Hornswogglers, Fourflushers & Snake-Oil Salesmen (19 page)

A number of these opportunists, as had their predecessors in previous years, created guidebooks filled with advice and directions to help lead travelers from where they were to where they wanted to be. In 1859 that meant getting the gold seekers safely to the goldfields. While some of the guides were written by men with firsthand knowledge of the routes they described, a good many more were penned by untraveled journalists armed with little more than a handful of crude maps. If lucky, they also unearthed interviews with hard-bitten characters who claimed knowledge of the routes, then added their own fanciful notions of what the country west of their eastern offices might well look, feel, smell, and sound like.

In other words, many of the guidebooks were still little more than poorly researched fabrications. But the eager gold seekers knew nothing of this. They laid down their hard-earned dimes and delved into their newly bought guides with gusto, regarding them often as the most vital purchase they had made in preparation for their journeys westward to imagined wealth.

Much of the promising gold-filled terrain of the Pikes Peak rush was within the boundaries of the Territory of Kansas, established in 1854, a mere five years before, a region much larger than what became the state of Kansas. So it is little surprise that more than a dozen guides and tracts of instruction were penned by residents of that territory. This obvious attempt to lure the expected vast hordes of gold seekers through their region would help residents sell all manner of goods the travelers would need to outfit themselves for their journeys—even if those travelers didn't know it yet.

A prime example of one of the earliest guidebooks for the Fifty-Niners came from the pen of William B. Parsons, an attorney from Lawrence, Kansas. Originally published in December 1858, it was written by Parsons upon his return from an extensive expedition with a number of fellow prospectors throughout the Pikes Peak area and on down into New Mexico, a trek without luck in finding promising ore. They were then tipped off by other prospectors that color had been unearthed up north at Cherry Creek, where Denver today resides.

As it turned out, the men did have some luck finding gold there, and before winter a number of the party headed back to eastern Kansas, Parsons among them. That's when he set to work on his guidebook, suspecting correctly that the region would soon become overrun with gold seekers.

By early 1859 his book, a slim forty-eight-pager, came out in a second edition in Cincinnati for 25 cents. As his guide contained a number of advertisements of Lawrence-based businesses with goods and services targeting gold seekers, it was in Parsons's best interest to make a case for Lawrence being the ideal jumping-off point for gold seekers heading to Pikes Peak.

He suggested three routes from Lawrence to the goldfields, two of which he was personally familiar with, having traveled them. The third he was not familiar with, but on a map it looked plausible. That route, the Smoky Hill Trail, was theoretically the most direct route. It would also prove to be the most problematic.

Parsons and the other guidebook authors could hardly be blamed for exuding exuberance in their claims regarding the potential for the goldfields to produce tremendous amounts of riches. Such claims were based on the early promise of gold found. But they should have used restraint in their descriptions.

Much gold was found, but not on the grand scale some of the guidebook authors professed. Their biggest crime, however, was to tout the Smoky Hill route as a viable alternative to the two longer routes.

Unfortunately, a number of subsequent guidebooks urged prospectors to consider that middle, shorter Smoky Hill route. While true that mile-wise the Smoky Hill route was the most expeditious, it was also the most untested. The guidebooks that urged use of that route were written by men who had no experience whatsoever with it.

Shortly after following this route, travelers found that not only did a trail not exist, the landmarks described in the books were nonexistent as well. Entire parties soon became hopelessly lost, and while some managed to find their way back to civilization, many did not. Stories of starvation and cannibalism eventually emerged as byproducts of the journeys of those who took the Smoky Hill trail.

Eventually newspapers reported with frequency the tragedies befalling travelers of that promoted route. The
Western Journal of Commerce
(Kansas City, Missouri) asked: “How often will it be necessary to tell the public that there is no road up the Smoky Hill?”

Another publication, the
Cherry Creek Pioneer
, wrote, “Any other route is better than the Smoky Hill Road.” Another, the
Rocky Mountain News
, wrote, “Every day we meet men arriving from the States by the above route—most of them in an almost famishing condition.”

