine's entrance. Smith Flat House originally consisted of a general store, post office, bedroom, dining room, and dance floor all downstairs. Upstairs consisted of more bedrooms. There was also a barn that could stable forty horses which were used by the many teamsters and travelers that passed that way.

The bar is where I saw the Blue Lead Goldmine tunnel. It was my first observance of an entry into the earth's interior. I will never forget the smell of decay escaping the darkest black imaginable. You might expect to see the devil’s hand reaching out to pull you into the depths of hell.

My upcoming release One-Eyed Charly is about a woman stagecoach jehu who drives a route along the road where tollhouses are kept. I have done research on these houses and found them intriguing and a very useful part of the west. Mile houses were established during the gold rush. Many of them were privately owned and the owners collected tolls.

Just as the number of California emigrants passing Smith's Flat House decreased, silver was discovered near Virginia City, Nevada. Almost immediately, traffic reversed and the road became the most crowded road in the state as thousands of freight wagons carrying supplies and equipment passed by on their way over the Sierra Nevada to the mines. Because of this traffic, in 1863 a blacksmith's shop was added next to the Smith Flat House, followed in the 1890s by additional improvements to the building including a kitchen, pantry, laundry, more bedrooms and a saloon and card room.

When Sarah Lombardo turned eighteen in 1885, she married Nicola Fossati, the soul owner of the Smith Flat House at that time. She was expected to take over management of the house, which included all of the work. It had two floors. On the first was the general store, saloon, card room, post office, and living quarters for the family. Upstairs were 11 rooms for boarders and a large dance hall that was used as community center for political meetings, precinct voting, dancing, traveling shows, and auditorium for other large gatherings. At first Sarah was overwhelmed by all of her responsibilities. It didn't take her long to adjust to supervising the business.

Since Sarah was expected to manage the post office and general store, she needed to learn bookkeeping. The agent for Sperry Flour offered to teach her. He was amazed at how fast the young woman learned. When a young man named John Lagomarsino arrival from Italy, he needed help learning English and arithmetic. Sarah became his tutor. Lagomarsino was later instrumental in helping A.P. Giannini found the Bank of Italy, now known as the Bank of America.

During Sarah’s lifetime, it is doubtful that she ever left Smith’s Flat House except for an occasional visit to Placerville. Yet she managed to reach out and touch the lives of many.

My Life in a Nutshell

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

I was born at the end of WWII. Right after the war ended, life was easy and people were happy to have the horrors over with. We were an average family - probably considered boring in these times. Santa Rosa, California, is where my younger brother, Steven, and I grew up. My mother was the 'happy' housewife and stay-at-home mother. My father walked to work at the gas and electric company every day.

My education was in the public school systems. After graduating from Santa Rosa High School, I studied business at Commerce Business College and came out with secretarial skills that I still use in my writing career. I always wanted to be a secretary and ended up spending several years working for Certified Public Accountants in Santa Rosa and then Sacramento. It's a good thing I loved to type because we had to type every tax return page without error. It's why I became a qualified statistical typist.

 

I met my husband at an Air Force picnic when I was 23 years old. I knew the minute I saw Ken that he was the man I wanted to marry. Four months after we met, I put him on a plane and watched him fly off to Vietnam for 366 days. Five days after he returned to the states, we got married in a beautiful chapel in Sacramento and have been happy for 45 years. Our daughters were nine and half years apart. We lost our older daughter to cancer when she was 32 years old. Our younger daughter is married and works in a County Clerk's Office.

Writing has always been part of my life. In school I went a bit overboard with term papers. I don't think I ever turned in a project less than 2 inches thick. In 1989 I joined an International Pen Friends Organization and wrote to 41 foreign pen pals for years. Now I am down to fifteen from the original group and think of them as good friends. Cristache from Romania spent three weeks with us, one of my German pen pals and his wife visited us for a day, and we spent three days with in the home of my Scottish penpal and her husband. It's been an amazing part of our lives to have friends in so many foreign countries.

Our 'foreign children' have been a major part of our lives for what seems like forever. We met Bert on a camping trip 33 years ago. He was 21 and touring the states with several other young people at the time. When he got married, we traveled to his homeland of Holland and were part of the wedding party in a grand castle. Our Swedish daughter, Maggie, was an exchange student from Malmo, Sweden for the school year 1986-87. To this day she and her husband consider us their 'other' parents. Luckily for us, we have been able to visit their homes and they ours on many occasions.

In 1996 I became the president of country singing artist, Kevin Sharp's fan club. Those 12 years I worked for him are some of the most treasured moments in my life. I was so proud of Kevin when his first song, Nobody Knows, was No. 1 on the charts for four weeks. My fan club partner and I spent five summers in Nashville running Kevin's fan club booth for a week of greeting his fans and supervising his meet and greets. An extra bonus was standing on the stage of the Grand Ole Opry while Kevin sang.

I started making quilts after we lost our daughter. I have given away 54 quilts in her honor over the years. The first quilts were for babies. I make them out of brightly colored flannel. My husband is the one who finds the best prints and colors in the fabric stores. I have also made quilts with bookcovers on fabric and one wedding quilt.

I actually started having that 'I want to be a published author' dream in 1989. I joined Romance Writers of America in 1999 and after 22 years of practicing the craft, making lots of writer friends, and finishing two novels with a third one started, I received an offer for five books from Desert Breeze Publishing on Christmas Eve, 2011 at 10:35 -- but who is remembering? My sixth historical romance novel is what I am working on now. Since we were living in the Sierra Mountains of California, near where the gold discovery happened, I was able to write about the 1849 gold rush. I loved the history surrounding the area and I wrote what I loved.

Three months ago, we left my native state of California and moved to my husband's hometown in northern Wisconsin. We love living here with the Tomahawk River as our back border. I have the greatest view from my desk in my sunroom office. As I finish writing Paradise Pines Series: Stealing Her Heart, the last book in my Paradise Pines Series, I am looking forward to getting to know my new area and writing the Northwoods Series. This is an exciting time in our lives. We are getting to know my husband's classmates and they are involved in selling my books and making me feel part of their community.

