On his return to Idaho City from a business visit to the States, a few days before the anniversary of our national independence of the year in which he was killed, he was so indignant that no preparations had been made for a celebration, that when the day arrived he procured a National flag, hired a drummer and fifer, and followed them, waving the banner, through the streets of the town, greatly to the disgust of the secessionists. The South had just been conquered, and the demonstration wore the appearance of exultation, but no one aggrieved by it had the hardihood to interrupt its progress. “Old Pink,” as he was familiarly called, was much too dangerous a character to meddle with.
With all his rough and desperate characteristics, Pinkham had no sympathy for the robbers and murderers and thieves that swarmed around him; and when Idaho was organized the governor of the Territory appointed him sheriff of Boise County. Soon afterwards he received the appointment of United States marshal, an office which made him and his friends in some measure the representatives of law and order. By promptly discharging the duties of these offices, he was held in great fear by the criminal population of the Territory, and won the respect of the best citizens for his efficiency and fidelity.
Patterson was a native of Tennessee, whence, in boyhood, he had gone with his parents to Texas and grown to manhood among the desperate and bloody men of that border State. His character, tastes, and pursuits were formed by early association with them. He was a gambler by profession, but of a nature too impulsive to depend upon it as a means of livelihood. When he came to California, he turned his attention to mining, alternating that pursuit with gambling, as the inclination seized him. Like Pinkham, he was a man of striking presence,—in stature six feet, and of weight to correspond, with a fair complexion, light hair streaked with gray, sandy whiskers, and, when unaffected by liquor or passion, a sad, reflective countenance lit up by calm but expressive blue eyes. His habitual manner was that of quiet, gentlemanly repose;—and to one unacquainted with his characteristics, he would never have been suspected of a fondness for any kind of excitement. In conversation he was uniformly affable when sober, and bore the reputation of being a very genial and mirth-loving companion when engaged with others in any exploring or dangerous enterprise. He was brave to a fault, and perfectly familiar with all the exposures and extremes of border life,—as ready to repair the lock of a gun or pistol as to use those weapons in attack or defence. His kindness and thoughtfulness for the comfort of any of his party in the event of sickness, and the resources with which he overcame obstacles in the numerous expeditions of one kind and another in which he participated, made him a great favorite with all who knew him, and gave him a commanding power over the society in which he moved. He was naturally a leader of those with whom he associated. Had these been his only characteristics, Patterson would have been one of the most useful men in the mining regions,—but whiskey always transformed him into a demon. Patterson was not a steady drinker, but gave himself up to occasional seasons of indulgence. He was one of that large class of drinkers who cannot indulge their appetites at all without going through all the stages of excitement, to complete exhaustion. From the moment he entered upon one of these excesses to its close, he was dangerous. The whole man was changed. His calm, blue eye looked like a heated furnace and was suggestive of a thirst for blood. His quiet and gentlemanly manner disappeared. His breath was labored, and his nostrils dilated like those of an enraged buffalo. He remembered, on these occasions, every person who had ever offended him, and sought the one nearest to him to engage him in quarrel. His whole bearing was aggressive and belligerent, and his best friends always avoided him until he became sober.
His unfortunate propensity for liquor had involved him in several serious affrays before he came to the Idaho mines. On one occasion, in Southern Oregon, a man who had suffered injury at his hands, while on a drunken spree shot him in the side by stealth. Patterson with the quickness of lightning drew his revolver, and fired upon and wounded his assailant. Both fell, and Patterson, believing the wound he had received would prove fatal, fired all the remaining charges in his pistol at his antagonist, and then called for his friends to take off his boots.
The original expression, “he will die with his boots on some day,” uttered many years ago as the prediction of some comical miner that a murderer would be hanged or come to his death by violence, has grown into a fantastic belief among the reckless and bloodthirsty ruffians of the Pacific coast. Patterson, who shared in this faith, intended, by having his boots taken off, to signify to those around him that he had never been guilty of murder. When we consider that of the great number of those who in the early history of the mining regions were guilty of murder, nineteen at least of every twenty have expiated their crimes upon the scaffold or in bloody affrays, the faith in this frontier axiom seems not to be greatly misplaced: but why it should be any more potent as a human prediction than as the stern edict of the Almighty denounced against the murderer four thousand years ago, I leave for the solution of those modern thinkers who build their belief outside the lids of the Bible.
Another bloody rencontre in which Patterson was engaged was with one Captain Staples in Portland, Oregon. Staples, an ardent Unionist, boisterously patriotic from liquor, insisted that all around him should join in a toast to Lincoln and the Union arms. Patterson refused, and an unpleasant altercation followed, but the parties separated without collision. Later in the evening they met, and the difficulty was renewed, and in the fight Staples was killed. Patterson was tried and acquitted; and became, in consequence of the quarrel and trial, a great favorite and champion among the secessionists of Portland.
Some time after this, in a drunken frenzy he scalped a disreputable female acquaintance. His own version of this affair was as follows: “I was trying,” said he, “to cut off a lock of her hair with my bowie-knife, but she wouldn’t keep her head still, and I made a mistake, and got part of her scalp with the hair.” For this act he was arrested and recognized to await the action of the grand jury; but before the term of court he left the State, and his bondsmen were compelled to pay the forfeiture.
Patterson came to Idaho with the first discovery of gold in that section. His fellow-gamblers, who never failed, with one hand, to take advantage of his unskilful playing, were always ready to contribute to his necessities with the other. If he wanted money to stock a faro bank they furnished it. If a saloon-keeper needed a man who united popularity and strength to arrest the encroachments of the roughs, he was ever ready to share a liberal portion of his profits with Patterson for such services. The difference between Pinkham and Patterson was that, while the friends of the former looked to him for aid in their embarrassments, those of the latter afforded him the means of existence.
About a year before the occurrence of the bloody affray between these men, Patterson and some of his friends, during a period of drunken excitement, took unlawful possession of a brewery in Idaho City, and engaged in the manufacture of beer. Pinkham was the only person in the city brave enough to undertake their arrest. When he entered the building for the purpose, he informed Patterson of his object and was met with violent resistance. In the struggle Pinkham was successful, and Patterson was arrested and taken away. The citizens, knowing the character of Patterson, and expecting nothing less than a shooting affray as the consequence of the arrest, were surprised at his submission. It was soon understood, however, that the bad blood provoked by the incident had severed all friendly relations between the champions, and that Patterson would avail himself of the first opportunity to avenge himself. Months passed away without any collision. The subject, if not forgotten, was lost sight of as other occurrences more or less exciting transpired.
On the day he was killed, Pinkham, with an acquaintance, rode out to the Warm Springs, a favorite bathing resort two miles distant from Idaho City. Meeting there with several friends, he drank more freely than usual and became quite hilarious.