Many persons who had been cooped up in Bannack, with nothing to do during the winter, sallied forth in quest of new discoveries as soon as the snow disappeared, in the Spring of 1863. A number of new gulches were found, and the population of Bannack thinned out considerably under the inducements they offered for the improvement of fortunes. All these newly discovered placers were, however, known by the general name of East Bannack, the prefix being used to distinguish the locality from West Bannack, a mining camp in that portion of Idaho lying west of the main range of the Rocky Mountains. As rapidly as any of these new camps were settled, the miners adopted laws for their government, and elected judges to enforce them. No sheriff had, however, been elected to fill the place of Crawford. The miners held a meeting at which they concluded to elect one sheriff who should reside at Bannack, and appoint his deputies for the new locations. A day for the election was accordingly designated.
Plummer busied himself among the miners to obtain the nomination, and as an evidence not less of the unsteady purpose of this population than of the personal magnetism of this remarkable man, he succeeded. Men, who a few weeks before were clamorous for his execution as a murderer, deceived by the plausibility of his professions, and the smoothness of his eloquence, were now equally urgent for his election to the most important office in the settlement. Such of the number as were unwilling to support him, nominated a good man by the name of Jefferson Durley, but the majority for Plummer decided the election largely in his favor. A marked change immediately took place in his conduct. Soon after he was married to Miss Eliza Bryan, the young lady with whom, as I have related in a former chapter, he contracted an engagement while spending the winter with her brother-in-law, Mr. Vail, at the government farm on Sun River. Whether he honestly intended to reform at this time, or “assumed the thing he was not” for the better concealment of his criminal designs, can never be certainly known. There was much apparent sincerity in his conduct and professions. He forsook the saloons, and was seldom seen in the society of his old associates. His duties were promptly attended to. On one occasion in a conversation with me, of his own seeking, he spoke regretfully of his early life.
“I confess,” said he, “that the bad associations which I formed in California and Nevada have adhered to me ever since. I was forced in sheer self-defence, on different occasions, to kill five men there—and of course was undeservedly denounced as a desperado and murderer. This is not true,—and now that I am married and have something to live for, and hold an official position, I will show you that I can be a good man among good men. There is a new life before me, and I want you to believe that I am not unfitted to fill it with credit to myself, and benefit to the community.”
As he stood thus, in a beseeching voice pleading for some abatement of the harsh judgment which he knew his conduct merited, it was not without an effort that I mentally denied to him that confidence so truly characterized by Pitt in his memorable reply to Walpole, as “a plant of slow growth.” Very soon after, the justice of this opinion was confirmed by an undercurrent of circumstances, which plainly showed that he was either drifting back into the whirlpool of crime, or had assumed the guise of virtue that he might better serve the devil. His face, usually clear and white, betrayed in its weather-beaten appearance, that several times when there was no occasion for it, he had been exposed to the inclemencies of a fearful night storm. Where had he been? What was the character of that business which could woo him from his home, to face the angry elements, and require his return and appearance on the street by daylight? At one time, having occasion to go to the ranche where my horse was kept, I saw there a very superior saddle horse. Having never seen it before, on inquiry, I was informed that it belonged to Plummer, who often visited the ranche to exercise it; but never rode it into town, or used it for any long journey. It was represented to possess greater qualities of speed and endurance than any horse in the country. Why was he keeping this horse, unused, and away from the public view, if not for the purpose of escaping from the country in case of failure in his criminal enterprise? Many other circumstances, equally demonstrative as to the designs which Plummer was secretly carrying on, satisfied me that I had not misjudged his true character.
Life in Bannack at this time was perfect isolation from the rest of the world. Napoleon was not more of an exile on St. Helena than the newly arrived immigrant from the States, in this recess of rocks and mountains. All the stirring battles of the season of 1862,—Antietam, Fredericksburg, and Second Bull Run,—all the exciting debates of Congress, and the more exciting combats at sea, first became known to us on the arrival of the first newspapers and letters, in the Spring of 1863. Old newspapers went the rounds of the camps until they literally dropped to pieces. Pamphlets, cheap publications, and yellow-covered literature, which had found their way by chance into the camp, were in constant and unceasing demand. Bibles, of which there were a few copies, were read by men who probably never read them before, to while away the tedium of the dreary days of winter. Of other books there were none then, nor for a year or more afterwards. Euchre, old sledge, poker, and cribbage were resorted to until they became stale, flat, and disgusting. When, afterwards, the first small library was brought into the Territory, the owner was at once overwhelmed with borrowers, who, after reading, loaned his books without leave, until the loss or destruction of many of them drove him to the adoption of means for the preservation of the remainder. He placarded over his library, where all could read it, the following passage from Matthew xxv. 9: “Not so; lest there be not enough for us and you; but go ye rather to them that sell, and buy for yourselves.” This gentle hint served better as a joke than an admonition.
