WHEN THE WEST
WAS YOUNG

John Slaughter was gathering a great herd

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

The writer is indebted for the material in this book to a goodly number of the old-timers, from whose lips came much of which is written in the following pages, and to numerous printed works which he consulted, sometimes to authenticate data and sometimes to get additional facts.

Among the former to whom he wishes to make acknowledgment are: Former Sheriff John Ralphs, San Bernardino, California; Captain Harry C. Wheeler, Douglas, Arizona; A. M. Franklin, Tucson, Arizona; Colonel William Breckenbridge, Tucson, Arizona; Dr. D. T. MacDougal, Carnegie Institution; William Lutley, Tombstone, Arizona; Judge Duncan, Tombstone, Arizona; A. H. Gardner, Tombstone, Arizona; C. M. Cummings, Tombstone, Arizona; Andy Smith, Tucson, Arizona; Guy C. Welch, Tombstone, Arizona; Mr. and Mrs. John Slaughter, Douglas, Arizona; James East, Douglas, Arizona; Horace Stillman, Douglas, Arizona; D. F. McCarthy, Lipscomb, Texas; and the Arizona Pioneers’ Association.

Among the latter are old files of the “Tombstone Epitaph” and other Arizona newspapers; Manley’s “Death Valley in ’49”; Upton’s “Pioneers of Eldorado”; Ridge’s “Life of Joaquin Murieta”; Dukes’ “Famous Criminal Cases”; Farish’s “History of Arizona”; McClintock’s “History of Arizona”; Hittel’s “History of California”; Bancroft’s Works; Visscher’s “Pony Express”; G. D. Bradley’s “Story of the Pony Express”; “Overland Stage to California,” by F. A. Root and W. E. Connely; Inman’s “Santa Fé Trail”; Humphreyville’s “Twenty Years Among Our Hostile Indians”; Richardson’s “Beyond the Mississippi”; Bourke’s “On the Border With Crook”; J. Ross Brown’s “Adventures in the Apache Country”; Charles Siringo’s “History of Billy the Kid”; Bard’s “Life of Billy Dixon, Scout and Plainsman”; Brown’s “History of Texas.”

CONTENTS

WHEN THE WEST
WAS YOUNG

There were three of us sitting on a pile of lumber in a sun-baked little mining town down near the Arizona border. One of my companions was the sheriff of the county and the other was an old man with snowy beard and sky-blue eyes whom every one called “Mac.” To look at him was to behold a vision of the past.

As we were whiling away the time with idle talk something was said which aroused the spirit of reminiscence within this survivor of the unfenced West. He closed his jack-knife with a snap, threw away a pine stick from which he had been peeling shavings, and turning his sky-blue eyes on the sheriff, “I remember––” he began.

After which he told of cheating Death in quicksand fords, of day-long battles with naked Apaches in the malapi, of fighting off bandits from the stage while the driver kept the horses on a run up Dragoon Pass, of grim old ranchmen stalking cattle-thieves by night, of frontier sheriffs and desperadoes and a wilderness that was more savage than the wild riders who sought sanctuary within its arid solitudes. He did not talk for more than forty-five minutes at the most and the words 4 came slowly from his lips, but when he had done my head was spinning from more visions of bold men and large deeds than it had held since the Christmas night when I reeled off to bed after bolting a full half of the “Boy’s Froissart.”

And after that old man had sauntered away in the hot-white Arizona sunshine I thought of other grizzled chroniclers to whom I had listened in other parts of the West. Some of their tales came back to me, straightforward simple stories of the days before the farmers, barbed-wire fences, and branch railroad lines; and I marveled at the richness of a lore whose plain