{"collection":"mor","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/mor/tfd/chap15.htm","path":"mor/tfd/chap15.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/mor/tfd/chap15.htm","text":"\"Thus far into the bowels of the land, Have we marched without impediment.\"\nShakespeare\nIF Alta City, as its name suggests, is a lofty camp, Bingham City, in the opposite \nrange of the Oquirreh Mountains, was a lively camp.\nI had often wished to see a typical mining camp, to decide if the customary \"gunfire\" \nstories were true, or exaggerated. Well! I found them about true, as I will now \nrelate.\nThis shanty city was along a narrow canyon, which began in the low foothills, covered \nwith sagebrush, and then extended upward with a sinuous course to what was known \nas Upper Bingham where in winter the snow lies deep and slides are common.\nThis is rather a treeless range, and there is little that is picturesque in this \ncanyon town by way of view. What it lacked in nature, it made up in human nature. \nAll sorts of people were there. To use the common phrase, \"We are all here, Jews, \nGentiles, and Mormons.\" The business was almost entirely Hebraic, the mining almost \nto a man, Gentile, but not by any means gentle, and the teaming and toiling by \"Jack\" \nMormons, meaning thereby such Mormons as had left their piety in the valley, and \nwere up in these hills, like the rest of the human tide, \"For what there was in \nit.\" All these people meant to make money, and then go home-\"To behave and be respectable.\" \nThis canyon was well occupied by this industrious town. Against the rocky sides \nthe houses pressed their backs, while their fronts, of most varied designs of ugliness, \nlooked boldly on \"The Street.\" This street was a narrow affair, without pretense \nof road work, and was simply a wagon trail up which loads of supplies and men were \ncarried. People thronged it because there was no other place to walk. A sidewalk \nwas an un-thought-of thing. Little suggestions of such a possibility were seen in \nseveral platforms, built before the larger edifices, such as the saloons and the \nhotels. These were nice things to land on, in stepping from the stage on a muddy \nday, and in good weather excellent places for pedestrians to clean their huge boots, \nor take a \"free rest.\" When the weather was good and warm, these suggestions of \ncoming sidewalks were occupied by the idle and the tired to make swaps, tell stories, \ntake siestas, originate rows and quarrels, and anything else to make life interesting \nin the camp.\nThe street was a sight at all times for a street sweeper. The litter was terrific, \nfor it was the custom of the housekeepers to sweep the surplus contents of their \nhouses, with a dash of the broom, into the street, and then to bang their doors \nwith an air of having got rid of a lot, and having done a good day's work.\nIn this town there was no garbage brigade, with shovels and brooms, to deposit this \nlitter carefully in those bins labelled \"For clean streets.\"\nThe grand climax to this was on Monday morning, after the strenuous work of Sunday \nwas over, the Camp's rest day but not religious day. Packs of cards, used and cast \naway by those in bad luck, were swept out by the barkeep, and the roadway looked \nlike an outdoor gambler's paradise.\nThe \"hells\" were all indoors, and you had to go within to see them, and to smell \nthem. I do not deny that the odors of these places came out, but the sniff you got \nwhen mixed with oxygen and the ozone of the Bingham hills, was nothing in its strength, \nto the full blast of the interiors.\nThe rest of this canyon was taken up by the river or \"Crik,\" that was always trying \nto pass down and squeeze its way, with considerable noise, over boulders, through \nriffles and sluices set in its way by the industrious placer miner, and get out \ninto the open to find its peace in the bosom of the river Jordan. I need not name \nthe other occupants of this narrow vent in these hills, since they were only tarantulas, \nrattle snakes, and mammoth spiders.\nI came into the camp with a rush, for I was a passenger on the four-horse stage. \nI had missed the train, and took the chance to make the camp that night by going \nthrough on Rory McDonald's stage. He was a Scotch tough. I suppose that he had been \na good little boy in his early days, and his \"Scotch Mither\" had made him toe the \ncrack to recite the shorter catechism. That may be, but he had left it far behind \nand like many a boy brought up to be \"varra gude,\" he had swung to the opposite \nextreme. Going west, and doing as the West did in the '70's, Rory McDonald became \na tough, and carried a gun. He also carried a charming brogue with a big Scotch \n\"burr\" on his tongue's end, a tantalizing smile, an ogling eye that disturbed the \ngirls, and a most ingratiating manner, which made him many friends, and popular \nwith the travelling public.\nThere were several bloody affairs, gunfights and homicides while I was there; but \nRory McDonaid was the man who was responsible for the worst of these affairs. His \nglib tongue, and indifferent morals beguiled to his side as companion the wife of \na lame shoemaker. The husband was industrious in his way, but not a lucky man. He \ndid not climb, but remained financially below par and his wife got tired of economy \nand poverty.