>Y^ILE«¥]MU¥JlIESIir¥- ILlIBIIMKSr • Gift of New York Tribune 1923 SKETCHES OF BUTTE ANACONDA HILL "The Richest HiU" Sketches of Butte (From Vigilante Days to Prohibition) BY GEORGE WESLEY DAVIS >»> AUTHOR OF ' Dancing Girls of Cairo," " On the Danube and Ihe Rhine " THE CORNHILL COMPANY BOSTON Copyright, 1921 By THE CORNHILL COMPANY FOREWORD In writing these sketches, I have avoided, as much as possible, the over-written mines, courts and politics. I shall give a pen picture of a wonderful Western camp, the good and bad of an un usual people, the joys and horrors of the largest mining camp in the world, a city of many contrasts. The Butte of the early days is passing, and like many of what were once the frontier towns and camps of our great Western coun try, the picturesqueness of its life is passing with it, so that, even today, it seems neces sary to make a narrative of personal experi ence or observation, as most old-timers of the "diggings" are averse to talking of early days, except in a general way. Perhaps it is because of a fear of throwing light on shadows of former days, — a time when life was reckless. One must have lived in those days to picture it as it was from the begin ning of the placer diggings down to the vi Foreword present day. It is imy wish to be fair with all classes and give conditions as they have existed from year to year. I trust that this fact alone will justify my taking the reader from places of joy to sections where tragedy stalks about the streets. Many of the great mining camps today are ghost towns — Bannack, Cripple Creek, Tonapah and Goldfields are scarcely more than memories (of their tempestuous past, and their history has largely died with them. Butte alone remains individual, distinct, apart, greater today than ever before, a city now, although throughout the world referred to as a camp, the most wonderful the world has ever known, half ashamed of its past, yet like unto no other of our important cities. George Wesley Davis. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I Vigilante Days 3 II From Virginia City to Butte ... 21 III The Stranger's First Glimpse of Butte 27 IV Wandering Around 31 V "Dope" Colony 40 VI Cemeteries of Butte 54 VII Many Joys 57 VIII Foreign Population 64 IX Extremes in Society 68 X Some Interesting Characters ... 76 XI At the Old Country Club . . . . 101 XII Corrupting Fellow Men . . . . 115 XIII The Crime of Blackmail .... 123 XIV Patriots and Traitors 131 XV The Hanging of Frank Little . . 136 XVI Mainly About Houses 140 XVII The Plague 149 XVIII Going Dry 163 XIX At the Present Time 171 ILLUSTRATIONS "The Richest Hill" Frontispiece FACING PAGE Vigilante Notice 3-7-77 11 Indian Wrestler 33 Rural Life of Author 58 Bucking Pinto 105 The Old Town 145 Invitation to Hanging 171 SKETCHES OF BUTTE SKETCHES OF BUTTE Chapter One VIGILANTE DAYS In the early sixties Montana was infested with bandits of the lowest type. The first successful reform movement was| planned and accomplished by the Vigilantes. That was before my day in the west; a time when Henry Plummer and his associates terrorized Montana and Idaho. I can best tell the story of the Vigilantes as it was told to me by one who lived in the territories in those days. He was an old man I met in the office of a little hotel in Virginia City who gave me the story of his early life. I had just returned from a walk down Alder gulch to Nevada, a camp two miles below, where, in early days, wild and picturesque characters panned gold. It was a fascinating walk as the sun's soft glow melted into twi light; sparkling waterfalls sang in the eve ning's quiet, and nature seemed a fairy dream. 3 4 Sketches of Butte At twilight here the world is mystic, And the purple canyon seems Brooding over the empty cabins Ghostly in the pale moon-beams. Here they flocked when life was cruel, Rough hard men of rugged mould, Driven to earth's farthest places In their quest for harder gold. But tonight stars blink and quiver, And trees whispering seem to say, "When gold failed they quickly left us Here in solitude to stay." As shadows deepened deserted cabins seemed weird in the mystic twilight. Trees with their fresh spring green sparkled like myriads of jewels, as stars broke through from above. Being a lover of nature more than of the artificial life of the city, I walked slowly through the still canyon, but life's current ran swiftly in my veins. Pines whispered to the rippling waters, and the whole atmosphere was delightfully fascinating. White peaks, where the sunlight lingers long, were darken ing as I reached the hotel. I bathed my hands in a basin of cold water that stood in Vigilante Days 5 a corner of the office, and dried them on a roll-towel that hung close by. The place was used as office, bar, and sitting-room. A barber's chair stood in one corner. Wooden cuspidors, with sawdust in them, were here and there about the floor, but the loungers seemed rather to try at hitting the stove which stood in the center of the smoke- filled place. ' The old man who told me the story of the first Vigilance Committee was quick-witted and well read for one practically self-made. He was vigorous, but his shoulders were bent and many lines showed in his pleasant face. He was a Mormon who had drifted away from the cold, commercial life of the colony at Salt Lake. "The first name (given to this camp," he said, launching into the story, "was Varina City. The name was given in honor of the wife of the Confederate President, Jefferson Davis, but afterwards was changed to Vir ginia City. "My mother was a New England woman," he continued, "and imparted to me the love and affection of her people. She was never a Mormon at heart." 6 Sketches of Butte He sat for a moment his eyes resting on the floor. I asked him why she married into the Mormon church. His answer was: "Please do not ask me." His sad voice dismissed the subject. "My father," he said, "was an English man; strong mentally, but slight pf physique. My mother was his fifth and last wife. By the five wives he had twenty-five children. All who lived were both mentally and phys ically strong, and, I think, above the average. When I was a boy just passing into man hood, my father talked to me of the future. I hstened — that was all. He said to me that day: 'My son, you will soon have reached the age when it will be wise for you to take unto yourself a wife. I am going to tell you how I chose my wives, and I wish you to follow my example.' "He told me how the sire gave the mental characteristics to a child, while the mother imparted the physical. As he finished he said, 'So, son, in selecting a wife, look for physical charms as a farmer would select a desirable spot for a garden. Do not allow that emotion the Gentiles call love to enter your mind.' Vigilante Days 7 "While listening to him my thoughts went out to a httle schoolmate. Although only a boy I loved the little girl devotedly and re volted at my father's suggestion." "Did you marry her?" I interrupted. "Yes," he smiled. "We kept our secret from the world, guarding it as we would a great treasure. When I reached the age of eighteen, my father again talked to me and suggested I take my first wife. I was then a man grown and fully able to provide a home." "I suppose you were not long in deciding, were you?" I said, in a joking way. "No," he smiled again. "She soon became my wife. "As the colony at Salt Lake grew to be a city," he continued, "the people spread out to nearby territories, my people coming to this state — then a territory. We left Zion one morning at sunrise. My father, his wives and younger children, my wife and myself, comprised the little band that headed for Bannack, our future home. We were two months making the journey, for we suffered much from small bands of renegade Indians and often spent days in hiding. At such 8 Sketches of Butte times it was necessary to blindfold our horses and muzzle their mouths, the covering being removed only when they were fed and wat ered, for their whinny would tell the Indians of our whereabouts. "When on the march and camped for the night I would take my place at the edge of the little camp and sit with gun in hand during the long, lonesome hours of the night, guarding the loved ones while they slept and taking my rest during the day as we jour neyed on. My wife drove the horses while I slept on the bed of the dead-ax wagon." "Did you not have mattresses?" I asked. "No," he laughed, "of course not. At first we had ticks filled with dried wild grass, but at different times when we were in hiding the contents of those ticks had to go to feed the horses, for they could not get the native grass. Before we reached Bannack the last tick had been emptied and we were sleeping on the hard boards of the wagon-bed. I chill when I think of those nights of watching, and the heavy mist that came just before the break-o'-day, shutting from view the bright stars, and spreading its gray mantle oven the slumbering earth. It was damp and Vigilante Days 9 frosty. Trees and rocks sparkled like crys tals, while the blue-green sage-brush was like waves of silver spangles." I watched him closely as he spoke. There was an exquisite refinement beneath that rough exterior, and the picture he gave was beautiful. "It was a strain every moment of the night," he said quietly, looking down, "and I was glad to see the morning star dim, and feel the air grow balmy as the crimson rays of the rising sun appeared. Those were anxious, but happy days. The buffalo and antelope wandered at will. We could kill prairie chickens, grouse and sage hens with a stick. "When we reached Bannack our trying days came, for the camp and surrounding country were cursed with a lawless gang of robbers and murderers who spent their time in gambling and licentiousness of the vilest description. Lewd women from the slums of Eastern cities were brought into the com munity, and their resorts were hell-holes where many men were entrapped, robbed and mur dered." 