As a counterpoise to this condition of affairs, the newcomer found much in the rough, wild scenery, the habits, customs, and dress of the miners, and in the pursuits of the camp, to interest his attention. There was a freedom in mountain life entirely new to him. The common forms of expression, rough, unique, and full of significance, were such as he had never been accustomed to hear. The spirit of a humor full of fun, displaying itself practically on all occasions, often at his own expense, presented so many new phases of character, that he was seldom at a loss for agreeable pastime, or, indeed, profitable occupation.
The wit of a mining camp is sui generis. It partakes of the occupation, and grows out of it as naturally as the necessities. Indeed, it is of itself a necessity,—for the instance of a miner without humor or a relish for it, if it be of the appreciable kind, is very rare. One must be versed in the idiom of the camp to always understand it. As for example, if, in speaking of another, a miner says, “I have panned that fellow out and couldn’t get a color,” it means the same as if he had said, “He’s a man of no principle, dishonest, or a scamp.” So if, of another, he says, “He’s all right, clear down to bed-rock,” it means, “He is honest and reliable.” A hundred expressions of this kind are in common use in a mining camp. Common parlance has long ago wrung the humor from all these oddities of expression; but every now and then something new springs up which has its run through mining communities as a bit of fun, before its final incorporation into the epidemic vernacular.
It occasionally happens that a genuine loafer turns up. This is not common; for a man without money or employment, among miners, especially if he evinces an indisposition for work, is a pitiable object. Nobody cares for him. His very necessities are subjects for ribaldry, and his laziness affords ample excuse for a neglect which may end in absolute starvation. There is no lack of kindness among miners,—their generosity is only bounded by their means in meritorious cases, but it is cruelly discriminative against bummers and loafers. They must live by their wits,—and sometimes this resource is available.
A singular genius known as “Slippery Joe,” whose character reflected the twofold qualities of bummer and loafer, hung around the saloons and restaurants in the early days of Bannack. He worked when compelled by necessity, and was never known to buy “a square meal.” One evening he was an on-looker at a party of miners who were playing euchre in Kustar’s bakery. Their frequent potations, as was often the case, developing first noise, then dispute, then quarrel, finally culminated in a fight and general row. Pistols and knives were drawn, one man was badly stabbed, and several shots fired. The by-standers stampeded through the door and into the street, to avoid injury. One man was prostrate, and another bent over him, with an upraised knife. Kustar and his bartender were engaged in quelling the mêlée. Seizing this opportunity, Slippery Joe stole behind the counter, and taking a couple of pies from the shelf, mashed them out of shape with his knuckles, and laid them, still in the tin plates, on the floor near the combatants. He did not dare to steal the pies, knowing that detection would result in his banishment from the gulch. Kustar, discovering them after the fight was over, supposed from the appearance they presented, that they had been jarred from the shelf and trodden upon. He was about casting them into the street, when Joe stepped forward, and offered twenty-five cents for them, pies at the time being sold at a dollar apiece. Glad to sell them at any price, Kustar regarded the quarter of a dollar as clear gain, and the sneak owed his supper to his criminal ingenuity.
This same slippery individual was the hero of another foraging exploit, which, however we may regard it in a moral aspect, was not discreditable to his strategic perspicacity. Two partners in a mining claim had quarrelled, fought, and so far reconciled differences as to agree to live together. One day a load of potatoes, the first that we had had for eight months, and a great luxury at sixty cents per pound, arrived from the Bitter Root Valley. The two miners bought several pounds, and agreed upon having a holiday, with an old-fashioned stew for dinner at three o’clock P.M. Joe had epicurean tastes, and longed for a dish of the stew. He stationed himself near the door of the cabin. Just after it was taken from the pan, and placed, steaming hot, between the partners, and one was in the act of slicing the loaf, Joe entered, and with much adroitness introduced the subject of former difference. This brought on a dispute, and the two men rose from the table and rushed into the street to engage in a fist fight. While thus employed, Joe made a single meal of the entire stew.