Just Riding Through
Although I dislike hard work, I have been known to work for ranchers. I did it out of necessity rather than preference. I had no particular trade except a bit of jackleg carpentry. My working on farms and ranches consisted of cleaning out horse stalls, slopping hogs, gathering eggs, killing and plucking chickens, raking yards, Gardening and so forth. At Nineteen years old, I hired on with the Circle Y Ranch in Chapel Mountain, Texas. I knew nothing about herding or roping cattle as I explained to the wife of the Ranch owner; Mrs. Stone. I intended to learn to be a ranch hand, save my money, work across the country all the way to California to search for gold. When I found some gold, I planned to rake it up into piles and put it into sacks. I carried an old six-shooter that belonged to my Father before he died. I could hit a can two or three times out of six shots if I were close enough to it.
I hired on around ten o’clock one morning; I was to start to work the following morning. I would start out fixing fences, and in a couple of years, they would teach me to drive cattle. I put my belongings in the bunkhouse and brushed down my horse. Mrs. Stone rang the dinner bell. An old man that did odd jobs around the house and barn brought me a plate along with some strong coffee.
He informed me that the Circle Y had twenty hands that worked the twenty thousand acre ranch. The owner of the spread and all of the cowhands were on the far west side. They sought to stop some cattle rustlers and end the spree of cattle theft that had risen in the last couple of months. Mrs. Stone had expected them back for lunch, but now it was almost One O clock, and she was worried. The old man was unable to mount a horse, so Mrs. Stone sent me to check on them. I was to return immediately with the word as to the necessity for help from the local law enforcement if needed. I had never been in the area, and merely followed the tracks left from that morning. Along the way, a black cloud came up suddenly and blew hard with sand so thick I could not see. The sand covered the tracks left by the ranch hands and having blurred vision, from the sand scratching my eyes; I slowly proceeded toward some foothills. Smoke signals were coming from one of the lower peaks. I did not know how to read these smoke signals except that it was a calling signal. A message from a couple of miles away answered the call. I began to hear shooting from the calling signal area and proceeded in that direction. As I drew closer, hearing screams of agony coming from the canyon, I was frightened.
I stopped my horse and slowly climbed to a ledge just below the peak. The gunfire intensified, and I lay flat for fear of catching a stray bullet. As the firing momentarily ceased, I belly crawled around and through the crevices of the bare rock to a point where I figured I could see who was who and where they were.
Suddenly, on my arm, stomped a rawhide boot. I heard the trigger hammer fall, but apparently, it was out of unspent bullets. I rolled over and fired blindly every shot I had. I only saw the silhouette of the man that fell backward as the glaring sun hurt my sand burned eyes. Quickly I crawled downward and slipped a couple of times skinning myself in places and bumping my head. After tumbling for twenty feet or so I landed in a sand bed which knocked the breath out of me.
Catching my breath, I whistled for my horse, and it came to me. I turned it to the path that I had ridden in on, and as soon as the way widened I spurred him in the sides, and we hightailed back to whence we came. Arriving at the Circle Y, I told exactly of my experience right down to the slightest detail. Mrs. Stone asked me to ride into town and ask the Sheriff to gather up a posse and help the Circle Y crew. I went to the bunkhouse, got my things and went to town, gave the sheriff the message and then I kept going on my way west.
I traveled along in no particular hurry, stopping now and then to work up enough money for supplies. Then I would head west again. I rested in a town near the western border of Texas and bought some coffee, bacon, and beans. After getting my supplies, and loading them on my horse, I rested a bit.
I thought of hunting for a temporary job at the stable or else stocking shelves in the mercantile store. If nothing else, killing chickens for the town café. As I walked past the jailhouse, I saw a wanted poster with a charcoal drawing of my face and my name on it. It offered a one thousand dollar reward for the apprehension and return of me to Chapel Mountain, Texas. I was charged with and wanted for murder. I snatched the poster down, folded it quickly and placed it under my hat. I left town immediately, with my hat pulled down shadowing my face. I did not stop until I was well out of Texas. When I crossed over into the New Mexico Territory, I camped, fished, and hunted for food. I wound up on a supply route from Corpus Christi, Texas, which led to Salt Lake City, Utah. I was in the New Mexico Territory following the rough supply road until I reached the Colorado River in North-West Arizona. After following it to a town called Kevin’s Ford, I proceeded west. I had no food, no money, and my horse was about to give out.