 
My newest book, Broken Promise, was released on May 21, 2014. It can be purchased in ebook or print format at Desert Breeze Publishing at

 http://www.desertbreezepublishing.com/paradise-pines-broken-promise-epub/ and at Amazon http://amzn.com/B00KI268Z6  

A Glimpse into the Life of Charles M. Russell, Cowboy Artist

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

In order that we may be able to remember Charlie Russell as not only an artist, but also as a cowboy, I am going to present a picture of him as seen through the eyes of several of his old associates. These men were the last of the old-time cowboys who actually rode the range with Russell, slept in the same tent, ate together sitting around the camp chuck wagon and listened to Charlie's stories. Russell wasn't much of a cowboy, they've told me, and the boys didn't think of him as an artist, but he was a good entertainer in their estimation and won their esteem.

Charlie used to carry a lump of clay in his pocket. When riding along, he'd take it out, work it around in his hands for a while, and almost without looking at it he would hold it up on display and say, "There you be, sitting up on your hoss," and it would be a good likeness of the man riding beside him, horse and all.

Charlie couldn't tell a cow from a bull. He couldn't even drive a bed wagon or herd four horses down a lane. He was a night herder and was expected at times to assist the cook and drive the bed wagon from one camp to the next.

One of his friends tells a story about the time the roundup was camped on Blood Coulee, north of Denton. The cook sent this cowboy to get wood, which was scarce in that country. Finally he located an old cabin, the roof of which had been blown off by a high wind. Riding up to it, he threw a rope around one of the logs and urged his horse forward. Just as the log fell there was a loud yell and off went Charlie Russell, holding up his pants and running like a scared Jack rabbit.

Another story is when one of the crew had a man-sized toothache, with one side of his face so swollen he felt lopsided. There was a dentist in town and he decided to ride there for treatment, a trip of about fifteen miles. Just as he was about to take off, Russell rode up and handed him a silver dollar. "I haven't had a bath or put clean clothes on for two months," Russell said. "While you're in town get me a suit of woolen underwear and I'll clean up."

When the cowboy got his tooth pulled it hurt so bad he couldn't stand the pain. He had to have a drink so he spent the dollar for a bottle (it was cheaper then) and had a good swig from it, and a couple more on the way back to camp. He kept wondering how he would explain all of this to Charlie. He decided finally that he'd have to tell the truth no matter how much it hurt.

Charlie was asleep when the cowboy reached camp. Without waking Charlie, he held the bottle under his nose and let him breathe the aroma of the whiskey for a while. When Charlie woke up, he had such a thirst he swore he'd have died on the spot if the cowboy hadn't brought the bottle. He didn't get his bath until after round-up time that fall.

In the early days on the prairie, the roundup horses were kept at night in a corral made of a single rope stretched around the horse herd. In the morning, each cowboy went out to the rope corral to catch the horse he needed for the day's work. Some cowboy more deft with a lasso always caught Russell's horse because invariably, when Russell began swinging his rope wildly to do it himself, the whole herd stampeded, broke the rope and had to be rounded up again.

True Charles Russell wasn't a cowboy -- not an accomplished one, let's say -- but he left behind him more in the way of real art than any man who ever straddled a horse and rode the wild open spaces. His paintings of the old west are among America's greatest treasures.

This brief picture into Charles Russell's life was written by Elizabeth M. Cheney and published in the May-June, 1960 issue of True West.

If you would like to see some of his work, here is a link to Wikipedia where they display some of the impressive talent of this man.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Marion_Russell

Reflections from the Old West: How to Enjoy a Dance

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

You often hear of the lone bandit, but you seldom hear of the lone cowboy. They usually traveled in pairs, especially the bronc busters. They'd often pool their finances so one of them could bet on a horse race or get in a poker game. If one had money, they both had money, and if one was broke you could bet your bottom dollar they were both flat.

Often you'd see a long, tall, gangling peeper and a sawed-off runt, as different mentally and morally as they were physically, team together. In the spring and summer they'd go from ranch to ranch breaking horses. When that kind of work was scarce or out of season, they'd either ride chuck line or hunt jobs with the roundups.

If an outfit needed only one man, nothing doin', both had to have jobs together or they'd travel on. If one got into trouble they were both into it up to their necks regardless of right or wrong. These old cowboys would pal up 'till death do us part' or until a girl 'throwed her loop' on one of 'em, and that was worse than death to the one that was left.

Such a pair of pals used to inhabit (or infest, as the case may be) our country down on the Rio Grande. Old Slim was about six-feet-two-inches and Shorty about five-feet in his socks (if he wore such things). Once in a great while they would attend a dance. Slim didn't dance and Shorty couldn't, for in just a short time he would become paralyzed on hooch and find a vacant chair against the wall and there he'd sit and quietly dangle his feet, keeping time to the music and humming a little tune.

On one occasion, Shorty got filled to the gills and located himself a comfortable seat in a corner of the hall and Slim coiled his six-feet-two on the floor alongside his pal. Both were enjoying the affair to the utmost in spite of the various and sundry fights that were being pulled off outside. It seemed that a big husky, the bully of the community, had gotten hold of some fighting whiskey and was matching one fight after another.

After whipping several on the outside and intimidating the balance of the crowd, he decided he'd kinda clean up any irresponsible persons on the inside. He was pretty well soused and also flushed with victory. He staggered up in front of Shorty and said, ''What in hell you patting your feet for? Pipe down or I'll twist your nose." Shorty didn't realize that he was being spoken to; besides, his vision was so impaired with booze he couldn't much see past his nose, so he didn't reply, just continued to pat his foot and hum his little tune.

That enraged the cock-of-the-walk more than if Shorty had replied, so he said, ''I'll twist your nose and drag you outta here, you little dried-up shrimp." When he reached out to make good his boast, old Slim shot that fist of his up like the strike of a rattler and connected on the point of the bully's chin. The bully lit into the middle of the floor flat on his back. Such things being common occurrences, the dancers just danced around him.