10 Sketches of Butte "Those certainly must have been stirring times," I interrupted. "Yes," he continued. "Men who fre quented the dance-houses for recreation were relieved of every dollar they took there, and those who expressed themselves as opposed to the bagnios and revolting horrors were shot, or in other manner murdered by un known persons. "As the days passed the ruffian power in creased until it became absolutely necessary to take action. We were face to ,face with a dreadful issue, and at last the better element arranged for a secret meeting to be held at my father's home. This meeting of strong and pure-hearted men took place just before dawn one cold winter night, that hour being chosen as it was a time when fewer people were astir. The men came one or two at a time so as not to arouse suspicion for that might mean death. "At the meeting we discussed the situation and the question, 'Have we the right to con demn to death a fellow man?' The decision we came to was, Yes, we have the right to protect our wives, daughters, property and ourselves against the worthless element.' We 3-7-77! A1 A Meeting will be held I at the usual House and I Place, Sunday Evening. As Business of Importance has arisen, a full Attendance is requested. •J£* X2X47, Chm. X 37 x 3, Secy. THE FIRST VIGILANTE NOTICE OF MEETING Vigilante Days 11 felt it a duty, in the absence of the law, to become a 'Court of Justice,' to handle the question. We realized we were face to face with an organized body of murderers, men and women saturated with social vice of the most repugnant nature. "When a criminal was found in the com munity he was quietly taken away and given a trial. If death was the sentence he was quickly hanged. If the sentence was banish ment, he was taken a few miles away and told to go, and he never Icame back, for he knew to return meant death. A suspicious character was warned to leave by placing 3-7-77 on his cabin door, or pinning the num bers on his pillow; 3 meant a grave three feet wide, 7 the number of feet long, and 77 inches deep. "It was not long after the organization of the Vigilantes that peace and security came to the people, and a lock was seldom found on a door, for robbery became almost un known. "Then for a while came happy days. In winter time the firelight danced cheerfully in our little log cabin home, casting fantastic reflections on the whitewashed walls; and in 12 Sketches of Butte summer time soft perfume of wild flowers filled that same room where little tots, played with rag dolls. Oh, how I loved that life! Our home was filled with love — the exquisite old-fashioned love we see so little of these days. "A few years after peace and quiet came to us our happiness was marred by my mother's passing away. One day not long before death came I was alone with her. It was then she asked me not to become polyg amous. This was not difficult for me to promise, for I had no intention of taking another wife. Not long after her funeral my father began preparations for a pilgrim age to Salt Lake. Then a break came be tween us, for he wished me to take another wife." The old man left his chair and walked to a window where he stood for a few mo ments; then turning to me, said: "Come, it's a beautiful moonlight night; let us take a walk. I will show you an old scantling down the street where many lynch- ings have taken place." Soon after we had left the smoke-filled room, he turned to me again and said: "I do not often have an opportunity like this. I get lonesome, and hungry mentally. My Vigilante Days 13 wife has passed away and my children are all married, so there seems little else for me to do evenings but sit and listen to the clink of poker chips. When an intelligent 'tender foot' comes along, I enjoy talking to him." He smiled as he looked up to the clear moon. "It is such a wonderfully bright night, perhaps we shall hear a Montana nightingale sing before we return." We had gone but a few yards when he stopped suddenly. "Listen," he said. "There it is now." It was1 the mournful howl of a coyote. On the brow of a nearby hill, in fine silhouette, stood the timid animal with head uplifted to the moon — the guardian of the night. "The time they seem to be bravest," he said, "is when the moon shines brightest. Whether or not the mournful wail is a supplication, human mind has never been able to tell." He stopped as we turned a corner. "I would like to show you the spot near Ban- nack where we executed 'Dutch John' and several others," he said, "but perhaps this will interest you as much. The biggest lynch ing that was ever pulled off in the Territory was near here, but the first was in Bannack. 14 Sketches of Butte "In early days," he continued, "this street leading into the gulch was lined with hurdy- gurdies, gambling-houses, bagnios, and other hell-holes that seemed necessary to the hap piness of the free-rangers of the hills. Road- agents, thieves, murderers and robbers con gregated here." We walked on in silence. Soon b.e stopped and turned to me: \ "'Right here, one night, five road-agents were strung up. In full view of a crowd of people five ropes were swung over a beam you see here, a noose was made at one end of each rope and left to dangle1 over an empty barrel or box." "Were you one of the executioners?" I asked. He made no reply to my question but con tinued: "All but one professed to have some religion in his makeup, a something that had been asleep for years, but suddenly came from the dormant state and manifested itself, for on the way from the courtroom to the place of hanging, one of them turned to one of the judges who walked close by, and said in all earnestness, 'Will you pray for me?' The procession halted and the judge dropped Vigilante Days 15 on his knees with 'Clubfoot George' kneeling on one side and Jack Gallagher on the other, and there offered up -a fervent prayer for the welfare of the souls of the condemned road- agents, and then the procession moved on to the scaffold. When they reached the spot the condemned men were lined up, five in a row, some on boxes, some on upturned bar rels. After the nooses were adjusted they were asked if they had any requests to make. 'If you have, they will be heeded,' said the chief judge. " 'I want one more drink of whiskey before I die,' was Gallagher's last request, while Lyons begged to see his mistress. Gal lagher's request sort of stunned some, and (an old-timer called in a loud voice: 'We told 'em that we'd grant their request, so give 'im a drink.' "He was given a generous 'shot' — a water- glass nearly full, and drained it to the last drop, refusing a 'chaser.' " 'Clubfoot George' was the first to drop. When Gallagher saw his companion swing, he called out to the throng of onlookers: 'I hope I shall meet you all in the hottest pit in hell.' The words had hardly left his lips 16 Sketches of Butte when the barrel he was standing on was pulled from underneath his feet. " 'Kick away, old pard,' called one of the others, as the body swayed, 'I'll meet you in hell in a short time.' "After the last criminal had paid the pen alty the bodies were left hanging for some hours and then turned over to friends if the unfortunates had any." "And I would be willing to wager every one had at least one friend," I suggested. "I do not believe the person lives who can honestly say, 'I haven't a friend,' and I do not believe there is a person living who hasn't some good in him. There is a grave by a roadside in the northern part of the state. It is the lone grave of a woman. An old weather-beaten,: fence is built around the spot. There is no marker to tell whose body rests there. Old-timers who know hesitate to tell; still she had one friend at least, for at Christ mas season a wreath is placed on a picket at one corner of the fence surrounding the grave. Stage passengers who ask are told it is a grave, that is all." "Guess you are right," he said, as we turned from the scene of the tragedy and Vigilante Days 17 slowly started back towards the hotel. He was the first to break the silence, and spoke twice before getting my attention. "Why so pensive?" he asked. "I was thinking of Jack Gallagher's last request," I answered, "and of an early morn ing back in Iowa when I was a young boy." "Tell me about it," he said, with much in terest. "It is now far past midnight; your stage leaves for Butte at daybreak; suppose we; talk instead of sleeping." I was glad to acquiesce, for I knew, should I go to bed, I might coax slumber in vain. I had a mental picture of Gallagher taking that| large drink of whiskey just before going to the life beyond, and memory came to me of a still beside a river back East and men loading whiskey for Montana, and I could see two little boys in white night-gowns sit ting on a fence watching men brand cattle to go with the whiskey, and I felt as if I were a partner in the deal. ' "If you say you will stay up I shall feel greatly indebted to you," he said, "and you can tell me why you were thinking of that last request." We had