This page is dedicated to the World's Greatest Optimist - the DESERT PROSPECTOR
Harry Oliver's DESERT RAT SCRAP BOOK 4
NEVADA Bad Men Buried Alone
The Murphy mine was the only producer of any importance in this district, located on the east flank of the Toiyabe range, about 50 miles south of Austin, but in Nye county. A party of French prospectors wandered into the area in 1863. It was a costly operation, with supplies hauled in from Austin over the summit of the Toiyabes at an elevation of over 10,000 feet. The Murphy mine is credited with a production of $750,000, but the mine paid no dividends. An enormous mill building, built of brick, and ruins of several stone houses on the side of the canyon above the mill, are about all that remain today. Ophir creek, a small clear stream of tumbling water is a favorite trout stream, and each year is visited by dozens of fishing parties.
At the mouth of Ophir Canyon, placer gold was discovered a few years ago, but so far nothoing has come of the discovery. On the side-hill where the canyon breaks down into Smoky Valley, is a small cemetary, with perhaps 25 graves, many of them containing children. Names of most of those buried there, are now forgotten. Below the main cluster of mounds are several isolated graves. In one of these a gunman, name now unknown, was buried. "Rutabaga Tom," and old Indian, still living, tells the following story of this lone grave:
"One bad man, nobody like, buried there, because nobody wants him close to good people. He mean man, killum man just for fun. One time he pick fight with young fellow called Black Bart. They promise fight battle. Each take gun, stand back to back, then walk off thirty steps, but this bad mans he walk only take twenty steps, then he turn quick like rattlesnake striking and shoots at Black Bart. Mebbyso he excited, for he miss target. Black Bart he walk 30 steps, turn, and bad man he is running off. One shot — and he fall — dead. Dead all over. Good people bury bad man all by himself, so he won't go to happy hunting grounds, with other mans." —From 50th Anniversary Edition, Tonopah Times Bonanza
A true desert turtle story
Any of you old Desert Rats want to bet a gallon of good whiskey that the following turtle story ain't true?
Old Bill Goeglein a retired assayer, now living in Wickenburg, Aiz., is noted for his veracity all over this desert.
In May, 1921, he went to Los Angeles and drove back a new Ford car. About five miles west of Amboy, Calif., he noticed the whole country ahead seemed to be moving and it was. A great migration of turtles was crossing the road ahead. The deep ruts in the road were filled with turtles and hundreds and thousands of them were crossing over them, moving in a northerly direction.
To the south as far as he could see and to the north as far as he could see was a moving mass of turtles spaced a few feet apart. As there seemed no end in sight, he decided to drive through them. He put her into low and ground through turtle meat, blood and guts for a full quarter mile before getting clear of the great migration.
When he arrived at the little filling station at Amboy, he stopped to clean the wheels and fenders of turtle meat. While there a small truck came in with the same experience.
After Old Bill told me this story, I made it a point to ask every old Desert Rat I met if he ever saw anything like this. In time I found an old cow puncher who saw the same thing in southwestern New Mexico. Thousands of turtles were crossing the Southern Pacific tracks and were piled up trying to get over the rails. A number of Indian Squaws were there filling funny sacks with turtles. One old Squaw said that the turtles from all over the desert went to a certain place to lay their eggs. After which they all migrated so as to leave the feed for the young turtles. Sounds reasonable. —John C. Herr, Wickenburg, Ariz.
MANANA
By S. Omar Barker
Manana is a Spanish word I'd sometimes like to borrow
It means "don't skeen no wolfs today that you don't shot tomorrow!
An' eef you got some jobs to do, in case you do not wanna
Go 'head an' take siesa now! Tomorrow ees manana!"
CREMATED CURRENCY By John Hilton
After the white man's "sanitary laws" made the desert Indian quit his practical and sanitary custom of cremating the dead, some ceremony had to be held at the grave so in many cases a token cremation of a doll dressed as the late lamented surrounded by the most prized possessions of the deceased took place over the grave.
At one of these burnings a Chinese merchant who had done business with the well-to-do chief while he was alive, was present to pay his respects. He watched quietly while they placed articles of clothing, a saddle and many other things on the pyre but when they topped it off with a large roll of U.S. currency, then he decided things had gone too far.
Calling a couple of the principal mourners aside he explained that to burn U.S. money was a federal offerse punishable by imprisonment.
"Well, what can we do?" They questioned.