Slim coiled himself back in his corner and Shorty continued patting his hand humming his toodle-do and toodle-dum. When the bully came to, he got up and shook his head like a catfish in muddy water and walked up in front of Shorty with wonderment on his face and stared at him until he attracted Shorty's attention. Shorty said to him, ''G'wan now, big boy or I'll knock you down ag'in tweedle-de de twiddle dum--'' There was no further interruption of the festivities.

Written by George Phillips in True West Magazine June, 1962

Wheelbarrow John Returns to Old Hangtown

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

The El Dorado Republican and Nugget got out a special edition in honor of the occasion of John Studebaker returning to Placerville, California, fifty-nine years after he left the gold rush town. (April 1907)

More than fifty-nine years ago a gaunt youth of nineteen stepped down from an emigrant wagon and took his first look around at the country where he had come to make a fortune. In his pocket was a lone 50-cent piece. Today a kindly-faced aged man stepped from a luxurious automobile and looked around him at the area where he had laid the foundation for his fortune. It was J.M. Studebaker returning to take perhaps his last look at the scenes of his early struggles.

The auto had drawn up in front of the Ohio House where on the wooden porch stood a score of grizzled men. As Studebaker stepped down from his auto he spied a face in the crowd. ''Hello Newt, you around here yet?" he said, by way of salutation.

"Yes, I'm here yet," answered Newton T. Spencer with his Missouri drawl, "but they call me judge now, Mr. Studebaker, ye see I'm the Justice of the Peace."

"Huh! What did you ever know about law when you and Hank Monk used to stop in the road and decide with your fists which of your stages was going to back up to let the other pass?" exclaimed Studebaker in jocular tone.

"And you, too, Charley Von Weidierwachs, where's that rip-snortin' Jayhawk, Blackhawk, Mohawk father of yours?" asked Studebaker, shaking hands with a bent figure, beneath whose black hat hung locks of silver gray.

"City clerk Weatherwax, if you please," he drew himself up with a mock show of pride, "that name bothered me worse than all tarnation, so I had to change it."

"Well, this town hasn't changed," Studebaker paused to glance about him as he shook hands with the men who were young and full of hope when he first came here.

"And where's Mike Mayer, one of the men who worked with me?" he asked.

Studebaker was told. A few minutes later he was driven up to a white painted cottage and was shown inside. His visit must be brief, he knew.

"Is that you, Wheelbarrow John?" a tremulous voice asked the question as a thin and emaciated hand came out from beneath the coverlet and groped for a hand to press in greeting.

"Yes, it's I, Mike," answered Studebaker, as he looked into the sightless eyes and drawn face of Michael Mayer.

There was feeling in his voice as Studebaker said, "I must go now, Mike."

They clasped hands for a minute more -- these two relics of the days of 1849 -- one worth millions and the other -- well, not so rich.

Before Studebaker would sit down to the banquet in honor of his return to Hangtown he must see some of the old places he knew. He saw not many. Hangtown was swept by the fire while he was here in the early days; it was destroyed again many years after he left. But the old-timers who rode alongside of him pointed out the place where he went to work for Joe Hinds to make wheelbarrows for $10 each.

The dining room of the Ohio House where the banquet was served had been elaborately decorated. The tables held bouquets of wild flowers, and the walls of the room were banked with yellow poppies against a solid background of ferns. The menu card, on which was emblazoned a picture of a man swinging from a tree, and another representing a man with overalls in boots trundling a wheelbarrow load of gold, was printed after the manner of pioneer typography, the clever imitation winning compliments for the craftsmen of the Placerville "Republican and Nugget office." The catalogue of eatables was replete with early-day references.

CHUCK LIST:

Chili Gulch Rib Warmer

Sluice Box Tailings, flavored with Chicken

High-grade Olives

Spanish Flat Onions

Cedar Ravine Radishes

Coon Hollow Pickles

Sacramento River Salmon paved with cheese

Indian diggings Spuds

Tertiary Moisture

Slab of Cow from the States

Bandana Fries with Bug-juice

Lady Canyon Chicken, Hangtown dressed

Webbertown Murphy's Shirt-tailed Bend Peas

Dead Man's Ravine Asparagus

Cemented Gravel a la emigrant Jane

Butcher Brown Fizz Water

Assorted Nuggets

Amalgam Cheese, Riffle Crackers

Mahala's Delight en tasse

Texas Hill Fruit

Pay Day Smokes

Hard Pan Smokes

The Day Old Wheezer Earned His Biscuits

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

I found this nugget from western history and thought it would be fun to share a bit of humor today.

Captain Hub Smith of the Yuma, Arizona, Territorial Prison knew a good bloodhound when he saw one, and the one he was looking at right now wasn't worth his biscuits. The captain was on a manhunt and Old Wheezer had chased off after a jack rabbit, an unforgivable sin. It was the second time that day this had happened.

"You blankety-blank idiot!" Smith fumed. "You cross between a worthless bloodhound and a bitch beagle. I'll teach you a thing or two. Hand me that club."

Old Wheezer's pitiful howls echoed out over the desert as the captain laid into him with a vengeance, but fifteen minutes later he chased off again on what was believed to be another rabbit track. No human footprints were visible in the sandy soil.

"That's the end," Smith said. "When that hound comes back, shoot him."

The dog had been given the name "Old Wheezer" because when he was on a trail, with his head down, his heavy breathing caused him to wheeze like a locomotive going up hill.

The rest of the pack chased on up the wash, confused, running every which way and finally had to be called in, the trail hopelessly lost.

The fleeing convict, a man named Cooley, apparently had made good his escape. He was armed with a rifle stolen from a guard at the penitentiary and was considered extremely dangerous. The rifle was known to have contained three cartridges. How many more Cooley had managed to get his hands on before he pulled out, no one knew.

The posse made camp and prepared for a new start in the mornng.

Throughout the night Old Wheezer, at almost regular intervals, sent his baying cry winging across the lonely desert, and this kept up until dawn.

"What do you suppose that fool's got up a tree?" Smith said, vexed. "Maybe we better go see."

"Like as not he's treed that rabbit," a guard said and everybody laughed. The remark was to become still funnier -- later.

They found Cooley sitting dejectedly in the fork of a live oak, just out of the hound's reach. He'd been there all night, he said.