reached the hotel and taken chairs 18 Sketches of Butte outside, as there was an all-night game on in the office and the players would have been disturbed by our voices. "Now tell me why you were upset over that last request of Gallagher's," he said, as he moved his chair close to mine. "I do not know why it should have upset me, but it did and I felt guilty," I answered slowly. "My uncle's first big stake) was made by bringing whiskey into Montana from our Iowa home. Now as I look back and see the men rolling barrels from the mouth of a tunnel where they had been stored since the beginning of the Civil War, I feel that in some way we were associated with the crim inals. Who knows but what some -of that whiskey helped to make them criminals." "Are you a prohibitionist?" he asked seri ously. "No," I answered, "but I am strong for high license. High enough to do away with the grogshop." "I knew your uncle," he interrupted, "and I remember w,hen he brought the whiskey into the Territory by 'bull-team.' He also was much interested in the Vigilante game, and if I am not mistaken, that is how he acquired Vigilante Days 19 the title of 'Judge,' " he laughed, in a teasing manner. "Yes, I know that," I said, and I told how my brother and I, early one morning, crawled up on an old board fence and watched men brand cattle to drive overland with that 'bull-team.' "Did you ever go back to the old home?" "Yes," I said, and I thought how I had always regretted it. The childhood picture of my old home was that of a big, white house on a high hill; a house whose red roof dominated the whole landscape; a house whose windows looked down over a wide basin, and over a wonderful meadow, across a torrent river to a city with a background of wooded bluff. My longing to see the old home was great, so after many years I went back to the place. Then my happy dream faded away. The big house wasn't large. The hill was a rise of ground. The wonder ful meadow was an ordinary field, and the wide, roaring torrent a placid stream. Iowa- ville, the city of my dream, stood near the river; a store or two near grimy houses lean ing awry, their broken windows staring out over farm lands. The schoolhouse, where 20 Sketches of Butte children once woke the echoes, was tumbling into ruin. Fences were gone and tangles of brush and briar hid unsightly ruins that had yielded to the tooth of time. Now and then a lonesome dog-bark was heard, and I was glad to get away. "The reason I asked the question," said my old friend, "was that I was going to suggest to you not to go back. Things are never the same. People change. We change. Different environments change us. Our trend of thought changes, and it is always a disappointment. It is better to keep the old picture." While talking we had not noticed the approach of dawn. Chapter Two FROM VIRGINIA CITY TO BUTTE My mind was crowded with recollections as I took a seat beside the driver of the coach. It was a bright, crisp morning. Deep shadows were fading as the sun's crimson glow mounted higher and higher into the heavens, kissing the snow-white peaks which were like sails on a great, purple sea, for the clouds hung low. Soon we were passing down the main street be hind four prancing horses and wheeled into Alder gulch headed for Butte. Under a canopy of azure blue the scene had lost the mysteriousness of the evening before, and a spirit of life filled the air. Wild flowers that grew near the verdure- lined brook singing on its way to the valley below opened their petals and sent forth per fume. Birds saluted with their songs the new and balmy day, and life seemed, oh, so full. I sat quietly drinking in the cool mountain 21 22 Sketches of Butte air and) feasting on the rugged scenery. The driver was the first to speak. "I see you are a lover of nature," he said. "We are now passing over the first placer diggings of the state," he continued. "Up in Gold Creek the first nugget was found, but this was the first real ' diggings ' where the cradle was used. This road follows a trail that was blazed many years ago by the red man who hved the healthy, free life of the open long before the pale-face came bringing the vices of the East." "I suppose that is what changed the whole story of his race," I interrupted, "from romance and poetry to squalor and poverty. In miserable camps on the out skirts of towns they hover near slaughter houses, some of the band gathering refuse while others sell polished horn and bead- work." I "I can tell you have been in Butte," he said quickly, as he touched up one of the leaders who was lagging. As we approached the valley, mauve mist was rising and the scene was like a beauti fully fascinating estuary. In the bright morning sun the view that lay before us was From Virginia City to Butte 23 a kaleidescopic joy. As we left the canyon the scene changed — so different but just as interesting, for it was a glint of the range- rider. On the range that sloped down to the valley hundreds of cattle were herded by picturesque cowboys, some silhouetted against the opalescent sky as the cattle fed on wild grass that grew on a rise of ground and as we rode on a breath of perfume came to us from the larkspur and sage brush. At Sheridan I stopped off for two days and then took a ramshackle stage for Butte. We crossed the Continental Divide, and at the mouth of Nine Mile Canyon stopped at a road-house, a place to which in those days Butte people drove for recreation. A place where the society woman and queens of the "red-light" sat side by side as they shuffled their cards, where the man-of-affairs and a "secretary" from the underworld stood in pleasant intercourse while watching the marble ball of the roulette table. We watched a game of faro for a few moments, and then passed on to the barren stretch that led to Butte. What seemed to be a low-hanging cloud hid the camp from 24 Sketches of Butte view. Only a few mine stacks on the brow of the hill could be seen. To accommodate a passenger who wished to go to a cabin near Timber Butte (a hill where one lone tree grew amongst granite boulders, thus giving the butte its name), the driver turned his horses into a road leading past a Cree Indian camp, the city dump, a slaughter house and four cemeteries huddled together. The Indians we passed were rem nants of a brilliant and picturesque tribe of warriors, now forlorn wanderers waiting the call to the "Happy Hunting Ground." Not far from along towards the city ore was being roasted outside in the grounds of a reduction works, the fumes rising in clouds of cobalt blue, fading into gray, as it settled over the town like a pall. Indians called the dumps of burning ore "stink piles." The driver reined in his horses as we en tered the cloud of stifling sulphur and cau tiously guided them up the hill. A policeman, with a sponge over his mouth and nose, to protect him from the fumes, led us to a httle hotel in Broadway, for we could not see across a street. Lanterns and torches were From Virginia City to Butte 25 carried by some to light the way through the sulphur cloud. I was tired after the long ride, and before going to my room for the night asked a tall, thin hack-driver who sat alone in the little office of the hotel if there was such a thing in town as a Turkish Bath. "Oh, yes," he replied, "a fine one." I asked him to direct me to it. It was in a basement at the corner of a street not far from the hotel. I walked to the place and passed down the steps into a room that was used as office and barber shop. An attendant showed me to a dressing room. While dis robing, I heard loud talking and laughter, both male and female voices. I paid little attention at the time, but when the attendant returned to take me to the bath, I spoke to him about it. "Sure!" he said. "We've got a 'swell' bunch tonight." "Do men and women go in together?" I asked. "Sure! Come in and meet some of the ladies," he said, as he opened the door. I asked him if they did not have private baths. 26 Sketches of Butte "Sure!" he replied seriously, sizing me up. "Ye ain't skeered, are ye?" "No," I said, "but I do not wish to meet strangers tonight." He showed me to a private bath and as he closed the door, I heard him say to a man who stood in the narrow passageway: "An other 'tenderfoot' in town." Chapter Three THE STRANGER'S FIRST GLIMPSE OF BUTTE The Easterner's first impression of Butte as he enters the city is of horror by day and joy by night. There is tragedy and romance in the very look of the place and one's breath comes quickly. The barren granite boulders of the richest hill in the world are terrifying in the sunlight, but as eventide comes on tears often dim the stranger's eyes, for somberness comes with the purple tinge that settles over the scene. The three railroads that enter from the East pass through tunnels in the Continental Divide, — a picturesque range of the Rockies, — for the city lies just over the Divide on the Pacific slope. One road, after leaving its tunnel, skirts the side of the Highlands rising above Nine Mile Canyon. As the train reaches the valley it passes the desolate cemeteries, then over the girders that span a slag-walled creek; on over tailing dumps to a trestle 27 28 Sketches of Butte where Frank Little was lynched, then into the station. Another road passes through canyons where, in the spring, the walls are bowers of wild rose and forget-me-not. In the rockeries many varieties of wild flowers bloom, and clear, cool water sparkles and sings as it dances over the