On the last leg of my journey, I came to a small town where some families lived in tents and wagons. There were only three or four log buildings in the settlement located near the banks of the Colorado River and a short distance from the Mojave Desert. It was spring of1866, and I decided to stay for a while. I traded my horse to Mr. Fredrick Cole for food and lodging until I could do better. The Cole family gave me work and loved me as one of their own. They sold or traded everything they owned to travelers who stopped to fill their barrels with water from the Colorado River. Soon after, with irrigation, they grew crops, harvested fish, selling these items to travelers. Often, Mr. Cole and two of the Cole boys would travel the main trail through the Mojave Desert and collect the wheels and hardware from the broken down and abandoned wagons that lay discarded. Eventually, they began repairing wagons and trading horses. Stocked up with tools, wagon supplies, barrels, and general foodstuff they bought from the trade vessels that traveled up the river to Kevin’s Ford, which was thirty-five miles North East.
The place was named Cole Town, a western tent town that sprung up during the vast migration of the Forty-Niner’s in Northwest Arizona, not far from the Mojave Desert.
The Forty-niners were the masses of people from all around the U.S., who fell for the lure of gold for the taking, said to be in California. There is gold in California, but the ones who made the most money were the ones that ran supply stores. Incidentally, it is the business owners that sponsored the Move West campaign, involving exaggerated stories, posters, and Newspaper ads from California to the East Coast.
Regardless of the cause, there were migrations to California which blazed trails and started small tent towns all along the way.
Colton was one of those little tent towns that kept growing due to its convenient location, on the edge of the Mojave Desert. Another advantage for Colton, which dramatically improves the ability for flourishing, is its location beside the Colorado River. Mr. Cole built a large raft and used it to ford wagons across the river. Fording at times when the supply boats were unexpected. There was a charge for the crossing. Mr. Cole put young’uns on each side of the river, and a mule to pull the barge.
Colton was the last place to fill water barrels before crossing the Mojave Desert for the westward-bound travelers, and the first opportunity of water for the eastward bound travelers.
The Riverboats worked Kevin’s Ford every two months, selling and trading supplies from the Gulf of California, stopping at many landings and wagon trails along the way. They were regularly attacked and had to fight riverboat pirates up and down the Colorado River.
From the start of the Colorado River in the Central Rocky Mountains to the Gulf of California in Mexico, is 1,450 miles.
Although I was given the name Joseph Lee at birth, The recent circumstances required I change it to Jessie Reno; a name of someone I knew as a kid that had died from a fever. Now that I have aged and gained some weight, and grown a beard, I do not bear the same facial appearance that is on wanted posters in three states and two territories.
The Cole’s paid me to help cut trees, which they bought, Sixty miles up the Colorado River and make large rafts from the trees. On the journey home to Cole’s landing, the large, long floats, would stop to load supplies at Kevin’s Ford. (population, 900+-) Located beside the Colorado River on the main supply trail from Corpus Christi, and Galveston, Texas to Salt Lake City, Utah. After each trip, we disassembled the rafts and pulled logs ashore. The logs are for building material. The Coles tripled their investment in sales or trade for labor. No one went hungry or cold.
The once, tent town, grew to three hundred people with most of the dwellings made from logs. Many worked for logs and nails. Nails were a precious metal, and hard to get.
A U.S. Cavalry unit, with the blessings of the town, built a post with barracks, and towers, furnishing 24-hour guards. Cole Town’s newly established Town Council was happy to provide the US ARMY with the use of its volunteers to protect the immediate area. Cole Town was appreciative for the protection against the ever-increasing war parties, caused by the rapid influx of ranchers and farmers taking over their hunting lands. Eventually, Cole Town voted to change the town’s name to Fort Colton.
The news of a massive Silver vein discovered close to Fort Colton spread like wildfire. Claims sold rapidly. Gerald Cole was one of the first to hear about the strike. He bought several claims adjoining the original mine. Of course, he made a bundle. The silver boom was fruitful on the one hand, but, on the other hand, it brought chaos and outlaws from all directions. With stagecoaches and freight wagons robbed repeatedly. It was now very unsafe to travel without being escorted by the Cavalry. The U.S. Territorial Marshals were few and had large areas to cover; handling the entire Arizona Territory.
