He was very fond of hunting, and when not engaged in mining or prospecting he was ranging the mountains and valleys in search of deer, antelope, and mountain sheep. He was interested in nearly all the enterprises of the early Johntown and Gold Hill mines but missed being in the Ophir at the time of the discovery of silver, having sold his interest in the Six-mile Cañon diggings the previous season.
He was killed in the town of Dayton, in July, 1861, by being thrown from a “bucking” mustang that he was trying to ride while a good deal under the influence of liquor. He was pitched head first upon the ground, suffered a fracture of the skull, and died in a few hours. At the time of his death he was possessed of about $3,000 in coin and had been talking of returning soon to his native State.
I one day met a Piute Indian in Virginia City who recollected both Comstock and Old Virginia very well. Fifteen or twenty stalwart Indians, who had been engaged at driving wood and timber on the Carson River, had visited Virginia for the purpose of expending their earnings in the purchase of blankets and other staples. Among the number was an Indian who appeared to be forty-five or fifty years of age. Something that he said about the changed appearance of the place induced me to ask him how long he had known the town.
“Well,” said he, speaking pretty fair English, “long time. When me first come here, no house here; all sagebrush. Me work here first time me come for Old Birginey (Old Virginia). Yes; me work for Old Birginey down in Six-mile Cañyum.”
“At mining?” I asked.
“Yes; minin’. Me heap pull um rocker. Me that time know Comstock—Ole Comstock. You Sabe him?”
“Yes;” said I, “have seen him. He is dead now. Got broke, up in Montana; bad luck all the time; got crazy and shot himself through the head with a pistol.”[pistol.”]
“Hum! Ole Comstock dead,” said the old warrior musingly, “dead! Well, Ole Comstock owe me fifty-five dollar. That money gone now. Well, same way Ole Birginey. He owe me forty-five dollar when he die.”
“How did he die?” I asked.
“Well, you see he die down to Dayton long time ago. Ole Birginey he all time drink too much whisky. One day he bully drunk, he get on pony; pony he run, he buck one bully buck and Ole Birginey go over pony head. One foot stay in stirrup and pony drag ole man on ground and kill him. Me help dig one grave, bury Ole Birginey, down Dayton, by Carson River. Well, well,” said the old redskin, reflectively, “hoss kill um Ole Birginey, Comstock he kill heself. Comstock owe me fifty-five dollar; Ole Birginey owe me forty-five dollar! Me think,” shaking his head, “maybe both time too much whisky!” The sage old Piute was mistaken as regarded Comstock; he was a man who drank but little.