Soapy Smith colorized

JEFFERSON RANDOLPH SMITH II
colorized by Gary Sheaf
(photo: courtesy of Kyle Rosene)

nother superb example of Gary Sheaf's coloring talent. The Denver carte de visite, circa 1889-1893, that graces the cover of my book. Something my father said to me many years ago; "If you look like a crook, you can't be one." Look at those eyes and tell me this is a photograph of the old west's most infamous confidence man...

Thank you Gary Sheaf!

Gary Sheaf
April 27, 2012
April 22, 2012 

APRIL 30

1789: George Washington takes office as first elected U.S. president. 

1803: The U.S. purchases the Louisiana Territory from France for $15 million. 

1812: Louisiana admitted as the 18th U.S. state. 

1860: Navajo Indians attack Fort Defiance, New Mexico Territory, killing one and wounding two. 

1861: President Lincoln orders Union troops to leave Indian Territory. 

1864: Work begins on the Dams along the Red River. The work will allow Union General Nathaniel Banks' troops to sail over the rapids above Alexandria, Louisiana. 

1869: Union Pacific tracks reach Promitory Point, Utah. 

1871: Apache Indians are massacred at Camp Grant, Arizona Territory. 

1878: In Lincoln County, New Mexico Territory members of the "Seven Rivers Crowd" encounter Frank McNab, Ab Sanders, and Frank Coe, watering their horses in a stream. McNab and Sanders are shot immediately, while Coe attempts to escape but his horse is killed and he is captured. When the men returned to the stream they saw that McNab was still alive and they shot him again, killing him. Sanders eventually recovers from his wounds. 

1883: Luke Short, co-owner of the Long Branch Saloon, Dodge City, Kansas is angered when three female entertainers are arrested. Luke fires at L. C. Hartman who falls to the ground unhurt. Luke believing he has killed Hartman flees the scene. 

1884: Henry Newton Brown and two others attempt to rob a bank at Medicine Lodge, Kansas. The robbery is halted in a gun battle that costs the lives of numerous towns’ people. The robbers are captured and placed in the town jail. That night vigilantes stormed the jail and drug the men from their cells. Brown was killed while trying to escape. The other two were hung. At the time of the robbery Brown was Marshal of Caldwell, Kansas. 

1889: George Washington's inauguration becomes the first U.S. national holiday. 

1889: Outlaw George Tobler and Irvin Richmond were vying for the affection of the same female at a dance. Tobler, apparently distressed over his prospects, produced a pistol and shot Richmond dead. He was arrested immediately and sent to Fort Smith, Cache Bottom, Choctaw Nation (Arkansas) where he was hanged on January 30, 1890.

Thank you Howard! -Jeff Smith

Soapy Smith most likely did NOT meet Butch Cassidy.

t the end of March I published a post entitled, Did Soapy Smith meet Butch Cassidy? I have since learned new information and although it does not directly involve Soapy Smith I inadvertently passed on some faulty history and I need to correct my mistake. Making an honest mistake is one thing but I have a pet peeve about others intentionally passing on faulty history, so I have to uphold the same high standards for myself as well.

Originally I saw the following post on Facebook.

Butch Cassidy accompanies the McCarty brothers on another raid on this date (March 30) in 1889. This time the gang picked out the First National Bank in Denver, Colorado, robbing it of $20,000. Tom McCarty approached the bank president and with his odd sense of humor, stated: "Excuse me, sir, but I just overheard a plot to rob your bank." The bank president appeared visibly shaken and managed to ask "Lord! How did you learn of this plot?" "I planned it," McCarty said, pulling his six-gun. "Put up your hands." Four men, Cassidy, Tom and Bill McCarty, and Matt Warner rode out of Denver with $5,000 a piece from the robbery.

I have read every page of the Rocky Mountain News for the year 1889 and don't recall coming across a Butch Cassidy bank robbery so I decided to do a little research. I know that some hard-core Butch Cassidy historians reside at the Old West Rogues forum so I went there and asked if the content of the above paragraph was true?

Historian, Vince Garcia responded.

McCarty did do that robbery, dressed in fine clothes with supposedly a fake bottle of nitro as a threat, but I don't know how much firm proof there is that Butch was in on it. Some would say yes, and others would say no, and that they picked him up a few months later to do Telluride [Colorado].

At the time no one else responded so considering that he said, "Some would say yes, and others would say no," I figured I was safe in asking the question, did Soapy Smith meet Butch Cassidy?

Since then Butch historian, Pat S., spoke up on that forum and stated that Butch was definitely not at the Denver bank robbery. I asked her for a little more information and she provided me with the following.

I would be honored to try and give you my thoughts on this subject. Or rather what I can prove. I know Butch was up here in Fremont County [Wyoming] during the 1889 time period and up until the fall after he was released from prison Jan. 1896. This is from court records and other records I have that I have not yet released.

What is going on with all of this, is revisionist history. Authors and historians hearing stories or reading newspapers but doing no real research, wrote to sell their books. No one at the time prior to 1896 gave much thought to Butch Cassidy under any name he used. It was all about Logan and his gang and then at same time McCarty /Warner gangs. In fact there were many small gangs of men prowling the west at that time. After 1886, when so many cattlemen lost herds to the terrible winter of 1886/7 and prices also had fallen, they layed off cowboys in droves. Montana had earlier scared them out of the state with vigilantianism.