stones. The train enters a tunnel, emerging in a few moments, and the passengers see below the only smelter left in the barren valley. The contrast is so startling they hold their breath. "It's more like hell than anything I had ever dreamed of," I heard a passenger say. Most of them sit spell-bound as the train quietly moves down the track leading past mines, through cuts in tailing dumps and past precipitating tanks on its way to the station. The other train from a valley on the At lantic slope laboriously winds its way up the mountain side, and as it emerges from a dripping granite-walled tunnel the passengers see before them another valley on the Pacific slope, dotted here and there with road-houses where society and the demi-monde join hands in revelry. At eventide, when mist settles over the valley, and lights are on, these' places The Stranger s First Glimpse of Butte 29 look hke phantom ships sailing on a gray- purple sea. When the passenger approaches the city at night, the impression is wholly different, and he exclaims with joy, for the eye sees nothing but beauty. Let us start from Jefferson Valley and climb the range called the Continental Divide. We will climb the rising hills Where the stately pine trees grow Towering o'er the sparkling rills That seek the valleys far below. There we'll tramp to nature's music While her beauty all beguiles — Tramp from mystic dusk-wrapped valley Through the green forest aisles. Till at last the gray mist spreading With the shades of eventide See us standing there together On the mighty Great Divide. While the beauty of the sunset, Like a tired child sunk to rest, To the music of all nature Now is fading from the West. 30 Sketches of Butte While on the mountainside to northward Butte, her thousand lights ablaze Like a pall of brilliant jewels, Bursts upon the watcher's gaze. Cloaked by night a thing of beauty, Though ugly in the light of day, Yet even so her odd fascination Calls back her sons who go away. One thing in the city sunlight and dark ness does not change, and that is "Fat Jack," the hack driver, Butte's most picturesque character. He met the first train that came into the city, and meets them all, day and night. His silk hat looms above the other drivers as he quietly says to the traveler, "A carriage uptown?" From the beginning of railroads into Butte, he has been the one chosen to draw up the hill all celebrities visit ing the camp. When President Roosevelt visited Montana the last time it was "Fat Jack" Who met him at the station. When the Colonel came down the steps of his car he waved his (hand, and called "Hello, Jack!" for the Colonel never forgot and they were friends in early days. Chapter Four WANDERING AROUND One night a friend came to me and said: "How would you like to go to the theater, and after that just wander around a little and take in some of the sights?" I was a stranger in town at the time and was glad of the opportunity. We started out and turned into Main Street and on down the hill. In front of a building with a sign over the door, "The Comique," a crowd was standing on the sidewalk. He turned to me and said : "We'll go around in the alley and enter that way; that's where the respectable people go in." We went to the next street below and walked on until we came to an alley. Not far up the passageway was a light hanging over a door. He opened the door and we passed up a narrow flight of stairs leading to the gallery — as it was called. In reality, it was a circle of stall-like boxes, each place a compartment with a bolt on the inside of 31 32 Sketches of Butte the door and a small slide where drinks were passed in. The front of the box — as it was called — that looked down upon the stage and floor below was enclosed by a wire netting. A scene was painted on this screen, the effect being that the occupants of the compartment could see all that was going on and not be seen from floor or stage. On the floor below sawdust was sprinkled. Tables for four were here and there about the auditorium. Girls in gaudy evening dress were waitresses and entertainers. At intervals one would mount a table and do a terpsichorean stunt, much to the amusement of the loungers. The performance on the stage was on the order of our present-day vaudeville, with a few extras to suit the occasion. An encore was the signal for boisterous applause and the throwing of coins at the artist. Many a coin went which might otherwise have gone to buy a loaf of bread for a hungry child, or helped to pay for a gown for a deserving wife. We had been there but a short time when my friend said : "Please excuse me for a mo- AN INDIAN WRESTLER Wandering Around 33 ment; I hear a familiar voice in the next box." In a few moments he returned. "We're invited in next door," he! said, with an amused smile. We went in. There were two occupants of the box: my landlord and! a painted beauty seated on his lap. Soon a tray with drinks on was passed through the slide. A small red ticket was on the tray, and the painted beauty quickly reached out her hand and took the bit of cardboard and put it in her stocking. It represented her commission. We stayed but a short time in this place and then went out into the fresh air. We turned into a street running east and west. It seemed like a street leading into hell, and parts of it would cause one to close one's eyes. Many men and boys were idly passing along the sidewalk. Young men, splendidly receptive, and beautifully unthinking boys, were there just wandering about. Chinamen, with wash-basket on the shoulder hurried down the walk, while the silent Indian with gay-colored blanket wrapped closely around his body passed quietly along, looking upon a scene in which his people took no part. 34 Sketches of Butte We walked slowly along this thoroughfare of the underworld, stopping here and there to make observations. Loud music from the dance halls filled the air. Now and then click-click-click was heard: the rattle of the red, white and blue ivory chips of a poker game; innocent looking things, but tragic, for many represented the day's wage of a toiler who was too weak to withstand the temptation of the bright lights. From beginning to end the street was emerged in emotion: here careless joy, there sad. On either side were one-story shacks, a door and one window in front, the name of the occupant of the "crib" either in gaudy letters over the door or white showing through ruby-colored glass in window or transom. Blondetta stood in her doorway. Many peroxide puffs adorned her head; her cheap, showy dress was cut low at the neck; no sleeves to cover her large, flabby arms; the skirt came down to the knees. Her neighbor, puffing a cigarette, leaned lazily out of her window; her painted face showed the lines of a hard life. The strollers usually passed her by and stopped for a chat with French Erma. They nevertheless re- Wandering Around 35 ceived the stereotyped greeting: "Hello, boys!" Then the eyes of the "dope fiend" would almost close and :at times it seemed as if she were about to fall asleep. A foot step would rouse her for a moment and the passer-by would hear the weird voice: "Hello, boys !" Some would stop aj moment and then pass on to a more attractive shack. Once in a while an old-timer who had known her in her palmy days would reach in his pocket and pull out a few silver pieces and hand them to her with the cold words: "Here, Carmen, go buy yourself a drink." Her long, bony hand would reach out for the coins and her painted lips form an invitation to the old-time friend: "Won't you come in and have a drink with me?" "No," was most always the answer, as he passed on to another "crib." I felt that the old fiend, as she stood in the realm of shadows and took the occasional carelessly-flung bit of silver, mourned over the ingratitude and falling away of a friend in whom she once deemed she could confide, as with ever-increasing force the barrenness of the empty years forced itself even upon her dull consciousness — just another bit of 36 Sketches of Butte tribute of flesh and blood that the pitiless city exacted. Not far along the walk in another "crib" "Jew Jess" sat rocking near her open door. She was talking with "Micky, the Greek," who stood near. The little one-room cabin looked neat, and an air of an humble home seemed to surround the place. A bed in one corner; in another a stove just large enough for a tea-kettle to sit on the top. A few pictures hung on the wall, and on a shelf adorned with festoons of home-made lace there were several photographs arranged artistically. While rocking and talking her fingers were busy with knitting needles. I do not believe, after all, any of those women were there of their own volition. Some tragedy sent them there. Some one who greeted her eye in the smile of a friend, In a voice intended to sway ; Some one who cared not for the bitter end, Or the part his act might play. Typical of Butte, these httle "cribs" were owned by influential people and rented to the unfortunates for one dollar a night — rent paid in advance, for respectability best of Wandering Around 37 all knows how great a tribute to exact from the unfortunates. Some ten years ago a moral wave passed over the city, and the front doors and win dows of these places were boarded up. Side walks were laid in the alleys. Beacon lights were hung here and there to guide men and boys to the passageways where the inmates solicited from the rear door. Boarding up the front doors and windows of the "crib" in