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| "He never used a brace-box with a real sport. Them he kept under his seat for tenderfeet." The World May 15, 1892 |
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oe Simmons, as honest a dealer as ever took in a sucker."
A great article on Creede, Colorado and the demise of "Gambler Joe" Simmons, Soap Gang member and friend of Soapy Smith, posted in the May 15, 1892 issue of The World (New York).
The newspaper story was originally published in the Chicago Times by Carter Harrison, owner of the newspaper, and former/future mayor of Chicago, who had paid Creede a visit and decided to write about it. Soapy had apparently known Harrison previously, though Harrison either denied it, or had not remembered. They met up and spoke during this visit. Later, in October 1893, Soapy and his wife Mary went to Chicago for
the World Columbian Exposition (1893 World's Fair), and as Harrison had been reelected Mayor of Chicago in 1893, it stands to reason that if Soapy had any interests in possibly making Chicago his new home, he would work to meet with Harrison once again. Soapy was well aware of the mayor’s support of wide-open
gambling, prostitution, and liquor, the very things Denver officials (Soapy's primary home-base) sought to shut down. Allowed to operate in Chicago were “saloons and gambling houses, protected bunco
steerers and confidence men and brace games of all kinds without
hindrance.” As the mayor once declared, “You can’t make people moral by
ordinances and it is no use trying. This is a free town.” No doubt, Soapy found Chicago very enticing. He knew that Mayor Harrison maintained close ties with longtime Chicago crime boss Michael Cassius McDonald. “King Mike,” as he was known, was the main man Jeff would have had to see if he wanted a place in the mostly Irish underworld gambling domain. It cannot be ignored as simple coincidence, that Soapy's wife, Mary Eva Noonan was Irish, both her parents having come from Ireland. More on Harrison below.
Following is the transcribed content of the article.
ROMANCE IN MINING.
—
The Bright Side of the Gold-Seeker’s Hard and Adventurous Life.
—
GLIMPSES OF CREEDE AND THE FEVERISH EXISTENCE THERE.
—
A Boston Tenderfoot Who Fooled Four Shrewd Old-Timers.
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A Bit of Coarse Thread That Exposed the Secret of a Salted Shaft—An Entertaining Peep Behind the Scenes of a Mining Camp Theater—Oddities of Animal Life in Abandoned Mines Where Flies and Rattlesnakes Turn White—Recollections of Pat Casey, Who Made a Fortune in the Black Hills—With a Number of Graphic Illustrations by “World” Artists.
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The Bright Side of the Gold-Seeker’s Hard and Adventurous Life.
—
GLIMPSES OF CREEDE AND THE FEVERISH EXISTENCE THERE.
—
A Boston Tenderfoot Who Fooled Four Shrewd Old-Timers.
—
A Bit of Coarse Thread That Exposed the Secret of a Salted Shaft—An Entertaining Peep Behind the Scenes of a Mining Camp Theater—Oddities of Animal Life in Abandoned Mines Where Flies and Rattlesnakes Turn White—Recollections of Pat Casey, Who Made a Fortune in the Black Hills—With a Number of Graphic Illustrations by “World” Artists.
[Carter Harrison in Chicago Times.]
A couple of hours before nightfall we were at Creede. I would like to describe so my readers may comprehend this wonderful camp.
A couple of hours before nightfall we were at Creede. I would like to describe so my readers may comprehend this wonderful camp.
But here my muse her wing main course,
flights are far beyond her power. ①
flights are far beyond her power. ①
A new world and new revelations were opened before me. A world where man is seen in his naked individuality, stripped of every longing except greed and of every care except self-protection; where conventionalities are all left behind in the home whence, he came; when greed pushes him forward in fierce struggle for gain by day and wild revelry and debauch is his rule by night. There is no groveling[sic] sottishness and no cowardly lying in wait for murder. Men meet and crowd together in pursuit of quick gain or frolic; for gambling, drinking and dancing are handed down by tradition of the past as the pastimes of the miner and gold-seeker. These things are sought, not from any innate depravity or particular love of the amusement, but because they have come down with the unwritten legends from all hot mining camps since ‘49.
Money is expended to assist an unfortunate one in need, and they bullet’s whisk tells that cheating has been detected and a knockdown or an impromptu duel, a Poutrance, avenges a chip falsely raked in. All Phases of life extend from the sublime to the ridiculous. The philanthropist and the beggar are on a plane of equality; the millionaire and the fakir, the minister of the Gospel and the gambler; the keen merchant, deeply imbued with a knowledge of profit, and the freebooter, who demands your money or your life, and is apparently indifferent as to which he gets. These all meet day and night.