The cowboys in the thousands were out of work and on the prowl. Then the Johnson Co war stirred up even more in 1892. At the same time simultaneously in the Big Horn Basin similar things was going on, but were not reported. It is fairly well know and proven that the ranch foreman's were doing a great deal of stock thefts to start their own herds. Most of the owners of the larger ranches were out of the state or country.

The large cattlemen had banded together around the time of the weather losses in late 1880's, hired paid killers and also hired the Pinkertons. The Pinks were masters at spreading misinformation and sensationalizing it all. Job security. They were the Nancy Grace of their time. (smile) The newspapers were in the pockets of the rich barons and Pinks too.

In a nutshell, when Col. Torry and Otto Franc wanted to clear out the Big Horn Basin area and all of Fremont Co., they merely started a smear campaign against Butch and blamed him for everything happening anywhere in every state. Of course he could not have been in all the places that a crime occurred.

Hense he could not have been in Denver and in WY at the same time. After 1896 the paranoia and fear of Col Torry and his ilk created a larger than life persona for Butch. Torry had railroaded Butch as there was no theft of horses or anything else attributed to Butch known then as George Cassidy. What Butch did do, was stand up against bullies who were murdering small homesteaders or nesters as they were called. I have over 30 murders attributed to the hired killer detectives and sheriffs in the Big Horn Basin alone. One was Torry's nephew and another was Torry's forman.

Newspapers that did try to print the truth were suppressed, records deleted or stolen, and the only thing left for later authors were the misinformation and propaganda. Much like in today's world, mob mentality takes over and people chose sides.

Note that when Butch tried to get away from it, like going to South America, the Pinks hunted him there too. Started the same smear campaign.

The common man knew Butch for what he was. A friend to the little guy and a descent man. He never killed anyone. He never abused women, children, the elderly, or poor folks. His only crime was to not lay down for the bullies.

Thank you both, Vince Garcia and Pat S.

You will note that I placed a warning label on the original post so those returning to that post will see that it has been updated.

APRIL 7

1892: Soapy sells the Orleans Club.
1892: Lou Blonger’s gaming house at 1741 Larimer, is shut down because a “systematic bunco game was being carried on at this joint, and that the unwary were being roped in by the wholesale.”

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Dr. Samuel D. Cameron: Skagway, Alaska

f all the blogs I watch the Skagway Historical Society is up there in my top three! Marlene McCluskey is a wonderful historian and I love working with her on projects. Her goal of listing literally everyone who has gone through Skagway, Alaska is a tremendous task, and it's one she has very successfully chipped away at for years. She deserves all the credit for finding peoples names and histories that no one else has done thus far. I am grateful as are all historians who deal with Skagway's history.

On April 2nd she introduced the name and history of the young unknown doctor posing in both Soapy Smith autopsy photographs with Dr. Whiting, Dr. Cornelius, and Rev. Sinclair. Ladies and gentlemen I give you

Dr. Samuel D. Cameron

Dr. S. D. Cameron was famous for attending the autopsy on Soapy here in 1898. He was fairly young at the time, 24, having come from Ontario where he was born in 1874. He came from a big Scottish family, his parents were from Scotland. He worked at Log Cabin in 1901. After the Skagway bank robbery in 1902, he examined the body of the dead bank robber and chaired the coroners inquest here. He emigrated to the U.S. in 1902 and applied for his physicians license in Washington state also in that year.

In 1917 he married Laura Bouillard in Yakima, she was 26 then and Dr. Cameron was 43. He died on August 19, 1922 in Yakima and is buried there.

In the picture above, I believe that the young bloke to the far right is Dr. Samuel D. Cameron.

Howard Clifford p 142; yukon genealogy; 1920 Yakima census; Washington marriage, licensing, emigration and census records. 

Courtesy of Skagway Historical Society

APRIL 3

1882: Robert Ford kills outlaw Jesse James with a bullet to the back of the head.
1898: Sheep Camp (Alaska) avalanche kills approximately 70.

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Yank V. Fewclothes business card: artifact #47

(Click image to enlarge)

oday I introduce to you artifact #47 from my personal collection of Soapy Smith ephemera. It is one of Henry "Yank Fewclothes" Edward's "business cards" that Soapy wrote on the back, "Yank is a good fellow." as a sort of letter of recommendation. The card lists Denver's Windsor Hotel as Yank's home, business, or place of contact. The hotel was built in 1880 so the card cannot date any earlier. Soapy left Denver in 1895 so the card can't really date later.

At the time I published my book I believed that the honey and beeswax business was possibly real, but now I am having second thoughts. I believe it could very well be a front business and the card is to hand to potential swindle victims. Let's take a closer look at this card and attempt to read between the lines.

Fewclothes & Rich: That sure sounds like pun names to me. We already know that "Fewclothes" is an alias for Henry Edwards. It has been written that, "he never wore a coat; A homespun vest, nondescript pants, a dark heavy cotton shirt with a cravat tied under the collar, made up his wearing apparel ...." But what of "Guy Rich?" Is this possibly an alias as well, but for who? I have found no record or accounting of a person named "Guy Rich," nor any clue that Henry Edwards had a partner. Could the name be fictional so as to make his business (whether real or fictional) appear larger, more successful?