the underworld and open ing the back gave more latitude for crime. The reformers were satisfied. The city was not deprived of its revenue, the respectable of their rents, nor the policemen of their graft. In later years an ex-official told me how the unfortunates were held up on every turn. He said, "There is a state law prohibiting such places, but the city evaded it. Once a month warrants were issued for the arrest of these women. The warrants were served," he continued; "some of them would go up to headquarters; and pay a fine of ten dollars. Three receipts were issued ; one for the Chief, one for the city and one for the woman. Some did not go up, and in that case an 38 Sketches of Butte officer would call on her and collect the ten dollars and give her a receipt that had been made out at headquarters." He said the policeman on the beat also had his graft. "They walked along," he said, "and if nobody was looking he would stick his head in the window or door and tell the inmate to lay a few dollars out of sight on the window sill where he could get it when he came back and she knew What would happen if she did not comply." On our way back to my hotel we stopped at the Casino just as "Fat Jack" drove up with a "slumming party." They were from Butte's exclusive set, and occupied a box directly opposite the one in which we sat. They seemed to think it was more romantic or sporty to have Jack drive upon such occa sions. The place was an "underworld" dance hall with cheap vaudeville. After each act the patrons of the place would adjourn to the dance hall. Here, at one end, was a long bar where men and women after each dance lined up for drinks. I watched the members of this "slumming party" as the night wore on and they became riper and riper after each dance, until at last all classes and Wandering Around 39 conditions joined hands in "high-jinks" of the hveliest character. The seductive drink softened the veneer, and it fell away, leaving them in their natural state, and the world outside was forgotten. Finally the restricted district was done away with. At the present time another reform movement is on and some reformers suggest that the section be re-established as a protection to the home and the young people growmg up, for now it is a case of "Who's your neighbor?" Chapter Five "DOPE" COLONY I was standing on the edge of the sidewalk one night opposite a hotel where from the balcony Roosevelt was addressing the people who thronged the street. A young man joined me and presented a card. He was a writer for a New York publication. What he handed me was a card of introduction from Colonel Roosevelt. He had come as far as Butte with the Colonel's party and was going to stop in the city for a few days to gather data for his publication. It was a pleasure to meet him, for in this part of the world where one gets so few thoughts that are not commercial, it is refreshing to come across a genius, and I cordially wel comed him. He remarked that he had read my story of the "Snowbird," and wished first to see that section of the city. 'The following night, therefore, not long after dinner we started 40 Dope Colony 41 out. I first took him to a drug-store where the proprietor told me his revenue from the sale of morphine alone was between five and six hundred dollars a month. When we reached the place it was about the time the "hop-heads," as they are called, begin to come for the narcotic. We sat where we could see them as they came in and walked to the rear of the store where a clerk waited on them. Packages for the regular customers were already done up. They received their "dope," paid the clerk, and silently walked out. "Callahan the Bum" was the first to come, and then a "fiend" arrived, who always had four dogs following him. As he came in, the proprietor said to us: "That fellow buys quite a lot; a prominent citizen gives him the money, he gets the 'dope,' and they divide." We left the place shortly and went to a fruit store where I bought a basket of fruit, then with my companion walked to Arizona street, where we turned and went south until we came to a httle shack that stood at the corner of a street leading into the section we were headed for. An old woman addicted to the drug habit lived in here. The yard 42 Sketches of Butte was filled with rubbish consisting of empty cans and bits of iron gathered by her from around town to sell to those in charge of precipitating plants. "Butte certainly is a place of strong con trasts," said the stranger. "I notice mine shafts in back and front yards, and one stands on a corner opposite my hotel." "Yes," I replied, "and children play on decomposed granite where cows lie chewing their cud. We have the extremes — the best and the worst in the world." "Tell me," he said, as he turned and pointed to a tall, thin man who wore a silk hat and a light brown uniform with brass buttons, "who is that odd-looking fellow? I know he is a hack driver, for he drove the hack the President rode in, and how fright fully thin he is." "Yes," I smiled, "that is, of course, the reason he has been given the nickname 'Fat Jack.' That fellow is known all over the country from the Atlantic to the Pacific; and has been the subject for many a 'write-up.' " We now turned into a narrow winding street, almost an alley. No sidewalks were laid through this section of the city. My Dope Colony 43 friend asked if these cabins were built by the people now occupying them. I told him they were built by miners of early days — days of the placer diggings. "A little later," I said, "after we have in vestigated somel of them and discussed certain of the inmates we will go over to the original diggings where prospectors looked only for gold. In these tumbled-down shacks the very air we breathe whispers of tragedy." Society would seem to recognize no duties towards the dwellers in the cabins, but so ciety in Butte is little different from any where else. The many follow the leader. They are not sure of themselves. Should some one of prominence start to do some thing for the poor wretches here, it would at once become a fad and the section would be overrun by hypocrites. We now neared the cabin of a one-time society leader of another city. "First," I said, taking him by the arm, "I will take you to a cabin just around the corner where I want to leave this fruit. I know the life- story of the poor woman who occupies the hovel. To most people she is merely a woman of mystery. One day she told me 44 Sketches of Butte of the tragedy that had entered her life. It was at a time when she lay desperately sick with no one to care for her. At that time she thought death was near. The poor little withered-up body is all you will see of a once beautiful woman. She may have several friends with her, victims, of course, of the narcotic, for they hover together and tell marvelous and weird tales, not unlike those of the absinthe 'fiend,' but not as cowardly. The latter is possessed with pitiful fear and one can drive him with a wave of the hand. I studied those poor wretches at Montmartre while gathering material for a write-up." "I should like to hear these people talk," he said, as we neared the door. In replying I reminded him that in cases of the drug habit the brain becomes so thoroughly poisoned and abnormal that the victims imagine most wonderful things. They lose all moral sense. If they have a friend who is not addicted to the habit they are not happy until they make a "fiend" of that friend. To take the drug from them makes them criminals of the most desperate type, since they will do anything to get the narcotic. Some of these unfortunates take as high as Dope Colony 45 fifty grains of morphine a day. One grain would be dangerous for a normal person, One-half a grain is a strenuous dose. "Tell me of the life of this one here," he said. "After we have been inside I will tell you the story of her life. I do not wish to do it now, for I want to see if you can give a correct guess as to her former life, and whether or not she is of high or low birth. Do not be surprised at her friendliness towards me. She is grateful for some small services I have been able to do for her." I pushed open the door without stopping to knock. The cabin had settled and the door was out of plumb and could not be locked. There seemed at first to be no life in the one-room shack, but as our eyes be came accustomed to the dim light of one candle burning low, we saw lying on the bed two seemingly hfeless women. On the floor near an old wreck of a stove lay a man with his head resting on a roll of rags. In his right hand which had fallen away from his body was clutched an opium pipe. "We will not rouse them," I said. "If awakened now they would be sluggish and 46 Sketches of Butte repulsive. They have had their early night's 'shot' and will be dead to the world for hours." "This httle woman lying here," I said, as we moved closer to the bed, "is the one I told you about. Take particular notice of her companion and I will tell you of them both when we go out." He did not speak as he stepped nearer the dilapidated bed where lay the two stupe fied figures. The picture of wretchedness was too much for him and he quickly turned away. "Come, let us get out of here," he whis pered, as he hurried to the door and out into the fresh air of the narrow street. We sat for some time on an upturned box near the side of the cabin, while I told him something of the history of the unfortunates we had seen. Of the two women my