Local Sheriff’s, Deputies, and scattered Cavalry units were the only official protection available most of the time. Bounty hunters and Range Detectives helped to discourage crimes and pillage. After the Silver strikes, a couple hundred more people made Fort Colton their home. The town grew at an alarming pace.
If it involves money, around Fort Colton, you can bet there’s a Cole involved somehow. Making money, undoubtedly, is an inherited trait. Whatever they touch turns to gold, as the old saying goes.
It doesn’t bother me because everyone living there has depended on the generosity of the Cole family at one time or another. Nowadays, I call Ft. Colton, my home, my town, or our town. I turned twenty-one in Ft. Colton, ARIZONA, (1869pop.621.)
Mr. Fredrick Cole passed away, and Mrs. Lois Cole operates the Ft. Colton Cafe, even though she does not need the money. The Town Council and Sheriff Department learned lessons quickly. Since I was the on-duty jailer and an Auxiliary Deputy Sheriff, my day began at Five O’clock P.M... I worked at the Fort Colton Stage Coach and Shipping Station where I built shipping crates and watched the counter at night for stagecoach tickets after hours. I also kept a fresh team ready for incoming stages and shipped and received as need be.
I worked here and there doing odd jobs. If there were a way to make a buck, I found it. I met a few different girls, but my favorite of all was Amelia Holmes. She and her sister, Susan, ran a dress shop and took in sewing and mending. I had accumulated a couple of hundred dollars, but I had no horse. I could use one of the Coles horses if need be, but most of the time the roads were too dangerous to travel. A typical day, I spent sleeping in a jail cell (turned into a bedroom). I stayed busy and out of trouble. I had friends and felt right at home as the town grew from 40 to 50 people to over 600 in three years. There was plenty of work to be done.
I felt confident that I would be fed and have a dry place to sleep from then on. I knew everyone in town and got along well with everyone. I got along well with Amelia Holmes. We each were bashful but had a spark.
Activity starts early in Ft. Colton, Arizona. The local blacksmith, Alonzo, which we call Lonny, starts pounding away at four o’clock in the morning. He makes parts for plows and wagons mostly. Occasionally, He makes a steamboat part. The smell of biscuits, bacon, and eggs, penetrates the air by four thirty. The scent of coffee is enticing. I think I have the best job in town.
When the economy excels, I flourish. My three goals in life are simple, to stay alive, make a living, and marry Amelia Holmes. When the lights come on at the café, Mrs. Lois is ready for business. I usually make it to the Ft. Colton Café at the same time each morning. The typical early morning conversation with Mrs. Lois goes like this: “Morning,” I say, Ms. Lois replies, “Top of the morning to you, Jessie.” Before I say anything, she says, “Sausage & Biscuit?” She sits my coffee on the counter. I reply, “Yep.” The bell rings on the front door as Doc Hill comes in. He says, “Lois,” she says, “Andrew,” she says, “Same?” he says, “Same.” Lonny and I talk while Dr. Hill re-reads last week’s paper.
We all know Doc well enough to leave him be until after, at least, his second cup of coffee. Even then, we cautiously bid hello to him as a sort of, “feeling the waters,” so to speak. After a couple of cups of coffee, Doctor Hill says, “Well, that Jones girl finally had her baby last night!” Ms. Lois asks, “Awe, Andrew, was it a boy or a girl?” Doc replies, “Another Girl!” Then silence follows, as he starts reading again. As it starts getting daylight, I return to the freight shop, put away tools, and sweep up.
Floyd, the day man at the freight office, comes in to check on things at the dock and then we walk back to the café.
I work hard when I have to, and then sometimes, I relax. Today, I am going to rest with a fishing pole, on the bank of the Colorado River. Maybe, catch a mess of catfish, which I can trade with Mrs. Lois for a catfish meal at the café and if there’s enough, a sausage biscuit and coffee for breakfast in the morning.
It is1870, and I feel contented. If I continue saving a dollar here and a dollar there, I can afford to buy a half acre lot in town on Second Street. Then I will start saving to build a house on the lot, and one day, have that home constructed. Then I will ask Miss Amelia for her hand in marriage. It’s only fitting that I have a house for her to live in before proposing.