The Chinaman's expression never changed. "Velly simple," he replied. "You givee monee me. I countee money, givie you check you burnie check. Chief cashee check in happy hunting grounds."
OLD TIMERS Shorty Harris JACKASS PROSPECTOR
By ROBERT J. SWEM From the Hobo News
Out in Death Valley, Calif., where the sun beats down every day of the year, there is a beautiful little monument bearing a plaque which reads:
"Here lies Shorty Harris, a single blanket jackass prospector."
Old time westerners and prospectors spin many yarns about this little, unassuming character who came West after the Civil War in search of gold.
Folks say he was born up around Rhode Island in 1856 or '57 — they ain't sure. His father and mother died soon after he was born, and he went to live wih his aunt. He wasn't fond of the aunt, and at fourteen ran away and headed west.
Shorty used to boast about the fact that he and President Grant arrived in California on the same train back in '76 — the only difference being that President Grant was ensconced on the comfortable plush cushions of the Presidential Special, while Shorty rode directly below on the none too comforting rods.
For years Shorty could be seen tramping the desert country, from Reno to Bisbee, from Mojave to Salt Lake City — always in the never-ending search for riches that somehow eluded his grasp. There was the time in 1904 when he made a strike around the Bullfrog Hills of Nevada. Shorty sold his discovery for $800 and spent the money on "Juniper Juice, as he affectionately called it. The mine later sold for $100,000.
Of course, this only proved what most folks had always said about Shorty: He would rather hunt for gold than mine it, and whenever he got his hands on any money he wouldn't know what to do with it, except, perhaps, to go on a spree until it was gone.
Shorty's life, however, was not without romance. There was the time when he thought about settling down with some nice woman, and having something running around the house besides a white picket fence. This thought came to him while he was working in a blacksmith shop in Ballarat, a little town in Panamint Valley. A Miss Bessie Hart was the object of Shorty's affections, and in his own words, "She was one right pert woman, as women come and go."
This Belle of Ballarat was well over six feet tall and weighed well over two hundred pounds. Rumor had it that she had, on occasion, treated a couple of husky men pretty rough. This seemed to make little difference to Shorty, who stood a scant five feet, and tipped the scales around one twenty. He was in love with this Desert Amazon, and that's all that mattered.
Shorty was putting an edge on one of his mining picks in the blacksmith shop, and Bessie was pumping the bellows for him, when Cupid let his arrow fly.
"How 'bout you 'n' me gettin' hitched?" said he, suddenly looking up at her.
Bessie straightened to her full six feet and placed her large hands on her none too narrow hips.
"Shorty," she declared, "you're a right nice little guy, and I like you, but as my husband — well, you're just too damn little for a big job."
"Reckon mebbee you're right," said Shorty. "Will you get them bellows workin' again?"
Shorty lived until he reached the age of seventy-three. When his time drew near, he called his friends to his bedside and requested that he be buried in the country that he had known and loved so well.
The spot where they laid him to rest in Death Valley is the deepest grave ever dug in the soil of North America — 280 feet below sea level.
And Shorty would be proud and happy if he could rise up and say:
"Well, if I ain't in hell, then I'm closer to it than anyone in the world!"
Died of Thirst
"Died of Thirst" proclaimed the crudely painted epitath on an upended boulder that marked a nameless grave near the Trona-Randsburg road near the "Y." Now it's gone, probably prey to a thoughtless souvenir hunter. The stone marked the last resting place of a mule skinner who was found dead at the spot many years ago by a search party that went out to look for him after he failed to arrive from Randsburg with his 20-mule team load of freight. The hapless victim had apparently attempted to disentangle the harness on the mules, and somehow died in the process. For many years a white picket fence market the grave. The fence was destroyed by an exodus of Hindu laborers who were leaving Trona after having worked on building of the Trona Railroad. Later a wag buried a pair of old boots on the grave, with only the toes sticking out of the ground. Still later the "Died of Thirst" stone appeared. Now the grave is unmarked. —Trona Argonaut
HERE'S ONE OLD TIMER
Old Timers in the Indian Wells Valley seem to go right on living. It is that kind of a climate. One of the oldsters, reputed to be 105 years old, was interviewed by a reporter.
"What do you think about women?"
"To tell you the truth, Mister, I quit thinking about women two years ago."
DRY WASH SMITH My Stand-In
A tourist asked Dry Wash, "How do you grow old so gracefully?" "Madam," he said, "I just give all my time to it."
