We got out our first issue Monday, and I feel a great deal better. It has been the dream of my life to have a daily paper, and we have got one now that is all wool and as wide as the press will print. I have this line under the heading:
“Polities: Free Coinage; Religion: Creede.”
I think that line will last. It is what we must live for and hope for. Of course, we expect to lose money for a few months; but if the camp continues to grow, the Chronicle Publishing Company will be a good venture. There are many hardships to be endured in a mining camp. The printers had to stand in an uncovered house and set type while the snow drifted around their collars. They held a meeting in the rear office Sunday, organized a printers’ union, fixed a schedule to suit themselves—fifty cents a thousand; and, in order that I might not feel lonely, I was made an honorary member of the union.
Mr. George W. Childs was taken in at the same time. My salary is to be fifty dollars a week; but I don’t intend to draw my salary until the paper is on a paying basis.
We have not got our motor in place yet, and I had to pay two Mexicans twelve dollars for turning the press the first night. Coal is ten dollars a ton; coal oil sixty cents a gallon. We use a ton of coal every twenty-four hours and five gallons of oil every night. It was a novel sight to see the newsboys running here and there through the willows, climbing up the steep sides of the gulch to the tents and cabins crying “Morning Chronicle!” where the mountain lion and the grizzly bear had their homes but six months ago. The interesting feature in the first issue is a three-column account of Gambler Joe Simmons’ funeral. It tells how the gang stood at the grave and drank “To Joe’s soul over there—if there is any over there.”
Yours always,
Cy Warman.
IV.
Creede, Colo., March 28, 1892.