Bob carefully committed to writing the invoice verbally furnished.
“Now,” said he, putting the memorandum in his pocket, “I’ll hold you responsible for all these traps—the whole outfit. You’ve got to close up and get out of this without any delay. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to do it in. You must then deliver everything safe into my hands.”
The unfortunate saloon-keeper knew that the law as administered in that mountain town would afford him no redress. He also knew that to refuse compliance with the demand of Cherokee Bob, however unjust, would precipitate a quarrel which would probably cost him his life. So when Bob, accompanied by two or three confederates, came the next morning to the saloon to take possession, he was prepared to submit to the imposition without resistance. Walking within the bar, Cherokee Bob emptied the money drawer and gave the contents to his victim. He then invited his friends to drink to the success of the new “outfit,” and finding himself in undisturbed occupancy, increased the amount of his gift to the man he had expelled to several hundred dollars. This was the manner in which he became, as Cynthia said, “settled in business.”
CHAPTER VI
FLORENCE
Florence was now the established headquarters of the robbers. Its isolated location, its distance from the seat of government, its mountain surroundings, and, more than all, its utter destitution of power to enforce law and order, gave it peculiar fitness as a base for the criminal and bloody operations of the desperate gang which infested it. At all hours of the day and night some of them were to be seen at the two saloons kept by Cherokee Bob and Cyrus Skinner. When one company disappeared another took its place, and at no time were there less than twenty or thirty of these desperadoes at one or both of their haunts, plotting and contriving deeds of plunder and robbery which involved the hard earnings, possibly the lives, of many of the fortunate miners of the vicinity. The crowd from both East and West had arrived. The town was full of gold hunters. Expectation lighted up the countenance of every newcomer. Few had yet realized the utter despair of failure in a mining camp. In the presence of vice in all its forms, men who were staid and exemplary at home laid aside their morality like a useless garment and yielded to the seductive influences spread for their ruin. The gambling shops and hurdy-gurdy saloons—beheld for the first time by many of these fortune-seekers—lured them on step by step, until many of them abandoned all thought of the object they had in pursuit, for lives of shameful and criminal indulgence.
The condition of society thus produced was fatal to all attempts at organization, either for protection or good order. Wholly unrestrained by fear or conscience, the robbers carried on their operations in the full blaze of mid-day. Affrays were of daily occurrence, and robberies took place in the public streets. Charley Harper, the acknowledged chief, stained with the darkest crimes, walked the streets with the boldness and confidence of one who glories in his iniquity. Peaceable, honest, well-meaning citizens, completely overawed, were fortunate to escape insult or abuse, as they passed to and fro in pursuit of their occupations. Woe to the unfortunate miner who entered the town if it were known or believed that there was any treasure on his person! If not robbed on the spot, or lured into a hurdy-gurdy saloon, or cheated at a gambling table, he was waylaid by disguised ruffians on his return to his camp, and by threats and violence, or when these failed, by death itself, relieved of his hard-bought earnings. For one of these sufferers to recognize and expose any of his assailants was simply to insure death at his hands the first convenient opportunity.
One of these side exploits was marked by features of peculiar atrocity. An aged, eccentric German miner, who lived alone in a little cabin three miles from town, was supposed to have a considerable amount of gold dust concealed in his dwelling. One morning, early in August, a neighbor discovered that the house had been violently entered. The door was broken and scattered in pieces. Entering, he beheld the mangled corpse of the old man lying amid a general wreck of bedding, boxes, and trunks. The remains of a recent fire in a corner bore evidence of the failure of the design of the robbers to conceal their crime by a general conflagration. The miners were exasperated at an act of such wanton and unprovoked barbarity. A coroner’s jury was summoned and such an inquest held as men in fear of their lives dared to venture. The verdict, as might have been anticipated, was “murdered by some person or persons unknown.” Here the affair has rested ever since.
Acts of violence and bloodshed were not infrequent among the robbers themselves. Soon after the murder of the German, a company of them, who had been gambling all night at one of the saloons, broke up in a quarrel at sunrise. Before they reached the street, a revolver in the hands of Brockie was discharged, killing instantly one of the departing brawlers. The murderer surrendered himself to a justice of the peace, and escaped upon the singular plea that the shot was accidental and did not hit the person he intended to kill. One of the jury, in a letter to a friend wrote: “The verdict gave universal satisfaction, the feeling over the homicide among good citizens being that Brockie had done a good thing. If he had killed two of the ruffians instead of one, and then hung himself, good men would have been better pleased.”
Hickey, the intended victim, was one of the worst men in the band. The year following this occurrence, in a fit of anger induced by intoxication, at a store in Placerville, he made a desperate assault upon a peaceable, inoffensive individual who was known by the name of “Snapping Andy.” Hurriedly snatching a pickhandle from a barrel, Andy, by two or three well-directed blows, brought his career of crime and infamy to a bloody close.
For some reason, probably to place him beyond the reach of the friends of the murdered robber, Brockie was assigned to a new position. Ostensibly to establish a ferry at the mouth of White Bird Creek, a few miles from town, but really for the purpose of furnishing a convenient rendezvous for his companions, he took up his abode there. It was on the line of travel between Florence and a gold discovery reputed to have been made on a tributary of the Boise River.