"Where's that rifle you took?" Smith asked warily.

"Threw it away, Cap. What good's a rifle without ammunition? You don't think I'd let myself be treed by a hound if I'd had a cartridge left, do you?"

"What happened to your ammunition? You didn't fire at us. What did you shoot at?"

"Jack rabbits. I was skinning them and wrapping the hides around my feet to throw the dogs off. See?" He pointed down at his prison shoes around which he'd wrapped the furry pelt of a rabbit. "Fooled them all, except this old mutt."

After that Old Wheezer got his biscuits -- regularly.

Published in the Frontier Times, Spring 1969 -- Submitted by Dan King

Forever After is Released

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

I am happy to present my third story in the Paradise Pines Series. Forever After is the final story about the Benjamin Sisters. Marinda Benjamin is the youngest. Her story begins six months after her two older sisters, Darrah and Amalie, run away from home. They leave her a difficult situation to deal with.

Abandoned by her sisters, her father in jail, Marinda Benjamin takes on the care of her ailing mother the best way possible -- working for an unscrupulous man with the power to crush her. Forced to spy on a decent man, Marinda's honesty saves her virtue and revenge restores her self-respect.

When Ethan Braddock discovers his brother's poker pot cleaning his private office, he jumps to the right conclusion -- she's there to spy for his nemesis. Ethan can't help but find her irresistible. In spite of what his heart tells him, his brain reserves judgment on her character. Until he unravels the mystery of her connection to Danforth, trust is the one thing he can't allow himself. For that, she'll have to prove herself.

Marinda Benjamin won't marry until she finds the forever after kind of love. Has the man she's dreamed of loving been beside her all along?

EXCERPT:

Fulton County, Illinois August 1850

"I'll bet this little lady against whatever you've got in your hand."

A sudden hush stifled all the noise in the Hidey Hole Saloon. Master against novice. Who would win? Then quiet snickers began to echo off the wood walls. The regulars of the saloon moved in for a closer look.

Marinda Benjamin stared around at all the patrons who just witnessed her humiliation by Danforth's claim. She latched onto the back of her employer's chair to steady her crumbling nerves. Jonas Danforth had bet her, body and soul, in a card game.

Fancy women dressed in garish attire crowded around the poker table. Some stared at her with pity while a few sneered in obvious enjoyment of seeing another Benjamin sister fall from grace.

She wracked her brain for a way of preventing the ridiculous bet, but she knew Danforth held all the cards. Yet she had to stop this travesty. "Enough!" She stepped up beside his chair. "You can't do--"

The menace in Danforth's glare as he looked at her stopped her from saying more.

A malicious sneer marred his face. "As long as I hold the loan on your house, you'll do as I say. Is that clear?"

She wanted to run, but her feet refused to move. She wanted to speak her piece, as she always did, but now was not the time. So instead, she held her head high. She refused to allow Jonas Danforth to see her frustration. He had broken her father's spirit. He would not break hers.

The town's mischief-maker sat across from Danforth. Patrick Braddock glanced her way. "She looks like she might be worth five twenty-dollar gold eagles and I could use a servant. I call your bet. Let's see what ya got."

The knot in her stomach tightened.

My books are sold at Desert Breeze Publishing, Amazon and Barnes & Noble. The links to my new book are:

Amazon

http://www.amazon.com/Paradise-Pines-Forever-After-ebook/dp/B00FK8BWAO/ref=sr_1_4?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1380678155&sr=1-4&keywords=paisley+kirkpatrick

Desert Breeze

http://www.desertbreezepublishing.com/paradise-pines-forever-after-epub/

The Historic Cary House Hotel

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

The Cary House Hotel, built in 1857, still stands in Placerville, CA, and is still a functioning hotel.

This jewel, built when the gold rush town was prospering, still treats its guests to an interesting night’s sleep. During the five years I worked in the Chablis Art Gallery across the street from the hotel, I was able to make friends with the manager who graciously let me take photos inside and out, and meet one of the two most active ghosts. The hotel featured such luxuries as hot and cold running water, a novelty in its time, an elegant grand staircase, and a lobby handcrafted in mahogany and cherry woods.

Echoes from a colorful history linger in the halls of the great place. Early days provided a regular stop for stage lines that brought travelers to the gold country and returning with millions of dollars in bullion for transport to the San Francisco mint. Its wrought-iron trimmed balcony lent a great space for Horace Greely to give a speech and the world-renowned “Hangtown Fry” (oysters and scrambled eggs) was created at the Cary House by request of a miner who had struck it rich in the gold fields.

The ghost I tangled with was Stan. He lives in the lobby of the hotel.

He was the clerk at the check-in counter for many years, and he loves the place so he sticks around. In the beginning of his employment, he checked patrons in and out of the Cary House. He had a great love of liquor, especially brandy and whiskey. When he wasn’t working, he would head down to Rivendell’s Book Store where he could socialize. Back then, the store was a great place to visit with fellow patrons, and to get a drink, especially on cold damp days of winter. Stan would sneak out during his workday when no one was around, grab a drink and hurry back to the hotel.

Stan loved women, but was ignored by them. He was a short, stocky man with reddish brown hair, balding on the top and not what most people would consider a 'ladies man.' Truth be known, he also liked men somewhat. He was not really in demand by either. So, he did his job, was polite until the alcohol took affect, loved gossip and checking people out, and was known to be a bit 'mouthy' and insulting. Apparently he made a pass at a man, and the fellow stabbed him twice, and Stan fell down the stairs to his death.

My encounter with Stan happened the day I wanted to go upstairs by riding on the elevator. The wrought-iron door wouldn’t open. I tried and so did the manager.

It was no big deal as the staircase was grand and fun to walk up to the second and third floors. However, on the way down it worked perfectly. Guess old Stan was so happy to see me leaving that he gladly let me take the ride. Rumors from patrons have said they see their doorknobs turn when they retire for the night. Some believe he checks each room that has a lady guest just to make sure they are safely locked in their rooms. A television show that traveled around the country doing spots on the most haunted buildings did a twenty minute show on the ghosts in residence at Cary House.

