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DOPED
The Cincinnati Enquirer
April 21, 1895
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(Click image to enlarge)
o drink a small bottle with them in the back room of “Soapy” Smith's saloon.
An article, apparently only published for, and in, The Cincinnati Enquirer, appears to be fueled by the imagination of the writer. I have seen articles like this before, in which I question if the author has even been to the place, or witnessed what they are writing about. Below is the transcribed article. Below it I will give my opinions about it.
DOPED
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By Creede Desperadoes.
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Narrow Escape of a Newspaper Writer and Artist.
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How Their Disguise as “Representatives of a Syndicate”
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Nearly Proved Fatal. and How “Bat” Masterson Saved Their Lives- “ slanting Annie.”
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[WRITTEN EXCLUSIVELY FOR THE ENQUIRER.]
The interesting short sketch in THE ENQUIRER of last Thursday of Life at Creede Colo., reminds the writer of the stirring scenes he witnessed at the opening of that "camp" in the early part of 1892. In February of that year I was sent by the newspaper on which I was then engaged to write a story of what was going on there. An artist accompanied me. We were told to impersonate the representatives of a Syndicate of capitalists who wanted to make investments in the "district," and to that end to spend money liberal be in the camp for a few days. After employing this means to secure accurate information as to the prospects of the district we were to drop our disguise and begin our newspaper work. We followed our instructions with such faithful regard to detail that we both narrowly escaped death at the hands of a gang of thieves. The first hint we had of what had happened to us came the next day about noon.
“Egad, but I'm sick!” groaned the artist, tossing nervously in his bed by the side of the writer, who was vaguely conscious of “that tired feeling” in the vacuous pit of his own throbbing stomach.
"Where are we, and how did we get here?” was the question asked of the artist in a voice so weak and quavering that its possessor was frightened into the knowledge that something awful must have happened to him.
“Don't know, and I don't care,” was the reply, spoken in tones denoting a desperation that had worn itself to perfect resignation to any fate in store. “I'll give the last cent I have for a glass of water, and then I'm willing to die,” moaned the artist. Then he probably crept out of bed, and, with halting, uncertain steps, managed to reach his clothes, which lay in the middle of the uncarpeted floor of rough and warped boards.
“Not a cent!” said the man of the easel and brush, after he had carefully gone through every pocket of his clothes. “Guess I've been touched, and will have to use your roll,” he continued. And, suiting the action to the word, he searched my pockets with the surprising result of finding not even a nickel in them.
WHAT HAD HAPPENED?
With a resignation which the martyrs of old never surpassed, the artist threw himself on the bed and for fully a half hour we lay facing each other, with our wide-open eyes burning into one another's. Not a word was spoken. Each was vainly trying to recall the events of the day before. We could remember in an indistinct sort of way that as “the representatives of a Syndicate of capitalist desirous of making investments in the district” we had accepted the invitation of a very pleasant brace of gentlemen, mild-mannered and soft of speech, to drink a small bottle with them in the back room of “Soapy” Smith's saloon. “Soapy” had come down from Denver with the first rush, and had one of the few wooden houses in the place. He brought in with him on a flat car, and dumped off on the ground where the car stopped. We could recall nothing that occurred after we had taken a few sips of the sparkling liquid that came from a bottle marked champagne. About the time we had despaired of ever finding out what had happened to us there stalked into our room unannounced a pudgy little man of genteel appearance, and with a pair of protruding gray eyes, with the steely glint of determination in them that proclaimed him an unusual personage, even for that wild, money-mad assemblage.
“A little while longer and you fellows would have passed in your checks, he blurted out to us without the formality of even saluting us. “You’ll know better next time than to pass yourselves off in a mining camp as millionaires, and make flashes of your rolls. There's no use to squeal about what you have lost. It would do you no good if you did, and would only put the laugh on you. A man that happens to know one of you as a reporter told me that a couple of the worst men in the West had you in Soapy Smith’s back room and were going to dope you and then rob you. I tried to get to you before the job was done, but when I reached you your roles were gone, and you were both so sound asleep that the blast of Gabriel's trumpet could not have waked you. I forced an emetic down your throats, which caused you to heave Jonah, otherwise you might have died. Then I had you brought to my room and put to bed, so that you can sleep it off. Here's a good stiff swill of brandy that'll fix you all right. It’s from my own stock, and I know it's not doped. Drink it and then get out so the boys can see you, or they'll think you've gone over the divide.”