Pure Honey and Beeswax: Henry Edwards was a booster in the Soap Gang. His job was to lure victims towards the bunco establishments and games. He might give “insider tips” to an intended victim on how to win the game the victim was trying to buck. He was a member of the gang for many years so he must have performed his duties well enough. "He was always genial, soft spoken, and easy to meet.… He could be as coy and secretive as a school girl, when it suited his purpose; but he insisted that he was a straight shooter under all circumstances."

Honey is naturally sweet. Beeswax is a jocular alteration of the word "business." I found that meaning to go back to the 1670s, usually in an injunction to someone to "mind his own beeswax" (mind his own business). Could Pure Honey and Beeswax be Edward's self advertisement that he is a good friendly booster who minds to business?

(Click image to enlarge)

Henry Edwards is the Soap Gang member who wrote the poem, How Are You Fixed for Soap? From my  book, Alias Soapy Smith comes the following.

Henry Edwards, born 1848, was a dealer in honey and beeswax when Jeff brought him into the Soap Gang as a steerer and a booster. Edwards’ business card lists the names of Yank V. Fewclothes and Guy Rich, “Dealers in pure honey and beeswax.” The address is the Windsor hotel and gives a telephone number as “Main 182.” On the back of the card in pencil is what appears to be a reference from Jeff: “Yank is a great fellow. Jeff.” This is believed to have been written by Jeff when he left Denver for the last time in 1895. No account of “Guy Rich” has been found. With the pun-like names on the business card, “Fewclothes and Rich,” possibly “Rich” was a fictitious partner. Edwards signed all of his correspondence to Jeff “Yank Fewclothes.”

Edwards and his wife, Hi-Ki, were close friends with Jeff and his wife, often staying at the Smith house in Denver when Jeff's wife moved to St. Louis. The Denver Post noted that Edwards was so close to the Smiths that he was known as “‘Soapy’ Smith’s shadow.”

"He never threw down a pal."

—Henry “Yank Fewclothes” Edwards

speaking about Soapy Smith in a 1914 interview

Henry "Yank V. Fewclothes" Edwards
December 25, 2011
May 29, 2011 
April 11, 2010 

Henry "Yank V. Fewclothes" Edwards: pages 50, 52-53, 80, 92, 111-12, 172, 232, 243, 258, 386, 388-89, 395-96, 422, 582, 589, 592, 595. 

APRIL 2

1889: Bat Masterson, “Texas Jack” Vermillion implicated with Soapy and others in Denver election fraud.

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Tombstone Epitaph reviews Alias Soapy Smith.

The October 2011 Tombstone Epitaph had the following review of my book by historian and author, Gary Ledoux. Below is the complete text.

Alias Soapy Smith: The Life and Death of a Scoundrel – The Biography of Jefferson Randolph Smith II
by Jeff Smith
Published by Klondike Research, Juneau AK
Copyright 2009 628pp. $26.00 paperback only

Reviewed by Gary Ledoux

I first “met” Jefferson Randolph “Soapy” Smith while doing research about the gold-rush era town of Skagway, Alaska. In the summer of 1898, Soapy Smith held sway in Skagway’s underworld. He was portrayed as a con-man, swindling miners, robbing the unwary, and allegedly going so far as to pick the pockets of the victims of an April avalanche. He was portrayed as one-dimensional – and it was all bad. One of Soapy’s contemporaries, former Tombstone Epitaph editor John Clum, also in Skagway during that period specifically noted in his diary that Soapy was… “a leader in the shell-game racket.”

What I didn’t know, and great-grandson Jeff Smith covers in exquisite detail in his book, Alias Soapy Smith – The Life and death of a Scoundrel, is that Soapy was a most charismatic underworld leader in Denver and Creede Colorado way before Skagway. But most intriguingly, Soapy had a very soft side, helping the poor, the indigent and having an especially soft spot for children. In his twenty or so years as a con man and hustler, Soapy Smith made an outrageous amount of money, even by today’s standards, and either gambled it away or gave it away to those less fortunate. Sometimes, after he had swindled a man out of his last nickel, he would feel sorry for his “victim” and give him enough money to buy a boat or train ticket out of town.

Jeff Smith has done an outstanding job showing the many sides, the many adventures, and ultimately the controversial death of his ancestor with an incredible amount of primary sources including unpublished family records and transcripts from recordings made in the 1970’s of people who saw and knew Soapy in Skagway. Letters, documents and even newspaper clippings kept by Soapy himself bring this fascinating story to life with vivid accounts of the sometimes seamy, and sometime illustrious life he led during some turbulent times.

One thing that I didn’t know until reading this book, and I am sure few people know, is that more than anything, Soapy wanted to be viewed as a legitimate businessman – to be seen as a benefactor to the community. He wanted the legitimacy, but he also wanted to act politically on his own behalf to make sure the laws regarding his real profession remained lax and their enforcement even more so.

Whether he was trying to raise an army of American mercenaries in Denver to fight rebels in Mexico, or trying to raise a company of Alaskan soldiers to fight the Spanish in Cuba, or just running a quick game of three-card monte on a Denver street corner, Soapy Smith was certainly one of the most interesting and captivating personages of the-then disappearing frontier of the 1890’s.

“My God – don’t shoot” were reportedly Soapy Smith’s last words. Alias Soapy Smith is certainly the last word on the life of one of history’s most colorful characters and the times in which he lived. Jeff Smith is now counted among the ranks of those writers and historians who take the time to seek the truth, and then display it in a most compelling fashion.