Information from “The Incredible World of Gold Rush Ghosts”

Kit Carson A True Frontiersman

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

American frontiersman, soldier, western guide, trapper, and Indian agent

Although Carson's later career serving his country in the army and establishing relations with Native Americans was impressive, the name Kit Carson will forever bring to mind thoughts of the wild frontier and westward expansion. When America had a love affair with the untamed land west of the Mississippi River, Carson's reputation as a guide soon turned to that of legend, and the myth of Kit Carson was born.

Christopher "Kit" Carson was born in Madison County, Kentucky, on December 24, 1809. His father, Lindsey Carson, fought in the American Revolution. He married Rebecca Robinson in 1796. Kit was the sixth of ten children. When Kit was just nine years old, his father was killed in a tragic accident. Times were tough on the family and Carson never learned to read or write. At the age of fourteen he became an apprentice to a saddle maker. After less than two years, he left the saddle maker and joined a group of traders who were on their way to Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Carson's career in the West spanned from 1825 to 1868, a period of rapid national expansion, exploration, and settlement. From 1827 to 1829 young Carson spent time working as a cook, driving a wagon, interpreting Spanish, and mining copper. In August 1829 he gained invaluable experience after joining a trapping party. For the next year or so, Carson trapped animals along the streams of Arizona and southern California.

In 1831 Carson returned to New Mexico, where he immediately joined up with the experienced trapper, Thomas Fitzpatrick. They headed north into the rugged central Rocky Mountains. For the next ten years, Carson worked as a trapper all over western America in what is today known as Utah, Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho, and Montana. During the time spent in the wilderness of North America, Carson learned everything he needed to know in order to become a respected guide.

In 1836 Carson married an Arapaho Indian woman. The couple had two children, only one of whom—a daughter—survived. After his first wife died, Carson married a Cheyenne woman. The marriage did not last, and Carson took his daughter to St. Louis, Missouri, to further her education. For the next eight years, Carson split his time between his daughter in St. Louis and his trapping duties in Taos, New Mexico.

In 1842 Carson's fate arrived by steamboat when explorer John C. Frémont landed in St. Louis. Frémont came to St. Louis looking to hire the well-known guide Andrew S. Drips to lead his expedition to the Wind River in Wyoming. Unable to find Drips, Frémont chose Carson instead. From June until September, Carson guided Frémont's party west through South Pass to the Wind River Mountains and then back to Missouri. Over the next several years, Carson worked as a guide for Frémont on three expeditions through Oregon and California.

I live in the El Dorado National forest located in the Sierras,

a mountain range in California and Nevada. The views along Carson Pass are breathtaking.

Our English guests took these photos along our drive while exploring the area. The pass was named for Kit Carson.

In 1846 Carson served in California with Frémont at the outbreak of the Mexican War. During this time his duties were quite dangerous, as he carried dispatches, or messages, between command posts in enemy territory. President James K. Polk called Carson a hero and appointed him lieutenant in the mounted (on horseback) rifle regiment. However, the Senate rejected this appointment, and Carson returned to Taos.

By 1849 Carson had settled near Taos to farm and do occasional scouting for army units fighting hostile tribes. Carson also served in the Office of Indian Affairs, first as an agent and then as a superintendent of Indian affairs for the Colorado Territory. In 1854 he became the agent for several southwestern tribes. For years, Carson worked to keep peace and to ensure fair treatment of Native Americans.

While working for the Office of Indian Affairs, Carson often clashed with his superior, Territorial Governor David Meriwether. Carson disagreed with many of Meriwether's policies and thought that Native Americans were being treated unfairly. In 1856 their conflicts boiled over when Meriwether suspended Carson. Meriwether later arrested Carson, charging him with disobedience and cowardice. Carson soon apologized and got his job back working as an agent.

With the outbreak of the Civil War, Carson left his position with Indian Affairs and was soon appointed a lieutenant colonel commanding the First New Mexico Volunteer Regiment. During the war, he fought against invading Confederates at the battle of Val Verde. Carson also directed successful campaigns against the Apache and Navajo from 1862 until 1864. In his last battle he defeated the Kiowa, Comanche, and Apache tribes in the Texas panhandle. In 1865 he was appointed as brigadier general of volunteers. For the next two years he held assignments in the West until he left the army in 1867.

In 1868 Carson was appointed superintendent of Indian affairs for the Colorado Territory. He never had a chance to work in this position. He died May 23, 1868, at Fort Lyon, Colorado.

Juanita -- First White Woman Lynched in California

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

On the fourth of July, 1851, Downieville celebrated the anniversary of the birth of our republic. Tents, cabins, and buildings were decorated with flags, and hundreds of miners were in town for the event. They consumed large amounts of alcohol and presented lively speeches from a large platform in the town square. One after another, the orators proclaimed the right of liberty for all and declared all men were free.

However, something went wrong in Downieville. The next day these same people participated in one of the most shocking crimes in California history -- they allowed a frenzied mob to hang a woman without the constitutional right to a fair trial. The speeches about equality and liberty for all obviously were not meant to include women, especially of the Mexican race. The victim was Juanita, and her name will be forever linked with the area's colorful past.

Juanita (no last name was ever recorded) was considered attractive, with long, lustrous dark hair; delicate features; and passionate black eyes. She was a graceful young woman from Sonora, Mexico, who was reputed to have been a saloon girl at one time. In Downieville, however, she was considered a better class woman than the camp followers. She lived with her lover in a small cabin, and, although many men sought her favors, Juanita was content with her man, Jose.

They were a happy couple. Jose was a quiet man who dealt cards at Craycrofts' Saloon. In contrast, Juanita was noted for her hot-blooded Latin temper and brightly colored skirts. She met Jose after work every night, and they would walk home together holding hands in the moonlight.

On the day of the crime, July 5th, the Independence Day celebration had continued into the early morning hours when several of the revelers staggered from the saloons. Some were in high spirits, singing and laughing; others were drunken vandals who sent down the streets breaking open the doors of houses. Jack Cannon was one of the latter. He was a large Scotsman who was popular with the men and considered to be a camp rowdy.