Two Stories of Old Fort Oliver By Ben Bean
STORY NO.1
Back in 1788 as the story goes, soon after the Paula [sic] Branch Mission was completed, some sturdy Franciscan fathers arrived at Mil Palmeas and started a small branch mission. According to the old story the 13 arches that had been built crumbled from earthquake shock and discouraged the builders who left in a severe sandstorm to return to mission San Luis El Rey.
As near as historians can determine, it was in 1858, the heighth [sic] of Butterfield stage days, that Enrico Oliveras with the help of his two brothers built the Wells Fargo stage station in between the ruined arches.
A year later the stage road was changed and Enrico, discouraged, went back to Mexico.
In 1874, when the railroad came to Mil Palmeas, the old ruins were again roofed and an addition added, and was used by Frederick William Oliver, a railroad surveyor, as his headquarters, and received its name, Fort Oliver.
STORY NO.2
Fort Oliver, as it is called today, is said by some old timers to have been build years ago by a showman, Harry Oliver, also known in Mexico as Enrico Oliveras.
An expert and an authority on early Californian architecture who has collected and surrounded the old Fort with true western relics.
He is the same Harry Oliver who spent years as an expert on Western Art and research for the motion pictures of Hollywood, having been the Art Director on the pictures, "Viva Villa," "Will Rogers Pictures" also designer of western exposition shows at Fort Worth, Dallas and San Diego, author of 50 desert stories.
He is a leader in treks in search of lost mines and buried treasures such as the Peg Leg, Lost Gun Sight, and Lost Dutchman mines.
You may have seen him at Rodeo and Western shows in his old rickety 1928 Ford Station Wagon.
Whiskers, his famous dog, and he will be selling his well known publication, "The Desert Rat Scrap Book."
[image: anthropormorphic opuntia cactus] Night-Watchman. Fort Oliver
NOT MUCH TO TALK ABOUT
The insurance man went to the hospital to see Dynamite Dan. He wanted a full account of the mine explosion; wanted all the details—
"Well, sir," said Dan, "it was like this: you see, I was standing with me back to the mine. All of a sudden I hears a hell of a noise; then, sir, this yellow headed nurse, she says to me, 'Set up an' try to take this.'"
DESERT RATS and SOURDOUGHS about the same
Black Sullivan, who used to be around Dawson, was given the job of escorting a "looney" outside. All the boys gave him much advise. Said one: "Be sure and handcuff yourself to him or you may wake up and find him gone."
"If I lose him," answered Black, "I'll just grab the first prospector I come to and nobody will ever know the difference." F.A. Collarman,
The "Screaming Sands" of "Smuggler's Charybdis"
The Algodones, fascinating sand dunes 20 miles west of Yuma, Arizona, lie one half in the United States and one half in Mexico, 75 miles long and from 18 to 24 miles wide. This sea of sand dunes (some two hundred feet high) is free of as much as a blade of grass but for one oval-shaped island one half mlong [sic] straddling the border. This is— "Smuggler's Charbydis."
A flowing spring, its water quickly blotted up by the sand dunes; desert growth as one would find 20 miles east or west; the free whie sand sloping to the gorund on all sides — no explanation of this permanent wind eddy (it is an outward — instead of an inward eddy) that screams the screams of a woman in a whirlpool has come to the Editor these many years. — The smugglers camp here miles away from road or trail, watering their burros — knowing the screaming of the ravishing woman means their fresh tracks are erased from the desert sands.
From the unpublished book by the Editor, THE LEGENDS OF MOTHER DESERT, with 100 paintings in color by the great Desert Painters of today.
Look nice in Arizona Highways wouldn't they?
[image: procupine and cactus]
PORCUPINE PINING By S. Omar Barker
Romance to Mr. Porcupine
I have no doubt, is sweet
But how does he know, the poor dumb Joe,
It's not just prickly heat?
By the time this packet hits the water holes they will have machines to do a better and faster job of everything that people have to do in this world, except think and get the best of a woman in an argument.
. . . Pueblo Pete opines: "They will never make a machine, amigo, that will take a siesta for me. Gene Sherman — L.A. Times
THE TRUE STORY OF SCOTTY
As told by George Palmer Putnam. George found the best in Death Valley
Read his Book "Death Valley and Its Country"
Once a newspaperman went to the Castle.
"Scotty," he said, "Mr. Hearst has told me to write your straight story. From the beginning to date. No matter how long it takes, I'm to dig up the facts."