Alias Soapy Smith belongs on the book-shelf of anyone interested in the old west, the Klondike/Alaskan gold rush, early Alaskan history, Denver political history, or the study of “consmanship” and gambling at the turn of the 20th century.

Mr. Ledoux, thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed my book, and that you shared that enjoyment with the world. If you just read the review and think you might like your own copy of Alias Soapy Smith, or perhaps would like to read what others have said then follow the links.

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A little inspiration... Soapy wise

Inspiration: Soapy wise

NOVEMBER 26

1853: Good friend of Soapy’s, William Barclay “Bat” Masterson is born. 1898: In a series of editorials titled “Unpunished Denver Murders,” The Denver Evening Post places Bascomb Smith’s shooting of Harry Smith on the list at number 10. To this day it remains on the list.

Jeff Smith

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I spy your little game: a poem

A friend of mine, Sanders, sent me the above piece of poetry. It was obviously published long ago, but is as relevant today as Thanksgiving (happy one by-the-way). My favorite lines are below.

~~~~~~~~~~

I've something now to tell you, and you'll own that it is true, 

We meet so many kinds of men, we scarce know who is who, 

Then of a kind advice I give, I think I'm not to blame, 

Whoever you meet. be sure, at first to see their little game.

Fol de rol, &c.

The other day, I met a man, his name, he said, was Brown, 

Says he: as you're a stranger, I will show you round the town, 

Of course, you'll stand espenses, next week I'll do the same, 

Says I: excuse me Mr. B— I spy your little game.

While at the races, lately, around I chanced to stray, 

A man, at three card-monte was shuffling away, 

Says one to me: I bet you fifty the next card you cannot name, 

Says I: sir, I'm not quite green enough, I spy your little game.

The other day, going down Broadway, at a Faro-bank I stopped, 

Where on the red and black cards the men their dollars popped; 

Says one to me: I bet a V.— now, you do just the same, 

Says I: my friend, excuse me, but I spy your little game.

~~~~~~~~~~

I received some nice comments from Facebook friends, Roger Smith and Christina Kelley Marshall today.

Roger writes,

"The more I read about Soapy the more it holds that 'truth is often stranger than fiction.' What a complex person he was. The King of the Frontier Con Artist, but at the same time the most generous man in Skagway." 

Christina writes,

"The book is awesome and you can tell a lot of work went into it. It's a great read!!"

Thank you very much Roger and Christina.

Jeff Smith

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Harry Houdini on bunco.

Harry Houdini's definition of BUNCO.

The origin of the term “bunco” (sometimes spelled bunko) comes from an old English game of chance in which a checkered cloth covered with numbers and stars is covered with a hood called a “bunco.” The game was to throw dice, which counted up to a certain concealed number. The man who knew the game was called the “bunco man,” or the banker, and later when this form of swindle became notorious the term was corrupted into “bunco.” To-day the word is used to denote almost any swindle where the victim is made to believe he is to receive a large sum of money or valuables, and then gets nothing at all.

Harry Houdini, The Right Way to do Wrong, 1906

Jeff Smith

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Harry Houdini on gambling

Gambling in itself is bad enough even when the game is square (honest); but your professional gambler never plays the game that way. He is an expert with cards. His seemingly innocent shuffle of the pack gives him a full knowledge of where every card is located. He deals you a hand good enough to induce you to make dangerously high bets, but not high enough to win. He lures his victim by small winnings to destruction in the end. He uses cards so cleverly marked on the back that he can read the values of your hand as well as if he were looking over your shoulder, and governs his play accordingly. 

 Harry Houdini, The Right Way to do Wrong, 1906.

Jeff Smith

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Excerpts from Grit, Grief and Gold by Dr. Fenton Whiting, part 2.

I felt like posting a humorous picture today, however, the following text is very serious. It is the finishing up of what Dr. Fenton B. Whiting had to say about Soapy Smith in his book, Grit, Grief and Gold: A True Narrative of an Alaska Pathfinder (1933).

Chapter 6, Pages 39-41,  (Wherein the Pathfinder Forestalls the Grafters)

By now the much-talked-of railway was assuming a reality. Already hundreds of tons of supplies and material were on the ground, and hundreds of men were scattered along the line for miles up the canyon, and the sound of heavy blasting rent the air night and day. The so-called "Wild Cat" railway, so dubbed by many doubting citizens, was rapidly materializing into a real one, although unwelcomed by many. The saloons, dancehalls and gambling dens were reaping a rich harvest from ingoing travelers, many of whom were often detained for days or weeks, due to impassable trails, and who remained in town and spent their money more or less freely. The packers were coining money with their horses, transporting supplies over the treacherous trail at fabulous prices, and they, also, frowned upon the new enterprise. For with a train leaving each morning for the interior, both packers and hotel keepers and others would lose this valuable trade; hence obstructions were placed in its way whenever possible.

One or two of these individuals were members of the City Council, where opportunity presented itself for further obstacles. For Skagway, although a typical frontier settlement in most respects, was also incorporated as a young city of several thousand and rapidly assuming a real metropolitan atmosphere.

Incidentally, the first mile of the line ran through the outskirts of the city from the ocean dock, and while many desired the enterprise with its permanent and substantial payroll, certain astute members of the Council seemed inspired with the same commercial spirit as many of their brethren in the States, and vague hints had reached the railway officials that affairs would be much expedited if certain members of the Council were consulted in private.