As Mrs. Lois’s Sons grow, they add to the family fortune. The oldest son, Gerald Cole, has the idea of opening a saloon, in hopes that the off-duty soldiers, miners, and the townsmen would patronize it. He ordered sewn lumber shipped by raft and wagon. The freight office bought another freight wagon and mule team. The Saloon gradually took shape, being located near the Café. I got the job of building the first board walkway in Fort Colton, Arizona. It takes money to make money, and Gerald Cole has money and a sound business mind. I think of him as a brother. All of the Cole family is like family to me. Mrs. Lois treats me like one of her sons.
At seeing how expensive it is to buy sawn lumber and hire it shipped to Fort Colton, Gerald decided to build a sawmill on a tributary which fed into the river. He would have logs floated downstream from miles away and saw the wood at his mill. The opening of the sawmill is when Colton began to prosper and thrive.
After completing the saw-mill, he built a grain mill and then a feed mill. All of the mills Gerald made could choose from an ample labor force. Gerald created 90% of the town’s economic structure.
Amelia Holmes also makes curtains, blankets and such. I took the measurements for curtains that would fit the Saloon stage and the windows at the Café to her. She and her sister, Susan, busy as bees, were cutting material and sewing.
I asked her nervously, “Would you go with me to the barn dance tomorrow night?” She replied, “Jessie, I am going to be busy getting the curtains ready, but, it would be fun, Okay, Yes, I would love to go.”
I replied, “Good, I’ll see you tomorrow evening. How about letting me treat you to supper at the café?” Amelia says, “Why Jessie Reno, I believe this is a date!” I replied, “Yep, I hope so, Amelia.” Amelia was flushed and bashful, saying, “Okay, Jessie, I’ll see you tomorrow evening, bye.”
Oh, how I love Amelia, she is not the prettiest girl in town, but she is the sweetest, and that makes all the difference in the world. With the Barn Dance in full swing; Amelia and I finished our romantic supper at the café.
Suddenly, the Church bell rings and the Fort bugle sounds, calling all military personnel to duty. Gunfire rings out. Suddenly, the city bell rings, and all of the men proceed quickly to the Sheriff’s Office, which is also the town’s volunteer arsenal, for rifles and cartridges. I escort Amelia to the Church house quickly.
The Town Armory quickly provides everyone with rifles and cartridges. The Church House, made of stone, provides the most protection of any buildings in town. I guard a predetermined section pointed out to me during our frequent drills. I kill a warrior right away.
More and more bodies are on the ground. The smell of gunpowder and blood is prevalent. Runners deliver ammunition. It is what we have rehearsed, and it is militarily sound. By near dawn, the shots are less and less until an eerie quietness prevails. Sporadic moans come from here and there.
Torches and lanterns burn brightly to see who is who. A couple of small fires doused and men with stretchers are quickly in place. Townspeople get helped first.
Soldiers and town-folk are accounted for and seen about; everyone is helping each other. After thoroughly searching the town for native warriors in hiding, the wounded warriors receive medical treatment. They are then placed in jail, before being transferred to the Fort stockade and held as bargaining power for peace talks.
The town has oil burning street lamps, scattered here and there, but it remains hard to see very far at night. The poor lighting is the purpose of having a designated area for each volunteer to guard. As it turned out, there were no townspeople killed. One Soldier lost his life and several warriors.
After the bugle had sounded the stand down call, I ran into the church, and Amelia hugged me. With the barn dance rescheduled, I escorted Amelia to her shop, which is her home as well. Once there, I checked all through Amelia and Susan’s house for intruders. Then we kiss and say goodnight.
I reported to the Sheriff’s office as the injured natives’ awaited transfer to the Fort stockade. The Sheriff, Elijah Foster, talking with the deputy, Warren Harris, were discussing plans for taking guard shifts throughout the night. I turned in my rifle and unspent cartridges and immediately swore in as an on-duty Auxiliary Deputy Sheriff until all was back to normal.
As an Auxiliary Deputy Sheriff, I must uphold the law as the Sheriff describes for given situations. On duty, decisions are to be solely at my discretion, pending procedures justly clarified through the Sheriff’s office.
In other words, I will be a night watchman. If someone shoots at me, I can return fire; otherwise, I am to be a deputized witness. That is fine with me. I am no hero, but a fair to a middling carpenter with a desire to live a long and happy life with Amelia Holmes, the local dressmaker.
