Always a pioneer, he joined the gold rush to the Klondike. He was killed at Skagway, later, by a bully in the pay of the “Vigilance Committee.”
After the robbery Sanc disappeared, and it was long till I saw him again. I decided to leave Denver. I owed them fifteen days on the chain gang, and had no wish to pay by shoveling snow in the streets. I bought a ticket to Butte, Montana, regretting the money but not caring to “hit the road” in the dead of winter across half a dozen of the coldest states in the Union. I did it in after years, but it was from necessity—not choice.
Butte was never a “Wild West” town in the accepted sense. Cowboys were seldom seen. Miners and gamblers ruled the town. The miners were orderly, hard workers, deep drinkers, and fair fighters. They had none of the cheap, shouldering swagger of the “gold-rush” miner. Nearly everybody owned a gun, but the bullying, gun-toting, would-be bad men and killers never flourished in Butte. When one of them got peeved and started to lug out his “cannon” some hard-fisted miner beefed him like an ox with a fast one to the jaw, and kicked his “gat” out into the street where small boys scrambled for it.
The mines were worked by Irishmen and “Cousin Jacks” (Cornishmen), who settled their differences with good, solid blows and despised the use of weapons. Gambling flourished and was licensed in Montana by an act of legislature. The possession of any crooked gambling device was a felony. Consequently the cheap cheaters and tinhorn, shoestring gamblers never got a footing there. Many of the faro dealers never made a bet of their own money, and many professional players were married men, who looked after their families faithfully, feeding and educating their children with money honestly and systematically won over the faro layouts. Everybody gambled. Messenger boys stopped to make a bet. The copper on the beat would walk in and bet “two and a half to win breakfast money.” If he won his “two and a half” he went out satisfied. If he lost it, he got “stuck,” forgot all about his beat, sat down, and “played in” his bankroll.
The town boasted of an all-night barber shop and a clothing store that never closed, for the convenience of late-at-night winners who couldn’t hold on to their winnings till morning.
As I watched a game my first night in Butte, a seedy, torn-out looking chap stepped up to the layout and made a bet. He won it, and, expertly shifting his checks about, won a dozen more bets before the deal closed. “Gimme money,” he said to the dealer, pushing his checks in, “I’m going to get dressed up this time.” He took off his rusty derby hat and tore the crown out of it. Putting his hands behind him, he grasped the tails of his frock coat and with a jerk ripped it up the back clear to the collar. Money in hand he sought the all-night store, and came back in an hour, spick and span from head to heel.
I experimented and soon laid a solid foundation for the faro-bank habit which fastened on me later and kept me broke for years.
Another night a player at the table who had lost steadily for an hour placed his last stack of checks on a card, saying to the dealer, “Turn the cards, Sam, that’s the last button on Gabe’s coat.” The cards were turned and the player lost.
As he was leaving, I looked at him closer, and was sure I knew him. I got up and stuck my hand out to him. He took it curiously. “You are George,” I said, “the gentleman who made my fight in the Kansas City jail the night of my first ‘pinch.’”