That ponderous body debated long one night, obviously inviting some substantial overture from the company. They had reckoned without their host, however, for in the interim the "Pathfinder" had not been caught napping, and during the hours of that night, a short half-mile distant, a very industrious gang of tracklayers and spike drivers labored hard and fast, and the following morning saw a very substantial track laid directly through the much-discussed territory, greatly to the chagrin of certain members of the City Council. The very first half-mile of railway ever built in Alaska was laid at night, and under somewhat peculiar circumstances.

Chapter 8, Pages 45-54,  (Rounding Up the "Soapy Smith" Gang, and the Death of "Soapy")

Things were rapidly coming to a climax in the underworld. The "Soapy Smith" gang was constantly becoming bolder, and several murders and robberies were directly and indirectly traced to their lair at "Jeff Smith's Parlors." Smith, the mastermind, with his variegated staff of crooks, feared no law nor officer of the law. The wealthy Yukoners had already learned that this section was no place for them and their gold, and had finally, through necessity, awaited the opening of navigation on the river and had dropped down from Dawson to St. Michael at the mouth, and there caught deep-water ships for the States. This meant some two or three thousand miles more of water travel, but also much safer, as they had learned from previous experiences.

Skagway's hotels, saloons and business houses had come to realize that something must be done, and were organizing for final action; something must be done immediately to regain this valuable lost trade. The U. S. Marshal was known to be in league with the outlaws, although a previous Marshal had been brutally murdered when he and a victim of the gang had returned to the scene of robbery, and both had been slain in cold blood by the bartender, the guilty one, and who had been acquitted by a picked coroner's jury which found it to be a case of "self-defense."

The end finally came one day when an unsophisticated Australian came out from the interior with a fair-sized poke of gold. "Soapy's" scouts had not overlooked him and he was soon steered up into "Jeff Smith's Parlors," where he and his bullion were soon parted during the afternoon. Smith's men never waited until night.

This proved to be the finish of the now famous band of outlaws. Things moved swiftly from then on, and within a very few short hours Skagway, the hot-bed of crime, was transformed into an exceedingly law-abiding village, where life and property were, for the first time in its history, entirely safe, and at all hours. The better class of citizens met, organized, and planned a meeting at one of the ocean docks at the lower part of the town, in order to insure privacy. A long trestle over the water led down to this. At about eight in the evening the vigilantes had gathered there, leaving several guards at the approach to hold back undesirables. One of these guards was Frank Reid, city engineer, a firm, law-abiding citizen of iron will and courage. He and Smith had been at outs for months, and the smoldering fire of animosity needed little to kindle it into flame.

This was July 8th. The previous night Smith and his gang had held up a convoy of liquor on the way up from the dock. The owner had gotten by the customs officers and was hurrying onward up town with his precious cargo. Numerous saloons were running and good liquor was at a premium. Smith's men had lain in wait and posed as customs officers, having received a previous tip. They took entire possession — team, wagon and liquor — the driver having escaped in the darkness, gladly sacrificing all in order to evade arrest. The outfit was then driven up town by the outlaws into an alley in back of "Jeff Smith's Parlors," where the liquor was unloaded and the team turned loose. The following day Smith, still celebrating the great haul of the night previous, was about town, making numerous calls at the saloons and spending his money freely. That evening the vigilantes were gathering at the ocean dock upon an important mission. Smith, through his emissaries, soon learned the object of all this, namely, to once and for all rid the town of him and his men.

His brain already afire with liquor, he was in the exact mood for trouble. Hastily notifying his men of his intention to go down and break up the meeting, he hurried onward, leaving word with his gang to follow on down immediately with their guns, and assist. As he approached the dock he recognized his old arch enemy, Frank Reid, face to face. There was a hasty recognition which was mutual, with no apologies. On his way down he had grabbed up his rifle and hurried onward. As he recognized Reid he approached boldly, and, before killing him, as he really intended to do, recklessly clubbed him with his rifle butt. Reid, revolver in hand, coolly pointed it at Smith's heart and pulled the trigger. It failed to explode, whereupon Smith lowered his rifle and fired point blank into Reid's body. Reid fell, but as he lay prone, paid a parting salute to the desperado, this time his revolver responding, and Smith fell stone dead, with a bullet through his heart, without uttering a word. Just behind him came rushing his gang, guns drawn, but observing the sudden change of affairs, they hurriedly retreated in all directions, some going into retirement in the resorts up town, others taking to the mountains. All were brought into custody within a few hours.

(Author's Note: I operated upon Frank Reid the following morning and held an autopsy on Soapy Smith's body the same afternoon.)

An infuriated and long suffering, now thoroughly aroused, community was at last taking the law into its own hands. The bullies and gunmen of the day previous, who had flaunted their insults in the faces of law-abiding citizens, were now cowed and whimpered at their feet.

We had just gone to bed at Rock Point, six miles out of Skagway. Thus far a mountain road had been constructed, running directly through our camp. We smoked our pipes and chatted casually over the doings of the day. Suddenly the door burst open and in rushed Dan O'Neil, the night watchman. He was much excited and out of breath. "They want you at the telephone down in the commissary," he addressed Heney. "Soapy and his men are on the rampage, and Hell's a-popping generally down there."

Heney sprang out of bed and hastily kicking his feet into an old pair of shoes, ran on down to the commissary without dressing. He soon returned, his face beaming with excitement.