On this particular morning some say Cannon fell against the door of Jose and Juanita's cabin, knocking it from its hinges. When Juanita asked Cannon to leave her alone, he called her obscene names in Spanish and accused her of being a prostitute. Juanita swore back at him and he left.

After a few hours of sleep, Cannon returned to Juanita's cabin. Jose politely asked Cannon to have his door repaired. Cannon, who was suffering from a hangover, started once more to insult both Juanita and Jose. The argument became louder, and a crowd began forming. Juanita, upset by the insults and the audience's jeers, asked Cannon to be quiet and invited him into her house to talk. At this point, it is not clear what happened. Either the large man lunged at her, or her temper became too violent. She grabbed a Bowie knife, and small and slender though she was, she managed to plunge the knife into Cannon's chest, instantly killing him.

The stunned spectators, realizing their friend was dead, started yelling. "Lynch them!" In fear, Juanita and Jose ran to Craycroft's where they thought they would find protection. The angry mob surrounded the saloon, and the couple's defenders were forced to run for their own lives. There was no escape for Juanita. She was dragged to the main plaza and forced upon the same platform where the public speeches were heard the day before. Cannon's body, with its ugly wound, was placed nearby to inflame the crowd.

The scene was set for a mock trial. The crowd's mood became uglier as the trial continued. Juanita was found guilty and sentenced to death by hanging within the hour and denied the solace of a priest. They took the trembling 22-year old woman to a nearby cabin to wait for her death. Alone I the cabin, it can be assumed she prayed for forgiveness and the courage to accept her fate.

A rope was hung from the top of ta bridge, beneath it a plant swung out over the river. Townspeople lined the streets to see the hanging. The air was hot, and empty whiskey barrels still lay on the ground from the night before.

Juanita was taken from her cabin, and with her head held high, she bravely faced the crowd. She took the noose in her own hands and placed it around her neck. They tied her arms, skirt, and feet together -- within seconds Juanita was dead. It will never be known if she was guilty or innocent. She was the first woman who was denied the right of a trial. She was buried next to Cannon, and the legend of her hanging lives on.

Photo of Downieville at present.

Women of the Sierra by Anne Seagraves

Gold Rush Buildings of Stone and Bricks

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

During the 1849 gold rush, mining camps started as a cluster of tents and other makeshift shelters. If the mine became productive, wooden buildings were erected and a town was born.

Fires were a recurring curse. Often entire towns were repeatedly destroyed by fire. Stonemasons, especially Italian immigrants from Liguria, began building "fire proof" banks and stores of stone or brick with iron doors and iron window shutters to protect the contents from fire. Many of these stone buildings still survive. The Cary House in downtown Placerville, California is one of those buildings with the huge iron doors that were closed and saved the building more than once from burning.

The Placerville Soda Works, also referred to as the Pearson Soda Works Building, is another classic Gold Rush structure and perhaps the most interesting building in town. It was built in stages, a mixture of fieldstone, rectangular blocks, bricks, and assorted rubble. John McFarland Pearson, a Scotsman, arrived in Placerville during the early 1850’s and built the lower portion of this building in 1859, with walls twenty-two inches thick.

Pearson was an ice merchant. He would cut ice from mountain lakes, haul them into town by horse and wagon, and then sell the blocks to the various places that had need of ice. He then branched out into the soda business, producing soda water, cream soda, and syrups which he sold to the townsfolk. Spring water was carbonated, bottled and sold to the miners. The soda water was an important product as the river and creeks were polluted from mining activities which made that source of water unsafe to drink. Pearson’s sons added the brick second story in 1897 for use as a bottling room.

Several interesting features are incorporated into this unique structure. Underground rooms, mine tunnels used to store ice and soda, iron doors which help support part of the upper floor, and a water driven elevator which once transported the heavy cases of soda from the bottling room to the storage areas all combine to create one of the most unusual buildings of the Gold Rush. This property is a significant reminder of one of the city's important 19th century economic activities. The building of Victorian architecture is a notable local example of its type and method of construction, with an 1859 lower story of cut stone and an 1897 upper story of stone and brick; it remains as one of the city's oldest commercial buildings without major alterations.

Sierra Nevada Phillips

A Woman Called 'Vade'

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

Sierra Nevada Phillips was an energetic woman called Vade. She was a lady with a warm natural personality who did not know the meaning of the word 'impossible.' During her lifetime, Vade owned and operated many popular resorts in the Sierra. She was one of the best cooks in the area and had a large clientele who followed her wherever she went.

Vade and her parents left their home in Vermont in 1851 and traveled to the gold fields of California via the Panama route. The couple tried mining and then moved to El Dorado County, where they purchased 160 acres of beautiful meadowland near the American River. There was a heavy flow of traffic along the Great Bonanza Road to the Comstock, and in 1863, they built a two-and-one-half-story resort on their property. It was called Phillips Station and became one of the busiest stations along the dirt thoroughfare.

Vade learned to cook from her mother who had the reputation of preparing fine meals. She was determined to be the best cook in the Sierra, which proved to be true after she cooked her first meal one night when her mother wasn't available.

In 1884, she bought the primitive Rubicon Resort and Springs from the Hunsucker brothers, who were unable to cope with the heavy flow of guests. It was located in a wild, remote area with views, and a road that was little more than a mountainous trail. All her supplies had to be brought in by pack mule from barges on Lake Tahoe. Rebuilding the dilapidated resort was a difficult task. Vade, however, was a determined woman, and within three years she managed to erect a new and comfortable two-and-one-half-story hotel in the wilderness.

The establishment had 16 rooms, with curtains at the windows and an elegant parlor with fine furnishings. She renamed the resort, Rubicon Mineral Springs Hotel and Resort, and advertised the mineral water which was said to be 'better than whiskey.' Health seekers flocked in over the hazardous trail, and Vade added cabins and tents. The Rubicon spa was very popular with the wealthy Comstockers, and as the traffic increased, Vade realized the need for a better route to the springs. She went to El Dorado County and persuaded them to build a road to Rubicon. She sold the resort and moved back to her roots.