little friend had been the stronger character. I say "my little friend," for I have always felt a deep and real sympathy for her in her great sorrow; she tried hard at first to make good. She told me the drug held her in its grasp hke the coils of a snake, and when the craving Dope Colony 47 was on she was as helpless as a babe. One day when I went to see her, her sad little face looked up to mine as she said: "I cannot give it up. The prick of the needle is the pleasantest sensation of my life. Go away and do not try and influence me. ' It is all the comfort I have in the world." Both were society women. Reverses came to them about the same time, and it was not long before invitations became few and far between, and soon they were only "memo ries." The little woman bore up like a soldier for a long, long time. The husband gave way first to drink — then drugs, and unknown to her administered morphine to her in medicine. She made the discovery when it was too late. My companion inquired how the drug was taken. "Usually whiskey and morphine first," I answered, "and when the exchequer gets low they resort to cheaper drugs, such as cocaine and opium. Cocaine 'fiends' are called 'snow-birds,' for they put some of the white powder on the back of the hand and then sniff it into the nose. Morphine is sometimes prepared in a substance that resembles a mint 48 Sketches of Butte wafer and 'fiends' are often seen chewing them while standing around the street. Men are perhaps more prone to 'hit' the opium pipe, but I have seen in the Mott Street sec tion of New York City men and women — white, brown and yellow — lounging together in one room, all enjoying the sensation of the pipe." "That other woman," I continued, "was handsome, restless and susceptible to the suave words of man. After her husband's death a coward broke her life and made her what she is. She was ambitious and believed the promises he made to her. "This fellow knew she was not strong enough mentally to battle with financial re verses. He wound his coils around her, and she soon became his mistress and from day to day sank lower. He tired of her and deserted her; she then quickly drifted down." In another cabin visited that evening on our walk we saw an unusual character. I knew her years ago in a western city; she was then a leader in social and other affairs, and at the opening of an opera house she was one of a theater party I attended. The party was given by an editor-in-chief of a leading news- Dope Colony 49 paper. Years after I came down to the cabin we have just left. The httle woman we have; seen was desperately sick with pneu monia and I had come to see what I could do for her. Another woman, seemingly a stranger to me, was there — blear-eyed and dopey. There seemed to be something familiar about her — a something I had seen before. As she sat in the little cabin I studied her interesting face. Even in that condition her conversation was colored with aphorism. I think what first interested me most and caused me to study her more closely was the relic of a one-time beautiful gown she was wearing and the artistic arrangement of her hair. Bit by bit recognition came to me and I was staggered. I did not let her know I recognized her until later when I went to her cabin to try and find out what had brought her to that end. At first she strenuously denied her identity, but when she found it was of no use, the scene was most pitiful. In her day she had been beautiful, talented, and with a charm of manner possessed by few. Flat tery ruined her, and the home was neglected. What a home she could have made for a 50 Sketches of Butte group of little tots: a life of love, happiness, ease and content. Flattery blinded her and led her on a chase for the thing she thought would bring happiness. In a manner she attained the thing she looked for, but like the fabled apple of Hesperides, it turned to ashes on her lips. It ruined the home and she drifted to the shadows, and now she is what we find her today: a helpless "dope fiend," and the people in the other part of town close their eyes to this section. The tendency in fact is to kick these un fortunates a little lower. I have been criti cized severely by some eminently respectable people for coming here and helping them in small ways. The day I went to see this woman she implored me to write to her hus band and ask him to come to her and close all the gates of grief. I did as she requested, and in about one week's time a reply to my letter came. It told of his death. As I read the letter to her I watched her expression change and my mind traveled back to Rock Creek cemetery near Washington, D. C, where an unknown grave is marked by a statue by Saint Gaudens, called "Grief." It is the figure of a beautiful woman with Dope Colony 51 a face that haunts one. With her chin rest ing on her hand, she gazes into space with the longing, appealing look of one who has suffered much. The expression of the face but reveals more vividly the look of the eyes, and there she sits day and night, year in and year out, looking for the thing she lost, wait ing its return. It passed her once: she did not realize it was going away. It has called her the last time. "Come, let us go in for a few moments," suggested the writer. We stayed and talked for some time with the unfortunate woman. When we came out he said, as he slowly shook his head: "That scene presents as complete a tragedy as has ever been written by any of the playwrights of modern times." "Yes," I said, "the play is nearly ended and the actress will soon be going out into the night. The poor woman has drifted beyond help, broken in health, with heart scars that will never heal. In the still, small hours when she is alone and without 'dope' they ache and ache, and years cannot heal the pain which is her constant companion. Soon she will sleep beneath a shroud of tansy weed 52 Sketches of Butte and the board at the head of her grave will be marked 'Unknown.' " As we walked on I suggested we had better leave the diggings for a daylight trip and go to Chinatown instead, as it was on our way back to the hotel. "I want you to go to the Mission where I often go and play for them to sing," I said. The Mission was open when we reached it and a number of Chinamen were idly sitting about. They were glad to see us, for it meant a song for them. One said to me as we went in: "Mister George, he velly kind; he come and play for us to sling." They gathered around the old squeaky organ and sang for about an hour, their preference being for gospel hymns. While the others were singing, one, unobserved by either myself or my friend, went quietly out and returned with a present for the writer, an act of courtesy characteristic of the Chinese. "I should think you would be unhappy in this environment." "No," I answered, "I am glad to be here and in my small way help some wandering soul. It is not necessary to rush to the big Dope Colony 53 cities to find work to do. Here in this far western city one can, if he will, make some wretched soul feel that there are days of spring, and the dewdrops still sparkle in the hearts of flowers." "I think you are right," he said. "How splendid it is to feel we give to the world a pleasant thought, rather than take away." We had reached the hotel and stopped as we heard the screeching sound of wheels. It was an ore train on its way through the main streets of the city to a smelter in the valley, turning the corner where the hotel stood. Chapter Six CEMETERIES OF BUTTE Some say a cemetery reflects the spirit of the people of the community. Let us hope that sometimes mistakes are made, for Butte cemeteries are desolate and have often been the subject for eastern writers. Graves cannot be dug on the hills, for they are mostly of solid rock. A section in the valley was chosen for the resting-place of the dead. It seems as if it had been the bed of a lake that had existed long before the white man came, for the wash of decomposed granite from the hills is like coarse sand and in it graves are easily dug. It is impregnated with mineral and unsuccessful attempts have been made by unfeeling placer prospectors to make locations in the desolate spot. Here are grouped the resting-places of the Chinese, Catholic, Jew and Protestants — I should make an exception for the Chinese, for at stated times the bodies that have been buried for a certain length of time are taken up 54 Cemeteries of Butte 55 and boiled so as to remove all flesh remaining on the bones, and when that is done the bones are packed in small boxes and shipped to China for final burial. Surrounding this cheerless spot is a brick-yard, two slaughter houses, the city dump, and a place where in early days ore was roasted in the open, and the fumes settled over the graves. Tansy weed was about all that would grow in the lonely spot. Weather-beaten crosses and board-markers were much in evidence, and many a tansy knoll told of a broken heart. Here and there this peculiar green shrouded a suicide's grave or that of an unknown. In early days disappointments that led to dissipation caused many to take their own lives, and many unknown by name who had drifted West sank under the weight of sorrows, and now sleep in this spot. As a rule frontier cemeteries are desolate, but I know of none more forsaken than the old cemeteries of Butte. I have seen in Alaska barren spots, but they did not seem to whisper of as great tragedy. In the Catholic cemetery, near a ravine where in the Spring