"Get up and dress right away," he exclaimed, "they're rounding up Soapy's gang, and he's already been killed. Saddle up the horses, Dan, and we'll be right down behind you. Graves says to come on down with our horses and guns and turn everybody back on the trail who looks suspicious. Soapy's men have scattered in every direction, and some of them may be coming this way."

We were soon dressed and met O'Neil at the stable with the horses about ready, and were soon on our way clattering down the rocky road at break-neck speed.

At the upper end of town we encountered the vigilantes with a prisoner, and we continued on down to the city jail with them. There, hundreds of excited citizens swarmed about the place, a crude building made of roughly hewn logs, the front part the city hall, the back part the jail. Winchester rifles and revolvers were carried openly without the least effort at disguise. Now and then, men were seen with coils of rope in hand, like cowboys at a round-up. Some ten or twelve were by now captured, and the surrounding country was being combed for the rest. The Marshal, who had long been known to be in league with the outlaws, was encountered at his home and promptly relieved of his star, and a well-known citizen, who could be depended upon, was selected in his place, much to the relief of the former, who had expected somewhat rougher treatment. The new Marshal began his strenuous duties promptly. The U. S. Commissioner chartered a small boat and disappeared during the night, never to return.

Later, during the night, it was discovered that the three ringleaders of the gang had been secretly transferred up into the garret on the third floor of a nearby hotel for safety from the increasingly dangerous mob outside, bent upon satisfaction at any cost.

We stood at three the next morning out in front of the "Hotel Burkhard," with hundreds of others, at the foot of the stairway leading up to the top floor. Here, at the entrance, stood the newly appointed Marshal, pleading earnestly with the mob to be calm and let the law take its course. On the top floor, in a musty garret, stood three deputies with glistening Winchester rifles, braced to resist the onrush of the mob from below. Behind them, huddled together in one corner, were the three prisoners, expecting momentarily to be taken out and strung up. As the mob prepared for the final rush, one of the deputies poked his head out from a window and announced the escape of one of his prisoners by a back window. This was taken as a ruse by the gathering in front. However, a large man ran around behind and there stood "Slim Jim" with his back against the wall, glancing about anxiously for an avenue of escape. The large man "covered" him with his gun, and grabbed him by the collar, half dragged him out into the open. Out at the end of the alley stood a man with a coil of new rope in one hand and a Colt's revolver in the other, apparently undecided as to which to use, grasping the situation and realizing the opportunity of using either. Just then, however, a squad of U. S. soldiers rushed in and took charge of the prisoner, martial law having been invoked in the meantime, and the troops summoned from Dyea, four miles down the coast.

The three ring leaders were later tried before the Federal court and given heavy sentences in the penitentiary, the remainder of the gang sent to the States under a "blue ticket," with the warning not to return.

Thus ended the colorful career of "Soapy Smith," the hardest character Alaska had ever known.

In the crude cemetery just above town, in the dense timber, are many graves, most of these with a romantic history. Over one stands a huge column of native Alaska granite, endowed by citizens of Skagway, upon which is chiseled in bold letters:

"Frank H. Reid; Died, July 20, 1898, Age 54 years. He gave his life for the honor of Skagway."

Over by itself some distance away in the underbrush is another, over which stands a plain, weather-beaten board, upon which is painted in plain black letters:

"Jefferson R. Smith, Died, July 8, 1898. Age 38 years."

Many seasons have since come and gone. The deep snows of winter have fallen alike upon the just and the unjust. The chilling Arctic blast shrieks down the gulch and moans a solemn requiem over the silent city of the dead beneath the sombre spruces. The gaunt timber wolf emerges at night from the darkness out into the moonlight, glances furtively down at the few remaining lights in the deserted village below, crosses on over the graves, leaves his tracks in the cold, dry snow, and slinks once more back into the darkness. Beneath all, lie the earthly remains of Frank H. Reid and Jefferson R. Smith, sleeping on in peace throughout eternity.

June 24, 2011
June 19, 2011
April 12, 2009
January 8, 2009
January 8, 2009

Fenton B. Whiting: pages 80, 521, 537, 542, 564, 567-70, 595.

Jeff Smith

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Excerpts from Grit, Grief and Gold by Dr. Fenton Whiting.

Soapy Smith's Descendants at his grave
Skagway, Alaska July 8, 1998
(Click image to enlarge)

After meeting David Nelson, a descendant of Dr. Fenton Blakemore Whiting, who performed the autopsy on Soapy, I decided to read his book, Grit, Grief and Gold: A True Narrative of an Alaska Pathfinder (Seattle, Peacock publishing co., 1933), once again. It contains the adventures Dr. Whiting had in dealing with Skagway's underworld king.

Following are a few excerpts from the book I thought you might enjoy.

Chapter 3, Pages 24-25

"Skookum Jim" and "Tagish Charlie," Indians in on the "ground floor" with Carmack in his original discovery, came out after the "clean-up" and emulated their white brethren as best they knew how in flooding the town with their newly acquired wealth—although denied the freedom of the saloons, due to their Indian blood. However, there was no dearth of law-breakers here, and they readily procured their liquor from the gentry of the under-world, and thereby satiated the well-known craving of their tribe for that luxury. The "Soapy Smith gang" was more than willing to serve them, obviously, at a fabulous price, which meant nothing to these "fattened lambs"—the "ready money" in the parlance of the under-world, the "wolves" ever lurking behind the "fold." The Smith gang covered the entire criminal field, and hesitated at nothing from actual murder on down the long line, and without fear of interference from the authorities, who gave tacit consent—for a "split" of profits. Smith, the crafty leader of the criminal wolf pack, had, long years since, acquired the art of handling both officials as well as victims diplomatically, and lost no sleep from worry. He'd had his schooling from early life in the wild mining camps of Colorado, and unsophisticated Alaska was "easy pickings" for him.