It took her a year to rebuild Phillips Station into a full-fledged resort with cabins, general store, cocktail lounge and campground. Phillips flourished and became known from coast to coast. The resort catered to families, and many returned every summer. In fact, some came so often that the cabins were named for various families. Among the notable guests listed in the register are former Secretary of State Frank Jordon and former Defense Secretary Robert McNamara, who was 12 years old at the time.

Vade had also been a postmistress all of her life. Wherever she went she opened a post office. When Phillips reopened, she went to the postmaster in Placerville requesting a post office for the old station. The name Phillips was taken by another location, so he told her to just call it 'Vade.'

Sierra Nevada Phillips died at 67, in 1921. She was one of the most dynamic women the Sierra had known. During her active lifetime, she went through the horse and buggy era into the mechanical age of today. And, although Phillips Station has been gone for years, a woman called Vade, who was respected throughout the Sierra, as Mrs. Hospitality, is fondly remembered.

Women of the Sierra by Anne Seagraves

The Wild West Meets the Old South

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

Doc Holliday being in love with Melanie Wilkes from Gone With the Wind -- legend and literature come together.

When John Henry Holliday was a young man, he and his cousin Mattie Holliday were best of friends. During their teen years the friendship turned to a romance. Because they were first cousins, family members pressured them to end their involvement. Some folks say it was their tragic love affair that sent him West and her into a convent.

Doc and Mattie became close friends after Doc's father remarried just three months after his wife died. Doc was 14 at the time and gravitated toward his uncle, which would have given him more opportunities to see Cousin Mattie. Ten years after Doc left Georgia Mattie entered a convent and became Sister Mary Melanie. Mattie corresponded with Doc all of his life, but ultimately burned the letters exchanged by the two of them after his death.

Mattie's uncle was Margaret Mitchell's great grandfather. Years later, Mattie Holliday became a nun and took the name Sister Melanie. That was how she was known when Margaret Mitchell visited with her as an old woman at St. Joseph's Infirmary in Atlanta, Georgia. Mitchell is said to have asked her if she could name a character after her in the story she was writing, to which Sister Melanie replied, ''Just make her a good person."

Several years ago I was fortunate enough to take a tour through Margaret Mitchell's home in Atlanta. The docent pointed out two photos hanging on the wall -- one was Mattie and the other Doc. All of us tourists appeared surprised to hear of this love affair and how it had such a lasting effect on the two of them. Some have said that losing the love of his life might have contributed to his alcoholism.

For some reason I cannot understand, this story left an everlasting impression on me. How strange a man who became known as a fast gun of the west had loved a gentle lady who became a nun.

http://www.amazon.com/Paradise-Pines-Book-One-ebook/dp/B00909PON0/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1359675254&sr=1-1&keywords=paisley+kirkpatrick

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/paradise-pines-book-one-paisley-kirkpatrick/1112576086?ean=2940014889667

BLURB: Sassy Amalie Renard, a poker-playing saloon singer, shakes up Paradise Pines, a former gold-rush mountain community by turning the saloon’s bar into her stage. Her amazing voice stirs the passions of the hotel owner, a man who anonymously travels tunnels at night providing help to the downtrodden as the mysterious Night Angel. Declan Grainger agrees to subsidize the building of a music hall to fulfill Amalie's dream, but a bounty for her arrest could spoil his plans. Distrust and jealousy stir flames of malice and revenge threatening to destroy their town. Drawing from past experiences, Declan and Amalie turn to each other to find a way to save the community.

An ebook copy of Night Angel will be given to one visitor who comments. Please leave an email address.

Paradise Pines Series: Marriage Bargain will be released March 21, 2013

BLURB: The dusty trail of a wagon train leads west, but Darrah Benjamin finds it a pathway to love and forgiveness when an arranged marriage becomes much more than a convenience. Wagon scout Chase challenges her determination with his promise -- she’ll give him her heart and invite him to her bed before they arrive at their destination. Darrah will shape her own destiny and claim a woman’s spirit along the way. Charles Danforth, a scout known as Chase, leads a wagon train of emigrants west through plains plundered by murderers. As an undercover agent of President Polk, he has sworn to stop the massacres. Darrah's inadvertent comment gives him the clue he needs to achieve his assignment. His Sioux blood brother helps Chase end the killings, but almost ruins Chase’s chance of winning Darrah’s heart when he kidnaps her to demonstrate the depth of love Chase has for his wife.

An Encounter With The Bowie Knife

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

In 1858 Xavier Eyma published a short story about encountering James Bowie while traveling the United States. Since the hero in my first story, Night Angel, also carried this same knife, I found the encounter very interesting.

One day while traveling the U.S. Eyma found himself in a carriage with three people: a lady, her husband, and a third individual who was wrapped in a cloak and apparently sound asleep. Suddenly an enormous Kentuckian got into the coach. He was smoking a cigar and he cast a glance around him that seemed to say: ''I am half hoss and half alligator, a true son of Kentucky, flower of the forests."

The he puffed out thick clouds of smoke, without any regard for his fellow travelers, and especially for the young lady whom the smoke very evidently made sick. Thus the husband courteously asked the Kentuckian to stop smoking. The latter replied: ''I have paid for my seat. I shall smoke as much as I please, and nobody in the world shall stop me."

After saying this, he rolled his eyes fiercely and looked around him with a provocative air as if daring anyone to counter reply.

Eyma hesitated a moment, wondering whether he should intervene, but realized he would have little chance against such an athletic adversary, and thought of the impotence of the law which offered no recourse against him.

It was then the traveler, who had been asleep, calmly unwrapped his cloak and sat up straight. He was a man of medium size, rather frail looking, buttoned from top to bottom. He fixed two piercing gray eyes on the Kentuckian and before pronouncing a single word, reached behind his neck and drew out a long knife, sharp as a razor. ''Sir,'' he said to the Kentuckian, ''my name is Colonel James Bowie well known, I believe, in Arkansas and Louisiana. If, within one minute you do not throw your cigar out of the window, I shall stick this knife into your belly just as true as I am going to die someday."

The strange expression in Colonel Bowie's glance was something magnetic and fascinating. The Kentuckian bore it for a few seconds and then he lowered his eyes, took the cigar from his mouth and threw it out of the window.