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| Drinking at the grave The burial of "Gambler" Joe Simmons The World May 15, 1892 |
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At the public eating-table you elbow a modest-looking man who has to his credit thirteen killed and yet never actually sought a quarrel, but who, when in one, knows but one way out. By his side sits a man with wild, greedy eye, a hectic cheek, and a cough from his inner caverns. The one and the other is after a rich gulch or a grave. A few days before our arrival a couple of preachers came into camp, and seeing the fearful depravity of the entourage, begged for a chance to preach. The tent house of worship had not been built. The use of a large gambling hall was accorded them for fifteen minutes, a verse was read, a few earnest remarks were given, and a prayer offered up, followed by the amen! The hush of fifteen minutes was immediately over; The shrill call of “forty-seven!” blended with the unctuous “Amen,” and then the cry of “keno!” and the clatter of “Give me back those chips,” and the retort, “You've got ‘em,” — you,” made part of the bustle and confusion of a typical mining camp gambling den.
A night spent without the noise of gun-play and the rush to see who has died with his boots on occasions remark, but the hiss of the speeding bullet is forgotten before morning.
A night spent without the noise of gun-play and the rush to see who has died with his boots on occasions remark, but the hiss of the speeding bullet is forgotten before morning.
[The following portion of this newspaper article is written with intentional grammar errors and slang, with the intention of trying to capture and mimic Soapy’s southern drawl and personality. I chose to not add in (sic) "spelled incorrectly" as it would ruin the charm.]
Soapy Smith saw me passing and asked me into is fine saloon. He said he had voted for me once.
“what year was it I let you out?” I asked. Joke did not hurt his feelings. He gave me an account of the funeral of his friend Joe Simmons, a few days prior to our coming. Joe had often been his pal and was lately his chief dealer at the green table. “Joe said he was dying,” said Soapy, and there was a suspicion of dew in his eye.
"I said, 'Oh, no, Joe! You'll rake in many a red yet before you go over the range.'"
“Don't lie to me, Jeff,' says he. 'I know I'm dyin'; my last chip is ‘bout to be cashed, and I want to say good-by. Don't let none of ‘em preach over me, Jeff —none of them tramp preachers. No? That's right good of ye. Just lay me out and drink to my health over the range, if there’s another side to it. Good-by, old pard, I'm off.' And sure enough he jess shut his eyes like he was watching the kards as they dropped out of the case; and when he know’d he’d coppered the ace he jess shot over the hill.
We tuk him up the trail and dug a hole where he can look at the 'last chance' when Gabriel will give his last toot. We dropt the box intar the hole. I tuk off my headgear and I says, says I; ‘My friends'— there was just a twelve of us, and me; I made the baker's dozen— 'you all know’d Joe. He was as true as a eight-ounce nugget with a toch of quartz to bring out the shine. He never used a brace-box with a real sport. Them he kept under his seat for tenderfeet. An’ he was right. What's a Tenderfoot made for ‘cept to fill the pay when the color runs low? That's what they come into the gulch fur. But if any of the ye says he didn't deal square among friends it's a — lie. Friends, I an't much of a speaker, but Joe didn't want no splutter at his funeral. He said to me: 'Jeff, don't make no fuss with your jaw, but just skip rip the necks off’n a dozen and drink to me on my last tramp over the range.' Now, let's refill as honest men and good Christians his last wish and thirteen corks shot out and thirteen cracks rung a volley, and I said; ‘here's to the health of Joe Simmons, as honest a dealer as ever took in a sucker.’ We put the necks to our lips and poured down the last drop an’ planted the bottles on the grave. Wasn't that a real sent-off for a true spirit in a gulch?”
Soapy asked me to drink, but I had not been at the still when the stuff run out, so declined, but I took a cigar from a box with two Government stamps. I have a suspicion the cigars were put in since the stamps were broken.
Soapy said he would be in Chicago next year to help me make World's Fair Mayor I warned him not to let Hemp know it or he'd be run in. “Oh, shucks! Chicago is right now. Hemp knows it.② Besides no Mayor can quit me but you, and you won't do it until you've been in the chair a whole month.”
"I said, 'Oh, no, Joe! You'll rake in many a red yet before you go over the range.'"
