The country around there was very brushy and rough. I tore into that brush like a rabbit and run until I fell down and I just laid still, hoping he wouldn’t find me. I heard him go by me. I think he missed me about three feet and went on by. He must have been gone about an hour—I heard him coming back and he walked right up to where I was lying. He said, “I am the sheriff. Get up. I want you.” Boy, was I scared! He put one handcuff on my wrist and led me back to the buggy. My stepfather had sent him after me.
I have never had any handcuffs on since but I sure suffered agony that day. They had to drive about 15 miles to the railroad to get a train to take me back home and I begged the sheriff to take the handcuffs off, as the thoughts of them scared me to death. The sheriff was a kindly man and I know he felt sorry for me and was going to take them off—but I heard the driver tell him, “That kid is going to give you the slip if you turn him loose and we never will catch him again, and he sure can run like hell.” It was a livery stable team and driver that the sheriff had hired to go after me, and I guess they didn’t want to waste anymore time chasing me. But the sheriff did take the cuffs off when we got to town and took me to dinner and treated me fine, but told me if I tried to run away he would put me in jail. That cooked me ... I stayed close to him all day so he wouldn’t think I was trying to get away.
When I landed back home I had quite a score to settle with my folks for running away. They kept me under pretty close guard for awhile but finally put me back to herding cattle—but they did not give me a horse to ride anymore. I had to walk, as my stepfather knew there was less chance of me running away if I had to walk.
My mother tried to make peace between the old man and myself but never made much headway, as we both hated each other. He was a comical-looking little Irishman—I was quite a mimic and was always making fun of him behind his back to the other kids. One day he caught me at it and it sure made him mad and he gave me a good beating, which didn’t help my feelings towards him. So I used to job him every chance I got and I guess I made life about as miserable for him as he did for me.
CHAPTER II
BLACK HILLS OF SOUTH DAKOTA (1878 to 1885)
In 1879 my folks came across the plains from Fort Pierre to the Black Hills and the first town we came to, of any size, was Scooptown and from there to Deadwood was mostly mountains and several toll gates. It cost a dollar to go through those places—that meant the people that kept those gates kept the road repaired so it would be passable—but those roads were sure tough. I remember when we drove our team up the street of Deadwood the mud was about two feet deep and we could hardly get through, as Deadwood was one street about a mile long in a deep canyon. It was laid out in three sections: first Elizabeth Town, Chinatown and then Deadwood proper. We camped in Elizabeth Town for several weeks—lived in a tent.
It was a great sight at that time around the old Gem Theatre, which was a big dance hall and gambling house. There was no law prohibiting minors from going into those places and I sure got an eyeful! The first unusual sight I remember was seeing a woman with a black and swollen eye. And in most of those dives there were women dealing faro bank and poker—and I was fascinated with the names they went by. There was Big Gussie, who was Bed Rock Tom’s common-law wife. She was considered a very capable gambler and would take and pay all bets as cool and calm as a bank teller—and just as accurate.
I used to admire those old characters. There was Colorado Johnny, Tom Allen, Deaf Jimmie and several others ... I have forgotten their names. Those men were all faro dealers—and wore long whiskers ... and the barbers sure got well paid to keep those whiskers in perfect style—and the fine clothes and jewelry they wore must have cost a small fortune.
As I remember there was 28 legitimate faro banks in town about that time, besides several questionable ones. Those games had a limit in the amount you could bet on the turn of a card, which was usually $12.50 and $25.00, but one or two houses had $125.00 and $250.00 limit—that means you can only bet the low limit where there is only one card left in the deck to act. You can bet it to win or lose. Most everybody played faro them days—but I believe the Chinaman was the greatest gambler of them all. About 11 o’clock at night was their favorite time to start out to gamble. They would put on their best clothes—which was the very finest of goods them days—white socks, silk top shoes, and they would leave Chinatown for the white man’s game. I have seen 25 of them, dressed this way, one behind the other heading for the faro game—and they sounded like a bunch of geese honking to each other in their talk. They liked to all get around one gambling table and if one of them seemed to be lucky, the rest of them would follow him with their bets. In fact, it seemed to be a kind of a system they had—and often they would win several thousand dollars in a night.
While we were living in Deadwood, there was an old man kept a little grocery store close to where we were camped, and an old Irish woman kept a boarding house nearby. It was hard to get white sugar most of the time, and the people had to use brown sugar, which came in barrels, and when the weather was damp and rainy that sugar seemed to draw moisture and got quite heavy. And each time the old lady got sugar she accused the old man of putting water in it to make it weigh more. One morning he saw her coming. He got a bucket of water and was standing by the barrel when she walked in. She ran up to him and stuck her first in his face and said, “I caught you at last—I always knew you were watering that sugar!” She didn’t make much fuss about it afterwards. She seemed pleased to know she had caught him and that her suspicions had proved to be right.