Chapter 4, Pages 28-31 ("Soapy Smith," the Outlaw)

"Soapy Smith," the Outlaw "Jeff Smith's Parlors," read the sign over one door. Here the headquarters of the notorious "Soapy Smith" gang. Here the "Fly," the unsophisticated one, was invited into the "Parlor" by the proverbial "Spider," with the usual result. Here crime flourished unhampered, with the connivance of the constituted authorities.

A few days after our arrival a very interesting character introduced himself on the street. A man of striking personality, he more nearly represented the typical Southern planter of olden days. "I believe," he began, "this is Mr."

Dressed immaculately, a man in his late thirties, wearing an expensive silk shirt upon which rested a gaudy tie, surmounted by a flashy, huge diamond, a well-trimmed Vandyke beard of ebony hue, broad brimmed Stetson hat of light color, a clear-white skin and keen gray eyes. He took some cigars from his pocket and handed over one. The butt of a heavy, ivory-handled Colt's six-shooter loomed above his belt.

"My name is Jeff Smith," he began. "They call me 'Soapy' up here," smiling slightly. "Anyway, that's alright with me. Well, now, you're going to be up here for some time, and I want you to make yourself at home at my place. Come on over now and see what you think of it."

We strolled on over to "Jeff Smith's Parlor" and entered. Stepping up to the bar, he commanded the man behind to produce his best, which command was promptly complied with. As we once more turned about, there appeared before us a motley array of faces, standing idly by, watching and waiting for the mysterious gesture from their leader. They waited in vain, however; this was simply a social affair, and the trained galaxy of hardened criminals soon caught the idea and marked time. They were, however, ready for any emergency, each suited to his own particular calling; the burly prize fighter, his massive hands resting upon his hips, wearing a heavy blue sweater, ready for action; the sure thing card shark, his bejewelled hands betraying his illegal calling. Several tough-looking gun men with well-known criminal records in the wild mining camps of the "Rockies"—Creede, Cripple Creek, Denver and others—lolled about the bar or fumbled with cards at the tables nearby. Two young striplings in their twenties waiting for messages from their chief to go out and bring in some new arrival who promised real money—a veritable rogues' gallery of one hundred per cent efficiency, on tap and ready to go the limit at a moment's notice.

"Soapy Smith," the one biggest man in town by long odds, proudly emphasized that fact by proclaiming himself the "Uncrowned King of Skagway." Many more or less prominent citizens hobnobbed with him, partly through fear, but also for financial gain, indirectly, and winked at his depredations, although well knowing of his illegal activities. He presented a striking appearance a few days later, as he rode a prancing dapple-gray horse at the head of the Fourth of July parade, in front of a noisy brass band playing patriotic airs. Dozens of cameras snapped him as he passed, much to his satisfaction and pride. He was killed four days later as an outlaw, by the vigilantes.

The Spanish-American War having broken out that same Spring, Smith had seized upon the opportunity to arm and drill many of his admirers and followers, and had volunteered their services to the President at Washington, who had courteously declined the offer, for obvious reasons, with thanks, and "Soapy" had thereupon framed the document and hung it up on the wall of his parlors as a drawing card.

This was Skagway in '98.

June 19, 2011
April 12, 2009
January 8, 2009
January 8, 2009

Fenton B. Whiting: pages 80, 521, 537, 542, 564, 567-70, 595.

Jeff Smith

.

Barbara Meeks, Sue Henry, and Soapy Smith

(Click image to enlarge)

Most people who come across Soapy's history and wish to contact me don't have too difficult of a time being able to find me. Googling Soapy Smith or Alias Soapy Smith is the easiest way as my sites are number one on most search engines. Searching for Jeff Smith doesn't work so well as there are far more famous Jeff's in the search engines listed and I didn't bother seeing how far back I was listed.  Most people also search regarding recent events so everything is fresh and new, but what happens when the information they are working with isn't so fresh?

Every now and again someone finds me using a little elbow work Today, I'd like to introduce to you, Barbara Meek, a persistent elbow-er, who brightened up not only my day, but that of an author I worked with back in 1996 whom I haven't talked to since the late 1990s. A new friend is made and an old one rekindled. 

A number of days ago I received the following email,

I have a Sony e-book and tried to find your book The True Story of Jefferson Randolph Smith by Jefferson Randolph Smith III. But I couldn't find it in the Reader Library. The only book they had on this subject is Klondike. Can you please do whatever it takes to get your books in this library.

Thank you,
Barbara Meek

When I read the email the first time I thought it was the beginning introduction to a sales pitch from someone at the Reader Library trying to get me to shell out the money to have my book placed in their eBook sales listings. I'm not a fan, let alone knowledgeable, of eBooks yet. I'm one of those die-hards who like to hold my books. I also understand that footnotes and source listing are an ongoing issue that raise the prices for eBooks. Being a historian who loves to research my books footnotes I am not ready to give that up just to have my book on a contraption. I'm sure people said that very sentence about most great new devices. Hell, I remember wondering why people would ever need a computer in their homes. Oh God, I'm old! I digress...