“Don't lie to me, Jeff,' says he. 'I know I'm dyin'; my last chip is ‘bout to be cashed, and I want to say good-by. Don't let none of ‘em preach over me, Jeff —none of them tramp preachers. No? That's right good of ye. Just lay me out and drink to my health over the range, if there’s another side to it. Good-by, old pard, I'm off.' And sure enough he jess shut his eyes like he was watching the kards as they dropped out of the case; and when he know’d he’d coppered the ace he jess shot over the hill.
We tuk him up the trail and dug a hole where he can look at the 'last chance' when Gabriel will give his last toot. We dropt the box intar the hole. I tuk off my headgear and I says, says I; ‘My friends'— there was just a twelve of us, and me; I made the baker's dozen— 'you all know’d Joe. He was as true as a eight-ounce nugget with a toch of quartz to bring out the shine. He never used a brace-box with a real sport. Them he kept under his seat for tenderfeet. An’ he was right. What's a Tenderfoot made for ‘cept to fill the pay when the color runs low? That's what they come into the gulch fur. But if any of the ye says he didn't deal square among friends it's a — lie. Friends, I an't much of a speaker, but Joe didn't want no splutter at his funeral. He said to me: 'Jeff, don't make no fuss with your jaw, but just skip rip the necks off’n a dozen and drink to me on my last tramp over the range.' Now, let's refill as honest men and good Christians his last wish and thirteen corks shot out and thirteen cracks rung a volley, and I said; ‘here's to the health of Joe Simmons, as honest a dealer as ever took in a sucker.’ We put the necks to our lips and poured down the last drop an’ planted the bottles on the grave. Wasn't that a real sent-off for a true spirit in a gulch?”
Soapy asked me to drink, but I had not been at the still when the stuff run out, so declined, but I took a cigar from a box with two Government stamps. I have a suspicion the cigars were put in since the stamps were broken.
Soapy said he would be in Chicago next year to help me make World's Fair Mayor I warned him not to let Hemp know it or he'd be run in. “Oh, shucks! Chicago is right now. Hemp knows it.② Besides no Mayor can quit me but you, and you won't do it until you've been in the chair a whole month.”
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| THE CREEDE BALLET. The World May 15, 1892 Not part of the article I wrote about but I liked the drawing just knowing that likely none of the girls were professional ballerinas |
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When we first run into the station my eyes were amazed at seeing a mighty lumber-yard turn by magic into a city of fresh-cut boards. Not a house was painted except those of the Cyprians. That is their sign. A band of music welcomed us on the platform—the only one in town—the orchestra of the theater just opened. A committee of forty bled into our ear. We were to be driven through the city in the only hack owned, and “would we make the people silver speeches at 8?”
What's a town! New board houses everywhere, stuck in crevices of crags, perched on mountain sides, and propped up to keep them from sliding down; houses built on posts over the river. Its stream was hidden, but it's ripple was everywhere heard under the doors, houses sticking corners and stoops cut into the narrow streets; houses part boards and part canvas; one-story houses and two-story houses; some so frail that a drunken man could not lean against them, and houses with bay windows to second stories looking pretty and substantial. Every prospector is a squatter or the tenant of or purchaser from a squatter except on a patch taken by the school commissioners and sold the week before, sold at auction and realizing in a day's sale $185,000. This huge sum arose from a piece of land not worth last November as much as the piece of sky hanging over it. The town, or rather the three towns—old Creede, Jimtown (corruption for Gintown) and South Creede—with additions, had last November less than a dozen log huts, stuck in under overhanging precipices, occupied by a few dozen booted and hungry prospectors, but now has a population of from 5,000 to 7,000, with several banks, an electric plant, four or five newspapers, two or three post-offices, several hotels (one with seventy-five rooms), several wholesale stores doing a big business with the outlying districts. Last year a whole month’s cancellation of letter stamps amounted to 115. In February of this year about 5,000 letters were mailed.
I asked of the owner of an extemporized sawmill, who was sawing up a two-foot log just yelled: “What will be done with those green boards?”
“Build houses before night and save insurance. These boards are warranted proof against for a month, and that's something when insurance is 12 per cent.”
I went into a heavily stocked general store, 20 by 110 feet. It was one of two stores of a handsome two-story house. The owner told me he purchased his lot Feb 8 and was now doing a heavy wholesale trade getting big rent for the rest of his house. This is only a sample of many. Last fall the railroad entered the place; now the receipts for freight are about $3,000 a day and the shipments of ore are from 90 to 100 tons. This will be greatly increased when the snow ceases to whiten the ground.