“BAT” MASTERSON SAVED THEIR LIVES.
By this time we were in such a thoroughly submissive mood, that we would have drank proffered liquor, even though we had known it was prussic acid. So we gulped it down, and in a few minutes were devoutly thanking our unknown deliverer. We found out afterward that he was none other than the famous “killer” Bat Masterson, who, since the necessity for men of his nerve and aim no longer exists on the Western frontier, has developed into one of the leading “high class sports” of the West. He will be remembered for his connection with the Corbett-Sullivan fight, and other more recent pugilistic events.
One of the most notable features of the life of Creede at that early day with Masterson's complete and absolute domination of it. The place was wholly and literally without law or order of any kind, except as Masterson enforced it. The town was located at the intersection of three county lines, and pending the dispute as to which county has jurisdiction over it, the lawless/and desperate characters, who had flocked there from every nook and crevice of the West, were enjoying high revel as suits their peculiar fancy.
Of course every conceivable form of gambling and every species of “sure thing game” was running wide open. In fact, the principal houses of the town were occupied by gambling devices of one kind or another. Masterson himself ran one of the biggest games, though be it known that his was, in the expressive vernacular of the West, “square,” and no man ever got “skinned” in his house. Bob Ford, the one-time Pal, and finally the cowardly assassin of the bandit, Jesse James, had a “skin game” a few doors from Masterson's place, and around Ford gathered all the worst and most desperate characters. As was to be expected, his house was the scene of most of the fights and murders, until finally he was shot down like the dog he was. Thieves and thugs, “conmen,” and murderers would crowd Ford's rooms from night to morning, and whenever the noise of their carousals and fights grew to unbearable they were quieted in a jiffy by somebody shouting: “Here comes Masterson!”
As illustrative of how calous even the best of men are liable to grow in the daily presence of murder and assassination, such as characterized the early history of Creede, and how infectious is the dominating spirit of life in a mining camp, the story of the discovery by an ex-Attorney General of Colorado of the horribly mutilated body of a man who had been murdered will answer. The writer was walking across Antelope Park, a beautiful stretch of Valley adjoining the town, one afternoon with the ex-Attorney-General whose name, by the way, is plain Sam Jones, when his attention was attracted by a flock of buzzards hovering around a little clump up stunted trees not far away. Going to the spot he found a human body with nearly all of the flesh stripped from its bones, and the buzzards fighting, with bloody beaks, for possession of what remained. A hurried examination showed that four or five pistol bullets had entered his skull.
Here are the undisputable evidences of a horrible murder,” exclaimed the startled “tenderfoot” newspaper man.
“Oh, h—l,” was the nonchalant comment of the ex-Attorney-General of Colorado. “That's the skeleton of some - - - who jumped some fellow’s claim and got what he deserved. His fate will teach other men that it is not safe to jump claims in this camp.
“SLANTING ANNIE.”
It is useless, of course, to attempt to describe in detail the character or the behavior of the “ladies” of the camp. The femininity there at that time was, for the most part, even harder and rougher than the masculinity. But there was one female among the many hundred who nightly thronged the dance halls deserving of some little mention, if for no other object than to perpetuate her name by getting it in type once. She was known simply as “Slanting Annie,” though just why this appellation had been given her was not plain, unless it was suggested by her propensity to lean sidewise like the tower of Pisa when the hilarity of the dance hall weighed most heavily on her buoyant spirit. There were many other “ladies” in the camp much handsomer by far than “Slanting Annie,” but for some strange and occult reason she was the acknowledged Belle of every dance hall she attended, and there were none to dispute her sway. At the Palais Royale Dance Hall one night a dapper young tenderfoot, who hadn't been in the camp long, fell in with “Slanting Annie” and danced several times with her without once having “waltzed up to the bar,” in accordance with the unwritten etiquette of Creede society.
“Slanting Annie,” of course, knew that he was conversant with the rules, and she was “too much of a lady” to remind him of his social and financial obligations after whirling madly through the mazes of the waltz with her. The young fellow mistook her fine sense of the proprieties for a dread of his displeasure, and communicated the fact to me in an undertone which he did not think she heard, that he intended to dance once more with her and then “make a sneak without representing at the bar.” If he is alive to-day he regrets the attempt he made that night to “bilk Slanting Annie,” for when he turned from her to leave the hall and plunge Into the darkness to escape her vengeance she plunged the long, keen blade of a dirk into his back, dangerously near to the heart.