"Okay," said Scotty. "I'll help you. Don't just get the stuff from me. You go to these people who know me. Get the dope from them and then come back."
Scotty gave his visitor half a dozen names. They were men of Reno, Las Vegas, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Chicago.
Weeks later the writer returned.
"See 'em all?" Scotty asked.
The writer nodded. "Every one of them. They all talked, too, very cooperative."
"That's fine," said Scotty. "Between 'em they know all about me."
"The trouble is," the reporter went on, "each one told me an altogether different story."
Which is the way it is. And, I think, likely evermore shall be. —George Palmer Putnam
NO ROOM FOR THE ADVERTISERS THIS TIME ---BUT ROOM FOR A FEW MORE BURROS
[images: burro, burro, cat, burro] Why Not? I am his cat and it's his paper
GHOST TOWNS and Desert Humor
Jules is a wizard at telling and getting the Old Timers to tell desert rat yarns. At Goler we heard the story of the two old timers that got a fancy new cook book but weren't able to cook with a cook book because every recipe started with TAKE A CLEAN DISH.
At Garlock the outstanding yarn was the one about the desert rat that after a lucky strike went to Los Angeles, hunted up the swankiest cafe he could find, called to the waiter for six plates of beans and a candle, put the six plates of beans in a row before him. Then he blew out the candle and told the waiter to turn on the light and bring him a big porterhouse steak with all the francy trimmings they had, saying, "I want those beans to see me eat in style."
Jules told of the desert rat that took a job as summer caretaker at a big Death Valley Hotel and drawing on the large stock of dishes was able to go five months without washing a dish. He was undecided which towel to use, he had three all the same color, a dish towel, a face towel, and one for a mop.
(Gathering stuff like this is sure a nice way to make ½ a living.)
Pete Osdick was looking into an old mine over at Johannesburg Saturday an' fell in with some folks from Randsburg.
Old Arizona Jack from north of Flagstaff says that nothing so completely infuriates an Injun Chief as to hit him in the eye with a fried egg.
Seems like the feller that wins two or three dollars playin' cards never wants to work for a salary agin.
The Bakersfield boy that shot his father and cut his mother's nose off, and burned the house, admitted he'd been reading the "Funnies."
When his doctor advised a change of climate, the eastern city-dweller went looking for a healthy place to live in the Southwest. In one small Arizona town he approached an old0timer sitting on the steps of the general store.
"Say," he asked, "what's the death rate around here?"
"Same as it is back East, bub," came the answer; "one to a person."
I now have a fine adobe art gallery thanks to Harry Oliver. No he didn't mix any of the mud nor lay any bricks. He just laid his hand on my shoulder one day and started talking in that fatherly manner of his and his beard quivering with emotion as he waxed lyrical on his favorite subject.
"John you should build something out of 'dobe old pal. I know you express yourself with paint and in writing and that guitar of yours but you don't know real self expression till you build out of 'dobe. Why it's fire proof, earthquake proof, rat proof and almost fool proof against bad design and besides that, laying adobe bricks is good for the soul.
The idea took root as moist screwy ideas do in what some folks refer to as my brain. As much to my own surprise as anyone, I found myself up to my neck in 'dobe this fall (I mean literally).
I discovered that Harry was so very right about expressing onesself! Why the first time a huge 'dobe brick broke while I was hoisting it in place and each half landed on one of my feet, I expressed myself in a manner that brings a glow to me even now. Then there was the time a big blob of fresh mud dropped and plugged my pipe and left ear while I was stooping to pick up another brick and the days when I battet gnats with mud covered hands until I looked like a bargain counter Al Jolson, and the day I climbed hurriedly down the ladder and shook hands vigorously with an old friend before she could protest. You should have heard her express herself! Then there was the afternoon when I slipped on a gob of wet mud and landed on my cement floor with a sixty pound brick in my lap. And the other time — but why should I go on. There is positively nothing on earth like building with 'dobe to make one express himself.
The gallery is finished and it's a wonderful feeling (like hitting yourself on the head with a hammer because it feels so fine wen you stop). I think I am going to be proud of my gallery when my neck loses its stiffness enough for me to really look it over. Its rustic native appearance is partly due to the fact that I laid my level in the sun the first day and it exploded and the next day I dropped a brick on the square and threw it five eighths of an inch out of line. Then theres the hand rubbed effect; (The doc says I'll grow new skin and finger nails in a few weeks); and those hand trimmed bricks on the corner with the odd angle (that's where I split my thumb) and the general effect! Why it looks as authentic as an Oliver Movie set! Better come and see the place but in the meantime friends, try building something out of adobe. It's good for the soul and its head and cold proof, sound proof, bullet and termite proof, etc., etc. In fact the only thing it isn't is work proof.