And yet people kept taking it, largely because of the ease of it as described in the faulty guidebooks. In what seemed a prime illustration of the dangers of taking the now-infamous Smoky Hill trail, it was reported in a Kansas City newspaper that an expedition of one hundred men, barely alive and owing to scant luck, made it down out of the Smoky Hill route and stumbled upon the Cottonwood Crossing trading post. They set upon the owner, beat him severely, and robbed him of eighty to one hundred sacks of flour, corn, and other provisions. Thus fortified, they headed straight for the goldfields.

Still other reports filtered in from small, straggling groups that somehow made it through. They spoke in dazed, hushed tones of seeing upward of one hundred corpses along the trail, wasted from starvation. The survivors, and increasing numbers of newspapers, laid the blame at the feet of the numerous guidebook authors and others who instructed the prospective prospectors to take that route. They filled the heads of travelers with the full expectation that there would be ample food, water, shelter, and camps already set up along the way. What the travelers found was the opposite—no trail, let alone a wagon road, little to no wood, scant water, and a distance that was more than half again what was indicated they could expect.

And the reported horrors were not yet over. The story of the Blue brothers and others of their party would prove the most horrific of all the Smoky Hill sagas.

In February of 1859, Daniel, Alexander, and Charles Blue, along with two friends, left home in Illinois and made their way toward Pikes Peak. By the time they arrived at Fort Riley, their merry band had grown to sixteen. On the advice of one member who assured them he had taken that route, they took to the Smoky Hill Trail. Soon after, nine of the men stopped to hunt buffalo, while the remaining seven kept on toward the goldfields.

It was not long before they became lost, as did their pack animal, on which was loaded much of their provisions. Then a snowstorm walloped them, and the group split again. Three went on and four remained, too weak to continue. Among them were the Blue brothers and a man named Soley. Within days the last of their meager provisions were gone and they foraged with little luck, subsisting on grass and snow.

They made a pact that should one die, the others would eat his body in an attempt to regain strength enough to press on. Soley soon died. It took the Blue brothers three days before they could bring themselves to eat the man's flesh. And so it continued, with brothers eating brothers until only Daniel Blue remained. He was found, barely alive, by Arapaho Indians, who brought him to the nearest express company office. In the end only five of the original sixteen men of his party ever made it to the goldfields. Little wonder that the Smoky Hill route came to be known as the “Starvation Trail.”

It is telling that not long after such woeful stories emerged, a journalist stated what would come to pass, too late to save so many so much hardship: “That route will doubtless turn out as good in the end as either the Northern or Southern. But at the time of the beginning of the Pikes Peak emigration, it was but partially explored. . . .” And that is indeed what came to pass, as the Smoky Hill Trail would within a few years become the preferred route. But not without further effort and hardship.

Despite the numerous ill-prepared guidebooks containing misleading or erroneous material, there were a good many more that were solid efforts with well-researched information written by individuals who had traveled the described routes. They took great pains to annotate their secondhand references, and to make note of waymarks and useful sources of water and safe places to rest. These guides, as well as all manner of anecdotal and firsthand evidence and experience, often provided enough information to get people closer to their desired destinations at the diggings.

Coupled with the can-do attitudes of the thousands of emigrants who trekked west, not just for a better life but as often for a different life, the western half of the United States and its still-emerging territories slowly became populated. What would those early pilgrims think of today's western United States? What would they think of the enormous sprawling cities, of the vast highway systems and power lines connecting everyone with everyone else? Of the wonders of GPS and satellite navigation that all but guarantee a person's immunity from starvation? Perhaps that's going too far. . . .

T
he man who came to be known the world over as “Death Valley Scotty” is one of those singular, quintessential American characters. It's as if he popped out of a mine shaft fully formed and ambled around for a while with that knowing half-grin on his face as he waited for the world to catch up with him.