“That young feller takes me for a soft mark,” was all she said as Slanting Annie wiped the blood from the blade on her dress and accepted the invitation of a half-drunken miner to “spiel.” When I left Creede the dapper young tenderfoot who had tried to “bilk” Slanting Annie with hovering between time and eternity.
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There's always a chance that the history we read about is true. However, as historians, we can only be "students of history." As long as we tell the entire story, we can question history, especially when handed down by another. In fact, it is our obligation to question history.
There are three choices we can each decide from, in regards to this article.
- The author did witness these events as he describes them.
- The author is writing about things he was told about by others.
- The author is making up stories for sales and fame.
Personally, I am inclined to believe the article is a mixture of numbers 2 and 3. Based on the writings of the author I get the impression that he was not in Creede in 1892, if ever, and if he was, he opted to fictionalize his adventure, to put himself in the center of all the action. The article is written three years after Creede's rise and fall. The primary actors of the time are gone, off to other camps and into separate histories, some no longer among the living, thus they can't give their side of the stories, or give word as to the accuracy and truthfulness of the author's accounts. Following is my assessment, conclusion and opinion of the author's "facts."
Paragraphs #2-5:
- “Egad, but I'm sick!” groaned the artist
According to numerous historical accounts, "knockout" drugs were occasionally utilized by the Soap Gang to outright rob their victims. It certainly doesn't fit the norm for the confidence men who commonly used their wits in short con swindles, such as the elaborate "big mit" poker games where a victim was led into a back room where a set-up "sure-thing" poker game awaited. Circumstances dictated what options the con men used.
Paragraph #6:
- “'Soapy'
had come down from Denver with the first rush, and had one of the few
wooden houses in the place. He brought in with him on a flat car, and
dumped off on the ground where the car stopped."
Soapy
owned, constructed and operated the Orleans Club, saloon and gambling
den, located several streets from the train tracks, thus it wasn't
"dumped off on the ground where the car stopped," as the tracks had not
reached Creede when Soapy first arrived. Soapy's normal mode of
operation was to operate out of the saloons of others, preferably
friends and allies, before building his own place. As Creede contained
numerous saloon men from Denver, Soapy likely had several choices of
buildings to operate from in those early days of Creede.
I have done considerable research on the history of lower Creede and I do not recall reading that any per-fabricated buildings arrived in Creede via train. Even the train companies used train cars and tents as buildings. Soapy arrived in Creede after lower Creede (Jimtown) was under construction. There is no account, that I am aware of, in which he had pre-built structures shipped in. The first recorded task of Soapy's was the obtainment of lots, from which to build upon. These were leased, and that particular history is well-published, purchasing numerous lots for himself and associates.
- "... there
stalked into our room unannounced a pudgy little man of genteel
appearance, and with a pair of protruding gray eyes, with the steely
glint of determination in them that proclaimed him an unusual personage ..."
Masterson is still alive and well-known in 1895, so the description of "Bat" is easily accurate. At first I wasn't sure, so I enlisted "Bat" Masterson historian, Jerry W. Eastman for some accuracy. Jerry writes, "Masterson was about 5'8" and weighed about 185." I doubt the author knew that "Soapy" and "Bat" were good friends. I'm not saying Masterson approved of every tactic used by the Soap Gang, but I believe he valued their friendship more than butting into their affairs, which would likely result in an end to a good friendship, but also an ally in times of need. None of Soapy's friends and acquaintances wanted to make an enemy of Soapy Smith. It wasn't good for business, and could be very dangerous to interfere in their livelihood.
Paragraph #9:
- "One
of the most notable features of the life of Creede at that early day
with Masterson's complete and absolute domination of it. The place was
wholly and literally without law or order of any kind, except as
Masterson enforced it."
I do not recall reading a single account of Masterson involving himself in the law and order affairs of Creede, outside of the Denver Exchange saloon and gambling house, where he was hired to manage, which was likely a full-time job.
- "The
town was located at the intersection of three county lines, and pending
the dispute as to which county has jurisdiction over it, the
lawless/and desperate characters, who had flocked there from every nook
and crevice of the West, were enjoying high revel as suits their
peculiar fancy."