ARIZONA
Along the Border
At a desert crossroad at Patagonia, Arizona, there is a road sign which reads, "Take care which rut you use. You'll be in it for the next twenty miles."
FASTER THAN SOUND
Two buzzards were lazily winging over the Arizona desert when Howard Hughes' jet-propelled plane suddenly went hurtling by, its exhausts belchig flame and smoke. The buzzards silently watched it disappera into the Western sky, and then one of them found his voice. "Holy carrion," he said. "Was that bird in a hurry!" "Listen, Lucius," opined the other, "you'd be in a hurry too if your tail was on fire." —Bennett Cerf
SHORT SHORT
Up near Flagstaff, two eagles battling over the body of a young goat, atop a powerline pole, caused a short circuit and shut off the power from several small communities. The charred bodies of the eagles and the goat were found at the foot of the pole in a tangle of wire, insulators and burned crossarms. Seems to me that deserves more than mere mention — it has "epic" proportions. —Don's Digest, Brewery Gulch Gazette, Bisbee, Arizona
BY GEORGE
An Indian missionary was awakened one night by a racket in the house. He picked up a pistol and quietly sneaked into the next room where he found a burglar ransacking the place. He said, "My friend, I would not hurt thee for the world but thou art standing right where I am going to shoot!" George A. Stingle
YOU FIXUM, DOCTOR?
An old doctor at Needles tells this one: "An old time Indian came to his office and asked: "you fix sick man?" Doctor said "Yes," whereupon the Indian led him 11 miles to his adobe hogan, entered, laid down, said "Gut hurt like hell, you fixum."
Woe-Begone Joe
Says he started out as an unwanted child, but he overcame the handicap. By the time he was 19 he was wanted in 24 states, including Texas.
BOURBON SPRING By CAPT. R.A. GIBSON
Dear Harry:
This actually happened at Silver Lake, Cal., in 1906. Mr. Hargreaves, ex mule skinner of the Mormon Church, Salt Lake, came into Silver Lake during the spring of the above year and had the blacksmith sharpen up three or four Iron Rods (about ¼") bending the other end to form a good hand grip.
When I asked him what he was going to do, the old man said he was going to the "Devil's Playground" to search for 2 wagons he had lost there in the '80s. This is his story:
He was freighting from San Berdoo to Salt Lake for the Church and since the old road crossed the Playground (just East of the present Junction of the T&T Ry and the San Pedro, Los Angeles & Salt Lake Ry) it was always necessary to drop at least one wagon on the Daggett side of the playground and take one to the Hard Pan road on the north side, doubling back for the other. On this trip he had two wagons and a trailer with hay and water, so dropped one wagon and the trailer just inside the Mesquite and managed to get across the Playground before the Sandstorm got too bad. He was marooned there two full days without water or food for the animals, and when he returned, he could find no trace of road or wagons. He returned to Daggett with his animals after taking them to Soda Lake for water.
He said the wagon contained 4 bbls. of Bourbon Whiskey and 20 kegs of Iron Nails together with some other articles which he could not remember. Many times in after years he stopped for a day or two and searched everywhere for some trace of his lost outfit, however, no trace was found and inquiry from time to time failed to show that the wagons were ever found.
He left Silverlake a few days later and proceeded to the Playground to start his search.
I went down to see the old man a couple times and found him prodding each and every sand dune with his sharpened rods. He had set up rock piles on the North side and also on the South and in these he had put rods with white banners so that he might keep a general line between them in his search.
One day, on my second and last trip down, I asked the old fellow what would if he found the wagons, his reply being: "Boy if I find those wagons my fortune will be made. I figure that the whiskey will be about half evaporated and that what remains will be just like cream. So, with at least 2 good barrels of 300 proof whiskey at about $1.00 per swig, I won't have to work any more."
He was at the job for at least two weeks — gave up — and like the Arab — folded his tent and stole away.
It might have been a true story — legends sometimes start that way — perhaps the archives of the Mormon Church might have something on this — who knows — or cares.
Your story in a recent "Desert Rat" reminded me of old man Hargreaves and his futile search.
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