The details of his life aren't too far off that mark. Born in Cynthiana, Kentucky, on September 20, 1872, Walter Edward Perry Scott wore, in his long life of eighty-one years, numerous hats, notable among them consummate con man; prospector; stage, screen, and film performer; surveyor; cowboy; and trick rider. Some of those hats fit him better than others.

Raised in a family that traveled hither, thither, and yon working the harness-racing circuit, young Walter showed an early proclivity toward horseback riding. He also sported a wide and long independent streak. By the time he was eleven, Scott lit out on his own, filled with dreams of becoming a top wrangler on the wide-open, alluring frontier. Already in place and living that Western dream were his two older brothers, working on a ranch near Wells, Nevada.

Those early years were doubly formative for young Walter, who indulged in all his cowboy ambitions and quickly proved himself to be a top hand. By 1884, twelve-year-old Scott was cowboying with the rest of the ranch hands. While working on a survey crew that year, he first ventured into the region that would come to define his very person, persona, life, and reputation. As it has with so many before and since, that vast and varied, arid three-thousand-square-mile terrain known as Death Valley entranced young Walter Edward Scott. Something in the seeming wasteland gripped the youth down deep, and though he would go out into the world and pursue many other ventures, Death Valley never loosened its hold on Walter. It was an early and formative experience that prodded him into realizing his talents and ambitions might be broader than cowboying would allow.

Despite his infatuation with that mysterious place, Walter Scott stuck with working as a cowboy. Within four years, at the tender age of sixteen in 1888, he was hired on as a trick rider for Buffalo Bill Cody's touring show,
The Wild West
. Scott stuck with the show for twelve years, traveling all over the United States and to Europe, performing as part of the show's vast cast for packed houses, for kings and queens, for presidents and paupers. His trick-riding skills, already formidable when he joined, became an anchoring, anticipated sensation.

By the time the new century rolled into view, the independent-minded Scott had begun to chafe under Cody's dictates. The two headstrong men—one the boss, world-famous Cody, the other, willful Walter Scott—locked horns a number of times over the years.

Finally, in 1902, on the announcement of his betrothal to Ella Josephine Milius in New York City, Cody and Scott had a final argument over money, and Scott left Cody's employ. This came at a time when the show had begun to feel the tension of increasing financial difficulties. Scott and Ella, whom he affectionately called “Jack,” relocated to Cripple Creek, Colorado, site of many past successes in gold mining. Unfortunately, Scott's efforts were not sufficient enough to earn him a spot on that list.

Feeling the sting of insolvency, Scott attempted to patch up his differences with Buffalo Bill but was unsuccessful at that as well. Though he'd always had a streak of the devilish about him, and had dipped a toe now and again into the brackish waters of chicanery, it was his next venture that would earn Scott a place on the Swindler's List. On learning that he'd been turned down by Cody's touring extravaganza, Scott returned to Death Valley, a place he'd been working for years in the off-season, when Cody's show was off the road for the winter months. Scott also shifted his attentions to a well-off New York City businessman.

The silver-tongued Scott convinced his newfound patron that he need only invest in his promising gold mine and fortunes would soon follow. The man, swayed by showman Scott's ample powers of persuasion, agreed to front Scott's Death Valley diggings.

In exchange, the investor received month after month of excuse upon excuse, each more promising and frustrating than the last. Incredibly, he put up with two years of letters from Scott telling why the mine hadn't yet paid off.

The real reason Scott hadn't shipped a single ounce of ore? There was no mine. His New York City investor had been backing a complete fabrication, and all the while Scott enjoyed himself at the expense of his patron, to the tune of $5,000.

Knowing that his repeated excuses and lies had worn thin with the gullible but frustrated patron, Scott hatched yet another devilish scheme, at the same time unwittingly gaining himself the national attention he craved. Scott sent word of good news to his investor—he was headed east with a sack of gold dust, $12,000 worth, in fact. When he arrived in the Big Apple, however, he shouted high and low to anyone who would listen—especially to the press—that he'd been robbed of his precious $12,000 in gold while in transit.