\nRory McDonald was lavish with his money. His stage line was paying, and he spent \nhis profits freely on this woman. Taylor, the shoemaker, was chaffed coarsely by \nthe men of the town, about his wife. He was a pale-faced fellow, but his courage \nwas not lacking. Since he could not manage his side-stepping wife, he walked up \nto McDonald, and told him to \"git heeled,\" as the next time they met he would begin \nshooting. He nearly began then, but since the sheriff was within sight, several \nmutual friends parted the angry pair. Everybody looked for trouble; but several \ndays slipped by. Men began to twit Taylor for his easy sufferance of this blot on \nhis honor. Then it happened like a thunder clap.\nMiss Minor, a young woman the niece of the only resident physician, was standing \non the porch of her uncle's office, looking for the mail. As she glanced down the \nstreet she saw a man coming up on the opposite side, with a creeping, bending step, \nand trailing a shot-gun. She recognized the red face of Rory McDonald. It all happened \nin a flash. A shout, as McDonald stopped in front of the shoemaker's door, which \nwas wide open. It was a long narrow room, with the work bench, and seat at the far \nend. There tapping heels, Taylor was bending over his work. Following the shout \n\"look out\" from McDonald, came the crash of his shot gun, as it poured a charge \ninto the fated man. As an echo came the revolver shot that struck McDonald's thigh \nhigh up. The second barrel followed, and Taylor fell riddled, yet in falling fired \na second time. The bullet flew high, through the open door, and across the street. \nIt struck the post of the porch, against which Miss Minor's hand rested. Slivers \nof wood fell on her head, and the bullet buried itself in the building.\nI was up a gulch opening on the main street, when I heard these reports. They sounded \nlike the falling of a lot of lumber from a wagon. Until I saw men running I did \nnot think the noise was gunfire. When I reached the spot the crowd held McDonald, \nwho was white of face and bleeding fast. Others were in the shop, viewing the riddled \nyet breathing body of Taylor. 'He died as they lifted him up.\nSome were for lynching McDonald right away, saying it was cowardly murder, to shoot \na man down in his store with no more warning than a shout. Others swept McDonald \noff to the local jail, and had him out of sight in a few minutes. A divided camp \ndiscussed the horror, and it soon appeared that Taylor's friends were in sufficient \nnumbers to carry out their threat of a lynching bee. The sheriff was persuaded to \navoid a fight by taking McDonald to Salt Lake City for safekeeping. During the early \nhours of the night, he was smuggled into a wagon, under some baled hay, and passed \nout of the camp without notice. When the posse came to the jail later, the sheriff \nlet them look into all the cells, and then told them they would have to go to Salt \nLake City for their man.\nThis was one of many coarse blood-horrors common to these camps. Some months later \nMcDonald's money and friends carried him safely through a trial in court, and he \ncame out free, due to the jury's sentence, \"done in self defense.\" Taylor's threat \n\"heel yourself,\" was deemed the legal reason for the sentence.\nMcDonald met me in the canyon near the depot, and came up with his usual ingratiating \nsmile, with extended hand. \"I can't take your hand,\" I said, \"I think you did a \ncowardly thing. You killed a man in an unfair fight.\"\n\"But he would have shot me, in the same way, jf he could.\"\n\"Maybe, but he did not. If you had been the man we thought you were, you would have \ncalled him out, into the open, on even terms.\"\nMcDonald looked his surprise, then scowled a moment, and turned on his heel with \na growl.\nHe was always morose after that. It is often so. A man who is a killer soon loses \nhis kindliness of temperament.\nMost of the camp ores went out by the narrow-gauge railroad. They went to the smelters \nat Sandy, at the junction of the broad-gauge railroad, from whence, in the form \nof lead, silver, and gold ingots, they were transported to the East. The passengers \nfor the Camp came in on the mixed train. Returning the engine remained to bring \nout the loaded ore cars, but the baggage and passenger cars made the trip by gravity, \nunder brake control; for the grade was sharp most of the way to the valley. I remember \na wild ride, by this gravity method, with a party of young men of the assay and \nmining offices. We occupied a number of seats together, and were in a merry mood, \nsince it was a vacation party.\nIn a neighboring seat was a middle-aged aggressive Agnostic. At least he was loud \nin his profession of the philosophy of \"Know-Nothing\" as to religion, although he \nwas at the same time a Spiritualist as to his superstition. I never knew a man of \nthat stamp, who did not take up something more credulous than the religion he rejected. \nMoreover he was roughly Anti-Church and Anti-Christ, and thus popular with a certain \ncrowd in the Camp. Now, none of us were of his way of thinking. Most of the young \nmen were not specially religious, although all of them had a little of it somewhere \nin their make-up. I was openly and avowedly religious, and tried my best to advance \nmorality and sane religion in the Camp. I had some influence too, and made public \naddresses on Sunday, and conducted, the only day-school in the Camp, on week-days. \nMr. Agnostic sneered at me, therefore, as an Eastern \"Goody-Goody,\" and took great \ndelight, every Monday night, in the Social Hall in ridiculing my addresses of Sunday.\nWell; on this train he went for me about the \"fables\" of the Bible. Especially he \nhaw-hawed over the Jonah incident, getting off the ancient joke that \"it was an \nawful fishy story, so fishy that it smelled disgustingly of falsehood.