What's a town! New board houses everywhere, stuck in crevices of crags, perched on mountain sides, and propped up to keep them from sliding down; houses built on posts over the river. Its stream was hidden, but it's ripple was everywhere heard under the doors, houses sticking corners and stoops cut into the narrow streets; houses part boards and part canvas; one-story houses and two-story houses; some so frail that a drunken man could not lean against them, and houses with bay windows to second stories looking pretty and substantial. Every prospector is a squatter or the tenant of or purchaser from a squatter except on a patch taken by the school commissioners and sold the week before, sold at auction and realizing in a day's sale $185,000. This huge sum arose from a piece of land not worth last November as much as the piece of sky hanging over it. The town, or rather the three towns—old Creede, Jimtown (corruption for Gintown) and South Creede—with additions, had last November less than a dozen log huts, stuck in under overhanging precipices, occupied by a few dozen booted and hungry prospectors, but now has a population of from 5,000 to 7,000, with several banks, an electric plant, four or five newspapers, two or three post-offices, several hotels (one with seventy-five rooms), several wholesale stores doing a big business with the outlying districts. Last year a whole month’s cancellation of letter stamps amounted to 115. In February of this year about 5,000 letters were mailed.
I asked of the owner of an extemporized sawmill, who was sawing up a two-foot log just yelled: “What will be done with those green boards?”
“Build houses before night and save insurance. These boards are warranted proof against for a month, and that's something when insurance is 12 per cent.”
I went into a heavily stocked general store, 20 by 110 feet. It was one of two stores of a handsome two-story house. The owner told me he purchased his lot Feb 8 and was now doing a heavy wholesale trade getting big rent for the rest of his house. This is only a sample of many. Last fall the railroad entered the place; now the receipts for freight are about $3,000 a day and the shipments of ore are from 90 to 100 tons. This will be greatly increased when the snow ceases to whiten the ground.
More on Carter Harrison:
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| Carter Henry Harrison Sr. Frontispiece from A Summer's Outing, 1891. circa 1890 colorized by Jeff Smith |
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Carter Henry Harrison Sr. (February 15, 1825 – October 28, 1893) was an
American politician who served as mayor of Chicago, Illinois, from 1879
until 1887; he was subsequently elected to a fifth term in 1893 but was
assassinated before completing the term. He previously served two terms
in the United States House of Representatives. Harrison was the first
cousin twice removed of President William Henry Harrison, whose
grandson, Benjamin Harrison, had also been president until just months
prior to the assassination. Harrison was known to refer to Chicago as
his "bride." He supported a “wide-open” policy, meaning gambling,
saloons, etc., were allowed to run without trouble or inte3rference from
the city government. Harrison's tenure as mayor formally ended on April
18, 1887. Harrison unsuccessfully sought to stage a comeback, running
in the 1891 Chicago mayoral election. Harrison was re-elected mayor in
1893, in time for the World's Columbian Exposition being held in the
city. Harrison's career and assassination are closely connected with the
World's Columbian Exposition, and are discussed at some length as a
subplot to the two main stories (about the fair and serial killer H. H.
Holmes) in Erik Larson's best-selling 2003 non-fiction book The Devil in
the White City.③
NOTES:
① Tam O’Shanter, by Robert Burns (1759–1796)
② “Hemp” is Hempstead Washburne, Chicago mayor, 1891-1893.
① Tam O’Shanter, by Robert Burns (1759–1796)
② “Hemp” is Hempstead Washburne, Chicago mayor, 1891-1893.
③ Wikipedia: Carter Harrison Sr.
TRIVIA:
Sylvester Scovel who had befriended Soapy in Skagway, Alaska worked for The World newspaper, the center piece of this post, as a Correspondent.
Carter Henry Harrison:
Chicago:
"Gambler Joe" Simmons:
Carter Henry Harrison: pages 282-83.
Chicago (including World Columbian Exposition): pages 34, 42-43, 77-78, 86, 90, 92, 106, 109, 121, 138, 152, 197, 238, 253-54, 277, 281-83, 286, 288, 295, 299, 330-31, 333, 386, 391, 407, 475, 574, 579.
Joe "Gambler Joe" Simmons: pages 33, 89, 131, 210, 214, 225-29, 273, 594.
"Nine gamblers could not feed a single rooster."
—Yugoslav proverb
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