water flows swiftly and washes much away, is a sad-looking section, for it 56 Sketches of Butte is filled with tiny graves— graves of little tots who were blessed by early passing away. Two new cemeteries are on Butte's Appian Way that winds across the "Flat." It is like the way leading into Rome, for the two cemeteries are on one side of the way as the catacombs of the Italian city. We might draw on our imagination and see "Barney's" road-house as Saint Sebastian, and one a lit tle farther beyond as the tomb of Saint Cecilia. Not long ago I walked through one of these cemeteries and did not see but two or three tombstones with American names engraved upon them, and the graves are rows of verdureless mounds. Chapter Seven MANY JOYS Butte is barren but not shorn of all joys, and there are many beautiful spots surround ing this unique city. Columbia Gardens is one of these — restful and quiet, a wonder land of nature. The air is filled with soft music of whispering pines and the song of rippling water as it dances under rustic bridges and past verdure-lined paths and beds of bloom on its way to the valley below. It is not a canyon nor a hiatus, but more a miniature valley and benchland, where the perfume of wild flowers is everywhere and song birds carol amid the branches of Cana dian Poplars and Balm of Gilead. In this spot grow the most beautiful pansies the world has ever known. Surrounded by a great profusion of flowers there is a minia ture lake and a handsome dance pavilion. The electric cars leave the noisy city and pass through a cut in a tailing dump, pre- 57 58 Sketches of Butte cipitating tanks where copper-impregnated water from the mines flows over bits of iron and tin cans that fill tanks, precipitating the copper that is in the water, and then past a smelter and on up a grade to the city's play ground, that nestles close to the mountains of the Continental Divide. In this pretty park as we pass through arbored and bloom-lined walks, we come to a spot where the canyon air is cool and re freshing, and where the artistic fern lifts its head, where winds breathe low and waters softly ripple with a lullaby sound. It is in this spot where grows the stately fern I go with my love so pure and fair, As seeking rest from the barren city we turn To this quiet place in the canyon's care. From a rustic bench in this sheltered spot we can see the moon rise three times. The mountain peaks behind the park give this effect. The moon comes up and passes be hind a peak, then out for a few moments, then behind another, and out again and starts on its journey through the heavens. K O ffiH&< aKEhowfe O o Many Joys 59 And at our feet is a placid pool Cool as the canyon's breath, Its waters sparkle like a wonderful jewel In the rays of the bright moondrift. The quiet spot is a place for trysting And where lovers give their plight, For the God of love is in the perfumed air, In the shadows, and bright moonlight. Lake Avoca is another pretty resort. A few years ago, a party of Finlanders were holding a picnic at the lake. One made a wager that he could dive and stay under the water longer than the other. The challenge was accepted. It was agreed upon that the parties to the contest were to row out to the middle of the lake and at a given signal dive from their boats. The signal was given and they went' over the side. In a short time one came to the surface. Some moments passed but the other did not come up. When the rescuing crew brought the body to the surface it was found he had weights tied to his feet. Funerals are a great source of joy to many. A young fellow hires a horse and 60 Sketches of Butte buggy and with his girl follows the hearse until it turns into the cemetery, and then, as he comes to the gate, he whips up the horse and it hurries on over the "Flat" to the road-houses, where the rest of the day is spent in revelry. Hardly a night passes but what "Fat Jack" carries a party of "joy riders" to the "Flat." It is over this "Flat" that one of Butte's old-timers used to go hunting the Jack- rabbit. He had a one-horse vehicle and would put his small children in the bed of the wagon and start out for a day's sport. The horse would sight a rabbit dodging in and out of the sage-brush, and without warn ing to the driver, start pell-mell cross country in pursuit of the game. Often a youngster would be jostled out and the horse travel on at break-neck speed for half a mile or so, before the father would discover the loss. He would turn and go back for the child, and then renew the chase. Those were days of real sport, — happy days when the pumpkin pie was made with a brown paper crust. It is a joy and great lark to the stranger to take a meal in the smallest restaurant in Many Joys 61 the world. It is a place between two build ings, and has seating capacity for six. A young man who had been a "mucker" in one of the Company mines married and went to New York on his honeymoon, and while in that city he called on one of the high officials of the company. The official's family was away and he thought it would be a lark to take the young couple to his country home to stay over night. Men of large affairs often do such things when their wives are away from home. It is a change of trend of thought, and a provincial chap interests them. The official told me the story one day as we sat on the upper deck of the old steamship Baltic. We were headed for England and the sea was rough. He said with much mirth, "I took them aboard my yacht and we steamed down the sound to Fairhaven. That night they were shown to one of the guest chambers where were twin beds. I was going through the upper hall the morning after and met the housekeeper coming out of the apartment. She was smiling," he continued, " and motioned me to follow her as she passed back through the door; and when I went in I saw the occasion 62 Sketches of Butte of mirth — only one of the beds had been occupied. There were not many twin beds in Butte in those days," he laughed, "and I suppose the young fellow lay awake most of the night wondering who was going to occupy the other bed." One of the happiest homes in Butte is one where the first stones of the foundation were laid in a matrimonial bureau of an eastern city. The young bride-elect was shipped West C. O. D. It was years ago when I was on the Herald. Across the street from the newspaper building was a matrimonial agency. One night the head of the concern came to see me and said, "I have a splendid story." He told how he had that day shipped two young women to Montana C. O. D. "One went to Miles City," he said, "and one to Butte." I asked him how that could be, and he told of having received these requests for wives after the senders had read his advertisements. He said, "After the money for the travel ing expenses and the fee of fifty dollars had been placed in the bank at Miles City and one at Butte I bought their tickets and sent them on." Many Joys 63 I remembered the names and after many years looked up the one that had been ticketed to Butte and found her a very happy and prosperous wife with an interest ing family of children. After becoming pretty well acquainted with the husband he told me how he had married his wife and the happy life they had led. "At the time I lived far out in the coun try," he said, "and did not have an oppor tunity to meet young women and so resorted to the agency and have! always been thankful I did — it's safer than society," he said with a serious smile. Chapter Eight FOREIGN POPULATION Some years ago I was travehng on the Rhine in Germany, and one afternoon while sitting on the deck of my steamer enjoying the ever-changing scene, an Irishman came to where I sat and drew a chair close to mine, and as he took a seat beside me, he said in way of making conversation, "You are from the States?" "Yes," I answered, "I am from America." "What part?" he asked, with a truly Irish accent. "I am from Montana," I answered. "From Butte?" he asked quickly. When I told him I was he then mentioned the name of a priest, and asked me if I knew him. When I told him I did, he said, "He is my brother, and in a recent letter to my wife he wrote, 'Living in Butte is about like being in Ireland.' ' Authors visit Butte, write stories, and go away, but they do not get the true atmos phere. They come to a city of upwards of 64 Foreign Population ¦•¦-,.; 65 one hundred thousand inhabitants, and do not find a bookstore in the place. One day I was walking along one of the business streets when a man opened the door of a store and called to me, "Come in, I want to show you something." He pointed to the side wall of a store where toys, office furniture and stationery were sold. It was the wall opposite a soft-drink fountain. "Just think! Seven shelves of books in Butte," he said in much merriment. The proprietor of the place had put in a few books, and was uncertain as to the advisa bility of the venture. There is a dry-goods store with three or four shelves of popular novels, and a branch of the Post Office where a news stand is in connection, a place where fashion-plates, pic torials, stationeiy and books are sold. While making a report on the alien situ ation during the period of the war, I came in touch with forty-seven different nationali ties, and during the sickness that followed I found I had overlooked five. There is the Finlander Hall. The Greeks, Turks, Aus- trians, and those of many other nationalities have their clubs, and in these meeting-places 66 Sketches of