Colonel Bowie then restored his knife to its peculiar sheath between his shoulders, wrapped himself in his cloak, closed his eyes, went to sleep, and did not say another word during the whole trip.

Since that time, Colonel Bowie's weapon has acquired a sinister celebrity, and its use has become too frequent in the U.S. If on one occasion, that terrible knife performed the good deed of teaching manners to a coarse Kentuckian, it has since then created many mayors, aldermen, and judges. It has become the last argument in many elections in the U.S.A.

Written by Robert E. Pike, found in the May-June, 1955, True West magazine.

Little Known Fort Churchill

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

One of my friends recently visited Fort Churchill. I was intrigued by the buildings making up this fort and thought to share them with you and give you a little bit of history. I live over the mountain from Carson City, Nevada, and had never heard of this place before. It was small, but seems to have had an integral part in our history. Talk of Indian atrocities at Williams Station, a Carson River outpost located 30 miles east of Carson City, filtered back to settlers in the Carson Valley. Because of the fear of impending attacks, the settlers demanded immediate protection.

The so-called Pyramid Lake War began on May 12, 1860, when three white men living at Williams Station kidnapped and held two Indian girls prisoner. Their action and refusal to release the girls led to reprisals. Indians killed the three men, released the girls and burned the station. Because rumors exaggerated the number of whites killed and the number of Paiutes thought ready to move against white settlements, hasty and ill-conceived plans resulted in the movement of 105 volunteers to Pyramid Lake to avenge the deaths of the white men.

The out-numbered whites suffered a major defeat in the battle that followed. They lost two-thirds of their original force. The Indians' momentous victory led to immediate white retaliation. Urgent calls went out to California for regular armed troops. The troops, bolstered by additional volunteers, moved against the Indian forces in early June. In this second battle, the out-numbered Indians were forced to retreat. Casualty reports ranged from four to 160 Indians killed while only two whites died.

Captain Joseph Stewart and His Carson River Expedition were then ordered to establish a post on the Carson River. Starting July 20, 1860, tens of thousands of dollars were spent to construct Fort Churchill, the desert outpost that guarded the Pony Express run and other mail routes. Between expeditions against the Indians, hundreds of soldiers were based there.

The fort was named in honor of Sylvester Churchill, the Inspector General of the U.S. Army. It was built as a permanent installation. Adobe buildings were erected on stone foundations in the form of a square, facing a central parade ground. The Civil War made the fort an important supply depot for the Nevada Military District and as a base for troops patrolling the overland routes.

The fort was abandoned in 1869, and the adobe buildings were auctioned for only $750. In 1884, the remains of soldiers buried in the post cemetery were moved to Carson City. The remaining graves are those of the Buckland family, pioneer ranchers who sold supplies to the fort.

Fort Churchill sits at an elevation of 4,250 feet and is flanked on the south by rolling desert hills and higher areas of the Pine Nut Range. The Carson River originates in the Sierra Nevada Mountains to the west. It forms the major water resource in the area and is the only perennial source of surface water near the fort.

Photos by Judy Newberry Ashley

Five Hundred Dollar Reward

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

Wells, Fargo & Co. Will pay Five Hundred Dollars for the arrest and conviction of the robber who stopped the Quincy Stage and demanded the Treasury Box, on Tuesday afternoon, August 17th, near the old Live Yankee Ranch, about 17 miles above Oroville. By order of J. J. Valentine, Gen'l Supt., Rideout, Smith & Co., Agents. Oroville, August 18, 1875.

Old-timer's say Black Bart was a courteous and jovial fellow who would rise early, eat a hardy breakfast in the hotel dining salon, and take his usual stroll through town, tipping his fancy felt derby to the ladies. On occasion he would walk to the Ohio Stables on the corner of Huntoon and Miners Alley to rent a horse for the day or so. Unbeknown to Mr. Stevens, the proprietor, he was fanning the countryside reconnoitering for his next daring performance, commencing with the dramatic line: ”Throw down the box!"

Black Bart's favorite hangout was in the smoke-filled poker hall over Sam Mullen's Gem Saloon. It was there that Bart accumulated the latest news about various gold shipments. As the story goes, he was a frequent loser. As it turned out he was laying the groundwork for much higher stakes, for he was of the opinion that a man who was winning at cards was much freer with his conversation than one who was losing. Once again he preferred a table close to the back window for easy access over the rooftops and down into the relative safety of Miners Alley.

Black Bart spent approximately three months in Oroville at a time. Then he would bid adieu for parts unknown. He invariably returned about three months later for a similar period of time. Gradually he became one of the most respected men about town. The rumor went that he was a prominent San Francisco investor who came to look over private mining interests in the territory. He was invited to many of the town's gala affairs and was intimate with practically every citizen of consequence.

Bart was also known as an intellectual, for he spent much of his time reading in the little volunteer library which was set up by the ladies of Oroville at the Union Hotel. In fact, so well informed was he on literature that he was asked by the ladies to serve on their committee, an honor which he graciously accepted. Imagine the shock in 1883 when his picture was circulated in Oroville with the following caption beneath: ”Black Bart--Notorious Outlaw Is Finally Captured!" Chagrin must have filled every corner of the ladies' committee room as they endeavored to replace their departed member.

After his release from San Quentin for good behavior, Black Bart returned to Oroville, where he was received with open arms--a hero no less, for robbing Wells Fargo express boxes was no small achievement, especially when it was done with an empty gun. Already he was legend, and Orovillains delighted in the fact that such a character was an integral part of their fabulous history. Nonetheless, the sheriff did keep close tabs on Bart's activities when he paid the town a visit. However, most were convinced that Mr. Boles, as he was now called, would live up to his words, given in reply to a reporter who questioned him about his literary career: ”Young man, didn't you hear me say I would commit no more crimes?"

A few weeks after his last visit to Oroville Mr. Boles disappeared from the annals of the West and was never heard from again. Even Wells Fargo, reputedly to have placed him on a small pension to avoid further embarrassments, could not locate his whereabouts.

True West June, 1955