\" I let him \ngo on for a time to see the kind of ammunition he had to use against me, and a crowd \ngathered around to listen, grin, and make \"eye-brows\" at me. I was just beginning \na reply to some of his \"points,\" as he termed them, when the car, which had been \nslipping along very fast, gave a vicious jolt which sat us sharply down in our car-seats.\nThen the front door banged open, and the brakeman looked in. Above the roar of the \ncar we heard his voice. \"Hold tight all. We're on the run. Brake's broke!\"\nWe were just out of the canyon proper, with its many sharp curves, and were on the \nlong straight track for Sandy in the bottom of the valley. This was fortunate, for \nthe road was better ballasted than in the canyon. We fairly leaped along, the heavy \nbaggage car behind the coach acting as an accelerator. Mr. Agnostic was silent and \nsat still. Soon signs of scare appeared, his red face visibly whitened and he tapped \nhis fingers nervously on the seat. All of us were much stirred and took no notice \nof him. We held our breath as the little train swept, like a flash, past the telegraph-posts. \nSome women aboard uttered suppressed shrieks, bravely struggling with their oozing \ncourage. We expected a smash. I was anxious, but I had a mind to note how differently \nthe young men faced this unexpected peril. Some had their heads high, and nostrils \nwide, like a racer ready for the jump. Others cringed in their seat sand stared \nunseeingly out of the window. A few fellows laughed. One man swore. I did not hear \na single outcry from any man. It showed what a self-contained set the . Westerners \nare. In Eastern waters, when confronted with the probability of speedy death, I \nhad been among men of a more emotional sort. I recalled a six-day gale in mid Atlantic, \non a liner, so poorly ballasted, and so narrow of beam that she rolled to the extreme \nlimit of gravity. Occurring every few minutes, these desperate ship swings broke \neverything that could come loose. These violent rolls broke the nerve of both passengers \nand crew, so that I heard the fool, the infidel, and the coarse liver, alike pray, \nspurred thereto by fear. But after the storm was over, and their fright passed, \nthese men were the same as before. \"The dog returned to its vomit again, and the \nsow that was washed to her wallowing in the mire.\"\nThe other occasion was on the Canadian Lakes. It was on a sort of \"penny-whistle\" \nsteamer, her engine and boiler were so small. She had an ambitious load of cordwood \naboard, and was top heavy. Crossing Georgian Bay from Parry Sound we faced a furious \nstorm. For five hours we just barely kept our stem to the choppy sea, and had the \ntiller ropes broke, or the helmsman lost his nerve and hold, the little craft would \nhave broached-to, and gone down with all hands. During these wild hours, humanity \nwas the same, on this little boat of a freshwater lake, as it was on the big Atlantic \nliner.\nSo, here, on this runaway train, it proved the stamina of both women and men, the \nwomen showing almost equal coolness with the men. Suddenly we rushed and rocked \npast buildings which bordered the Jordan River. Next we roared across the bridge, \nand toward the rising grade leading to the smelters at Sandy. We were safe from \na smash. The upgrade acted as a brake, and the cars soon slowed down sufficiently \nfor many to drop off the platform, one after another, like ripe pears from a shaken \ntree. The yardsmen slipped a few spare ties behind the wheels, and the train was \nat rest after a wild ride. It left us sobered. Mr. Agnostic came out limp and tame, \nwith his aggression all gone for the time. He met some cold, sarcastic grins from \nthe fellows who had noted his complete scare.\n\"Say! Old Man, you looked as though you really did believe in a Hell!\"\nThis was the salutation he got from a passing miner, but he received no response \nfrom Mr. Agnostic. He had lost his sand. We reached Sandy Junction, to gather about \na poor fellow who was brought down from Alta City \"leaded.\" Long labor in lead ores \nbrings on a painful disease. The blood is devitalized, the flesh takes on the hue \nof death, and the pain is both neuralgic and rheumatic. No one can say that the \nminer is paid too much for his labor and risks.\nIt was in Sandy that I met with some old-time courtesy from a modern young man. \nPerhaps Mr. Terhune would not now be considered modern, but he was then very much \nup to the times in his knowledge of minerals, and the roasting and smelting of ores. \nThe immense smelters at Sandy, whose pungent smoke was wafted south, so you could \nsniff the odor twenty miles distant, were under his charge. Both capital and skill \nwere invested in the giant plant. Mr. Terhune showed me the process, and the products, \nand the great stacks of silver-lead bars corded up in the open shed.\n\"Do you not fear robbery where so much bullion lies about?\"\n\"Just lift one of those bars and you will see if a thief takes anything without \nnoise. We have our watchman.\"\nAn effort was needed on my part to move a bar, and I saw how safe weight made wealth. \nThese, with other plants, helped to make silver another cheap commodity, and give \nrise to the Silver Question of a later day. Mr. Terhune was a product of the old \nDutch stock of Knickerbocker days, and the amiable brother of a most gifted sister \nwhose name, as a writer, is well known far and wide in the United States.","title":"Chapter XV: A Lively Mining Camp","type":"page"}