Butte the native tongue is spoken, and they have literature from the Fatherland. The stranger visiting Butte marvels at the attire of many of the young women on the streets, and the powdered faces and rouged lips of school girls. In most instances these young women and girls are not to blame. The blame lies with those who ought to set a good example, and who do not. The foreigners who come to our shores by steerage are tagged at Ellis Island and dis tributed to different parts of the country. Those coming to Butte do not see or know anything of American hfe. They make a good wage, and naturally want to adopt American ways. The wooden shoe is laid aside for the French heel, and the dress is often daring, and they argue this way as they refer to the different society women, "It must be all right, for they do it and they ought to know." Those who adhere to their home custom are more picturesque and inter esting. In the Italian sections where the bright colors of the South are used, the pic ture is fascinating, and helps to soften the harshness of the barren surroundings. A striking character passing down the Foreign Population 67 street is a Serbian priest as he leads a funeral procession. At one time I witnessed a Serbian funeral. It was after a mine disaster and there were five hearses in the procession. The priest in full vestments walked in front of the first hearse as if to lead the way of the souls of the departed. The same day another funeral procession passed down the hill on its way to the valley, and in front of the hearse walked a young man and woman. The young woman was in white, and carried a wreath of flowers. At first glance, without seeing the hearse one would think it a wedding procession. Why the city looks so strange is the many different nationahties in the streets, and their homes suggest their native land and make a conglomeration of architecture. Chapter Nine EXTREMES IN SOCIETY Once in awhile a few of the old set — the set that was instrumental in giving Butte its world-wide reputation for lavish enter tainments, beautiful and beautifully-gowned women and bright, dashing men — get to gether and travel down the "road to yes terday," but, oh! what a change they see. There are only a few of the old set left and no more sparkhng society events for those of the old set who are left have stepped aside for the newcomers and are now merely onlookers. The whole atmosphere has changed from the brilliant to the mass. The person, no matter from what walk in life, who makes a "strike" is in it socially if he or she cares to be, for money counts absolutely. True friendship is little known. It is only an acquaintance with a motive "what can I gain by knowing him?" There is so little mental companionship, 68 Extremes in Society 69 and many are afraid to acknowledge friend ship with a person who is not subservient to the powers that be. Social deception and character assassina tion appeared at the beginning of the great copper war. People lined up on one side or the other, and the old-time goodfellowship vanished and they would go the limit to in jure a person morally or financially who did not champion their cause. They were abject slaves to one side or the other. The great battle is over, but the morale of the people is still upset. In the early days three establishments sent their modistes to Paris twice a year to buy gowns and select designs, and the Butte women — beautiful and attractive — gowned in the latest creations from the French metropolis, drew admiration wherever they went. There were no prudes; no conventionality. Gambling houses were rented for a night for social entertainments, giving men and women a like opportunity to "buck the tiger." One of the most talked of social affairs of those days was the opening of the "Irish 70 Sketches of Butte World," the most exclusive resort in the restricted district. Engraved invitations were sent to the male gender of the "four hun dred," and in most cases the R. S. V. P. was acknowledged by their presence. "Ladies" from other fashionable resorts were there, and some stood in the receiving line. Car riages lined the street and men in evening dress hurried in and out of the place. Often on a pleasant day the proprietress of this resort would be seen out for a drive on the principal streets of the city. She used to sit in an open landau surrounded by three or four of her leading "ladies." Her large diamond earrings blazed hke the headlights of an engine. The beautiful women and bright colors of wonderful gowns, picture- hats and sparkling jewels made a picture that resembled a bouquet on wheels. In a brief way let me give a pen picture of one or two social affairs given by prom inent people. Two having taken place about the same time, or perhaps a week or ten days intervening, and of such a startling differ ence, perhaps it would be of more interest to write of them, and the impression made upon a stranger from one of the middle Extremes in Society 71 states who had read much of Butte and held a slight doubt as to the truth of some of the stories. These two people I am to mention were numbered among Butte's best entertainers. In fact, others were mediocre in comparison. This first function I am to speak of was given in one of the first substantial resi dences built in Butte. When fortune smiled upon the family, and the number of little ones increased, it was decided the cabin of frontier days was too small for their comfort and a new house was planned. The mother loved the old location, for it was where her happiest days were spent; so the old, much beloved cabin was supplanted by a com modious building. The home was ideal. The mother, a natural student, imparted much to the children, and her influence for good was felt amongst her myriad of friends, and as the summers passed the sweeter she bloomed. She felt that a woman's soul should be pure like a white bird, unruffled and unsullied. At her home one found in tellectual rest. This night I was the escort of the visitor from Chicago. As the door of the homey 72 Sketches of Butte house swung open, we were ushered to a stair leading to rooms above where we re moved our wraps. In a moment we were ready to go to the floor below. About half way down the stairs we stopped to let our eyes travel over the brilliant scene and enjoy a breath of perfume from the fresh blossoms. The four matrons in the receiving line shone like that many stars. The jewels and rich- spangled gowns dazzled the stranger. We moved on a few steps. She took me by the arm as if to hold me back. "It is more brilliant than anything I had dreamed of," she softly said, as her eyes traveled over the fascinating scene. After we passed the receiving1 line, I spoke in undertone. "This is one of the few homes where money does not rule ; where the atmos phere is honest and an invitation to the home means friendship in the true sense of the word. Our hostess is sure of her position and will not tolerate the yellow streak, and you know it always shows in one way or another." "It is a beautiful reception," was all she said, as we moved on towards the library. Soft notes from the orchestra came to us. Extremes in Society 73 We passed on into another room and were soon lost in the maze of dancers. "There is so much beauty in life unseen in colors," she said quietly, as we passed around the room. "Do you mean all this loveliness in our barren city?" I asked, as we left the room and found a cozy nook where we might see all and our tete-a-tete not be disturbed. "True — our city is barren and ugly to look at, but we have so much of the beautiful surrounding us to offset that. You should visit here at a time the foothills are turning green and the canyons bowers of wild roses. A time when small flowers lift their dainty heads from amongst blades of crisp grass and kiss the heavens with their perfume. Montana has a greater variety of wild flowers than any other state in the Union." "Tell me," she asked, "about the dance your friend is going to give next week." I smiled as I answered her. "He is a prince of entertainers; a man of dual nature. I wish this affair he is to give was to be one of his honest entertainments, but it is not to be. It is for business purposes only. He is1 in the big copper fight and out for big 74 Sketches of Butte stakes, and playing the game for all there is in it. It is a case of 'dog eat dog.' " I said. "Both he and his antagonists have special agents everywhere. You probably are at this present time suspected of being here for some sinister motive." She looked much surprised at my words. "How is that?" she asked. "Butte is a city of listeners," I said, "and you no doubt have been reported on long before this. If a man or woman comes to the camp and goes about his or her business, attending to his or her affairs only, he or she — whichever it may be — is looked upon with supicion, suspected of gathering informa tion to be used by one faction or another." "A pecuhar atmosphere to live in," she suggested. "Yes," I said, "the city reminds me of an island far out at sea: it has individuahty unique and interesting. At times I tire of the place and long for shores where the sea gull calls. Where I can look out on the blue waters, where all is restful and quiet. Where I can expand my lungs and drink in the pure ozone. The affair next week will be quite a medley. In preparing the invita- Extremes in Society 75 tion list for such affairs, he calls in one or two of his attorneys. 'How about this fel low?' he