While correct that there was a dispute over which county held Creede within it's borders, and it had it's share of "lawless/and desperate characters," there were city appointed lawmen and a vigilante committee which did their best to keep the peace. Much of Creede's violence occurred very late at night, early in the morning, and the "law" was often not apprised or present until some time after the fact, giving an impression that there was no law in Creede. Plus the fact that the gambling and saloon contingency held high court in the city government, ensuring they had no worries operating their businesses as they saw fit, thus Creede was run under a 24-hour circus atmosphere, which also gave the appearance of "no law."
Paragraph #10:
- "Masterson
himself ran one of the biggest games, though be it known that his was,
in the expressive vernacular of the West, 'square,' and no man ever got 'skinned' in his house."
Perhaps true, but history shows every proprietor swore that their gambling house was honest, and that "no man ever got 'skinned' in his house." Even Soapy makes that same claim. I
have letters to Soapy in my personal collection, from managers of
gambling houses around the country that are purported to be "honest," with no record of cheating customers, but yet, admit to the same, when no one else is around. Was Masterson's place honest? I have no evidence to the contrary, but keep in mind that he was a close friend of the biggest confidence man in the nation at the time.
- "Bob
Ford, the one-time Pal, and finally the cowardly assassin of the
bandit, Jesse James, had a 'skin game' a few doors from Masterson's
place, and around Ford gathered all the worst and most desperate
characters. As was to be expected, his house was the scene of most of
the fights and murders, until finally he was shot down like the dog he
was."
Bob Ford's "Exchange" was down on the opposite side of town from Masterson's Denver Exchange. There is little known of Ford's place as it opened on May 29, 1892[1] and razed to the ground seven days later in the big fire on June 5, 1892. He did open up a tent saloon, no doubt with plans to rebuild, but three days later, on June 8th, he was murdered by Edward Capehart O'Kelley, meaning that Ford was in the saloon business for about eight days total.
In regards to, "Ford gathered all the worst and most desperate
characters," there are no accounts in the newspapers of Creede, that report Ford's place as being, "the scene of most of
the fights and murders." It is written that Harry "Shotgun" Smith, who tried to kill Bascomb Smith in 1893, was a "booster for Bob Ford's Exchange," and though not actually an "incident," it is a good assumption that Harry caused trouble with patrons. [2] The one incident, took place outside of Ford's place. Ford had teamed up with Soap Gang member Joe Palmer, causing trouble in town, in which
John
[Joe] Palmer and Bob Ford caused considerable excitement this evening
in front of Benjamin’s saloon. Palmer was trying to collect two hundred
dollars owing him from Gus Ball. After being knocked down, Ball agreed
to pay the amount, but as soon as he got up he skipped out and if
captured by Palmer and Ford there will be trouble, as they are both
under the influence of liquor and discharging their revolvers in the
air. Ball owes a number of other debts in Creede.
In his book The West From A Car-Window, Richard Harding Davis wrote briefly of numerous “prominent citizens,” including Bat Masterson, Bob Ford, and Soapy Smith. In these instances, Davis covered each citizen’s line of business, yet he mentions nothing of Ford’s Exchange or that Ford even had a saloon and gaming hall.
- Thieves and thugs, “conmen,” and murderers would crowd Ford's rooms
from night to morning, and whenever the noise of their carousals and
fights grew to unbearable they were quieted in a jiffy by somebody
shouting: “Here comes Masterson!”
Due to the short time opened, and the fact that Masterson did not take responsibility for law and order in Creede, I believe this is just fantasy on the part of the author.
The history of "Slanting Annie" is very vague. All I ever found on her was that she was buried next to "Gambler" Joe Simmons. [3] I looked online to see if there was anything new, but could not locate anything. The article has an interesting story on "Slanting Annie," but I am currently left with wonder how much of it, if any, is true.
Footnotes:
[1]: Creede Candle, June 3, 1892.
[2]: Alias Soapy Smith, p. 273.
[3]: “All about were new-made graves, where Joe Simmons and ‘Slanting Annie’ slept side by side.” Cy Warman, Frontier Stories.
"Bat" Masterson March 27, 2012
November 26, 2012
"Bat" Masterson: pages 74, 80, 84, 97, 103, 173, 176, 219, 223-25, 232, 419, 422-24, 435, 443.
"Sometimes you get and sometimes you get got."