I wondered where Barbara got the idea that the name of my book was The True Story of Jefferson Randolph Smith, and that my name was Jefferson Randolph Smith III. The latter made me think of Cathy Spude who continues to call me that, knowing full well it's not my name. Regarding the title, I just figured Barbara forgot the true title as she was typing the email to me. I always respond to my emails and did so with Barbara's.
 

Hello, Barbara.

The name of my book is, Alias Soapy Smith: The Life and Death of a Scoundrel by Jeff Smith (I'm not Jefferson Randolph Smith III). There are currently no plans to put my book on ebook. From what little I understand about ebooks placing all my footnotes, etc. would be cost prohibitive. My publisher is a smaller firm in Juneau, Alaska. I'm very sorry but the only way you will be able to read my book is to do it the old fashion way. Books can be ordered in several ways. Click this LINK to see more. You might enjoy the page even if you don't plan on buying a book.

If there is anything else can help you with please don't hesitate to write.

Jeff Smith

Barbara did not hesitate to write,

Hello, Jeff,

Ok, thanks, I will do this. Where I received my information was from a book called Death Takes Passage by Sue Henry. It mentioned on page 79 that Jefferson Randolph "Jeff Smith, IV, Soapy Smith's great grandson wrote the book The True Story of Jefferson Randolph Smith. Just so I know, is this incorrect information?

Thank you for this information. I'll be ordering your book soon.

Thank you again,
Barbara Meek

That email explained everything to me. I went through my library and found my sacred copy of Death Takes Passage and all those long-gone memories of writing and talking with Sue Henry came flooding back to me. That period of my life from 1996-1998 was fantastic. The Klondike gold rush centennial was being planned and executed and Soapy and I were right there in the mix. I was invited to be one of the few passengers on the Spirit of 98 during it's reenactment of bringing a ton of gold into Seattle. The reenactment included actually bringing a ton of gold into Seattle on that ship one hundred years to the day. The Washington State Museum in Tacoma asked and received from me, a loan of several artifacts of Soapy's for a room devoted to him during a special exhibit on the history of the gold rush. This kept me from being on the ship but enabled me to make the trip to Seattle and be on the docks when the ton of gold arrived! I have always believed Soapy was there on the docks when the original ship, the Portland arrived into Seattle July 17, 1897. It was a great time, which you can read about and see some photographs I took on a page devoted to the event.

I now understood where Barbara was coming from and told her so.   

Hi, Barbara.

Ok, now I know where you're coming from. That is me depicted in the book. I wanted to be the bad guy in the end but Sue's publisher felt there might be legal issues so I ended up as an unknowing pawn in the books heist. The book was written in 1997 and my book did not come out until 2009. In 97 I did not have a title yet, lol. Thank you for sharing that with me, it will probably make the pages of my blog, if you don't mind.

... Sue Henry did her very best to base her fictional story around a real event. I was actually supposed to be on that ship during the ton of gold reenactment but a museum loan and offer beat them out of my commitments. In fact, because the museum was in Tacoma I made arrangements to spend the day in Seattle and met the ship coming into dock. Soapy very well might have been in Seattle down on that dock in 1897.

Sue and I talked over via mail and telephone numerous times to get her facts straight. The changes made were not the fault of hers. At the time I thought my book would be completed by the time hers came out. I was only off by 12 years!


Jeff Smith

You can preview Death Takes Passage at this link. Page 20 is where I am introduced and my character begins

Barbara writes,

Hi, Jeff,

Yes, Sue is an excellent writer and I absolutely love her books, as I love Alaska. I do understand about her research vs your research. And I know she tried her best to be totally accurate. I know you missed a real treat by missing that particular boat ride, but know it was enjoyable to meet the ship in Seattle. You're right, Soapy may have been there in 1897. I think it would be an honor to meet you and discuss your research/book and also to meet Sue. I am so glad she writes books around the AK area.

First, to try to find you and the book, I went to the Reader Library for my e-book. This did display a book by another author about Soapy, other characters back then and about the Klondike. but I wanted to read your book since you are directly related to Soapy and I know the facts would be, without a doubt, correct. I'm not saying the other author isn't correct, but I know you definitely are. . But, you're right, I found you by Googling "Soapy Smith" and it referred you to me.

Barbara Meek

Barbara ordered my book and her and I have continued to write to one-another everyday since.  In one of the conversations we discussed Sue Henry and how Barbara really wanted to let her know how much she enjoyed her books. I looked through my files from 1996 and found a letter from Sue that had her phone number. It has been 16 years since I last talked with her on the phone and naturally figured there was a good chance the phone number was no longer correct. Amazingly, it was! I told Sue about her special admiring fan, Barbara and Sue wanted me to make sure I told her that she really appreciated her devotion. Sue wanted Barbara to know that her latest book will be out hopefully in the fall of this year. Sue and I then caught up on old times and what has happened since. It was real nice to talk with her again. In fact, Death Takes Passage now sits on my nightstand where I am enjoying it as much as I did when I first received it.

In Barbara, I think I've found a life-long member of Friends of Bad Man Soapy Smith, as well as a personal friend.

Jeff Smith

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Bob Wieking, grand nephew of Martin Itjen

(Click image to enlarge)

Thanks Bob!

Jeff Smith

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