I do not mean that if a beautiful lady should whisper gently to one of the youthful sons of the Sagebrush: "I am afraid to go home in the dark," the gentleman would ring for a messenger boy as an escort, or call a taxi; and if she sighed for sympathy and a stroll by the Truckee, he would think that she needed a doctor, or a nerve specialist. …. The sons of the Sagebrush are not cold-hearted, nor are they lacking in courtesy of any sort, but to use a Western expression, they possess a large percentage of "horse sense!" Meaning, that they are not wearing their hearts on their sleeves these days….
One of the most interesting and unassuming gentlemen I met in the "big little city" was Mr. George Wingfield. I had made up my mind to that effect long before he was introduced to me because I had seen his beautiful home on the banks of the Truckee, and his beautiful bank building on the corner of Second and Virginia streets (the Reno National Bank, which I have described in Part 5), and had visited his ranch, and admired his string of thoroughbred horses and high-class stock. I had also been told how this gentleman had made his fortune almost over night, so to speak, during the big gold boom, and I liked him for staying right there and spending the gold in the State whence it came. He did not take his riches and go away, as so many of them have done, but he helped to build a beautiful city, and there it is that he made his home.
I was rather surprised to find that Mr. Wingfield was not a native son, but hailed from Arkansas: also, I was disappointed in this gentleman's appearance, having been told that he was a resident of the West, when the West was really "wild and woolly," and full of gold and other things…. I expected him to be a much older man, and have not quite forgiven him for not being at least six feet six, with cold steel-blue piercing eyes, gray hair at the temples and a face furrowed with strong character lines.
That was the sort of mental picture I had made of him when a friend told me of his experiences in the mining camp during a big strike of the miners. They were shooting up the town in real Western style, and many of them had been heard to swear that they would have Wingfield's life. He might well have taken his departure, but he did not: he was strong and relentless and knew no fear, though I am told he ate his meals in a restaurant where the walls were covered with mirrors, with his back to the wall, and a six-shooter on each side of his plate. Rather thrilling, to say the least.
So far, Mr. Wingfield has not found it necessary to take advantage of the liberal divorce laws of the State: his beautiful home, charming and accomplished wife, and lovely children account for that.
Somehow Mr. Wingfield's experience in Nevada and the gold mines brings to my mind a poem from Robert W. Service's "Spell of the Yukon," of which I am very fond:
"This is the law of the Yukon,
and ever she makes it plain;
Send not your foolish and feeble;
send me your strong and your sane—
Strong for the red rage of battle;
sane, for I harry them sore;
Send me men grit for the combat;
men who are grit to the core…."
It would be difficult to name a citizen of Nevada more popular with his fellow-men or enjoying to a greater degree the confidence and trust of those with whom he is associated than H. J. Gosse, proprietor and manager of the Riverside Hotel of Reno.
The colony has a real friend in H. J. Gosse, who is certainly an exponent of joy, giving optimism to the lonely wanderer who may find himself domiciled under the roof of the Riverside Hotel where the splendid personality of this old pioneer reigns supreme.
Mr. Gosse's parents crossed the plains with an ox-team from New
Orleans to California way back in '49. In 1862 the family moved to
Silver City, then a lively mining town.