CHARLES GORDES

Recorded by Helen M. Smith, Field Reporter

I came to Tombstone in ’81, drawn by the tales which circulated all over the west and part of the east, of fabulous riches. I have been a prospector most of my life, but have done any number of odd jobs outside of the one particular work which I never seem to be able to resist. There is something about prospecting which is hard to break away from; always the next hill will contain the ore, the next strike will be THE strike, the end of the next day will see the sun set on poverty. I have spent most of my life—I am eight-three years old—either alone or with some partner, in lonely canyons and draws and washes looking always for Eldorado while daylight lasts, and counting the stars at night before turning in for a few hours of dreams involving sudden strikes and rich ore.

I knew by acquaintanceship or by sight all the notables of this end of Cochise County, in the old days—the Earps, Clantons, McLowerys, Curly Bill, Black Jack, John Slaughter, and the rest. None of them paid much attention to me. I was only a prospector, often dirty, often unshaven, uninteresting to all except a few of my own kind. I plodded out into the desert with a pack mule or two, some grub, perhaps a partner, and such tools as I felt I would need; and returned months later, with perhaps a little money to spend, and perhaps not. Most of my amusement was found in the saloons of the time, in drinking and gambling. I did both cold-bloodedly and with reason, rather than with indulgence.

We prospected by the formation and color of the hills, by signs of iron etc., in rocks, mostly. There was quite a mining boom on, and almost any showing of ore was an excuse for the sale of the claim or a mine. Promoters were numerous, who used to build mills whether the ore in sight justified such a move or not; after which they would sell the “mine”, often at an enormous profit. Prospectors followed the same course, leaving the ore in their “strike” when they saw that it was not a paying proposition, and selling out to someone with more money than …ning knowledge.

I believe that the wash between Gleeson and Courtland was prospected and worked by both Indians and Spanish, before white people prospected there. There is every evidence that there was once a turquoise mine there, which would certainly have been worked by Indians, Spaniard caring little for Turquoise. In the Huachucas one can still see where the Spanish mined. They drilled holes one inch to one and a half inches in diameter, filled these holes with unslacked lime, and then slacked the lime. In slaking, the lime cracked the rocks and loosened valuable ore. I know where several of these holes, still with unslacked lime, are located, now.

In ’86 I worked several months as a miner at the old Tough Nut in Tombstone, I also freighted for Mr. Slaughter for a few months. But in the main I have prospected all my life, with little to show for a lifetime except that I have lived, and have enough to live on a few years more.

The Indians seldom bothered me. I believe that they troubled prospectors less than others, probably because prospectors early learned how to get along with them. They would come into camp, squat around the fire and grunt. They never asked me for food, but I always knew enough to feed them, and they cost me little otherwise. They never stole from me, as they are commonly credited with doing so often.

Once I hired an Indian to dig a trench for me. I had taken a place on the San Pedro which I intended making into a beer garden. When I paid the fellow off after his work was complete, he went to a saloon which was located near there, at a place called Sodtown Crossing, and got drunk. That evening he came back to my place and asked for his pay. I gave him fifty cents to get rid of him, but he soon returned again. This time I refused, and ordered him off the place. A little later I heard a “thump, thump”, and when I investigated I saw the Indian, so drunk he could hardly stagger, busily filling up my trench.

Jim Herron had the saloon at Sodtown Crossing for some time, holed up there with several other outlaws. They made quite a little by smuggling cattle across the line from Mexico. Some of that gang also smuggled Chinamen across, and Jim was very much afraid of getting into serious trouble before he had a chance to cut loose from them. If the Chinaman became too dangerous; they thought nothing of killing him; and they also killed them if they had a few dollars. It was dangerous business, and cost Jim many a sleepless night, although he was not personally concerned in either the smuggling or the profits. When he did break loose from the gang he came away broke.

While I lived in that vicinity I got to baling hay—the native grass which I cut, baled and sold, and often found quite profitable. Once I had around four or five hundred heavy bales stored in a shed there. I noticed that the bales seemed to have been moved around more or less, and, wondering if someone were stealing those in the back. I moved them all out to see that none were missing. Stored among the bales in the back of the shed was a quantity of good of different kinds, clothing, mostly. I realized that these were smuggled goods, and decided that the less I knew of them the better would be my health. I put the bales back as they were and paid no more attention. When they were removed I do not know, but later I saw some of the goods on a counter at the general merchandise store at Hereford. There were several suits of bright colored silk pajamas.

“What in the world are these things?” I inquired of the proprietor.

“Some newfangled summer wear,” he answered.

I believe that the smuggler in this case was a fellow called Blue Holt.

I was once held up at a place near where Lowell now is. There was nothing but a saloon there then, to which I had gone with a roll of several hundred dollars. I was looking for a man to whom I owed most of the roll. The barkeeper directed me to his shack up the side of the hill, but as we were talking I noticed a villainous looking face peering in at the door. I thought to myself how foolish I was to take out my whole roll to make a small purchase, and to be safe, I stuck the roll up my sleeve, just under the cuff. I had just come up from the San Pedro to Bisbee, and had made a purchase that day for a friend. He had a baby about a year old, and I bought a pair of soft kid shoes as present for the youngster. These the salesman had rolled up in a piece of tissue paper, and I had stuck the paper in my pocket.

It was a black night and I could see nothing a foot ahead. Suddenly something hard was thrust in my ribs and a harsh voice said “Hands up”. I put my hands up, and someone felt through my pockets. I had thirty-five cents in change beside my roll, and they soon found the thirty-five cents. Then one of them said, “Here it is, boys.” He had found the baby shoes. They left me then, and I have never known whether they held me up with a gun, or merely with a stick stuck in my ribs. There were three of them, and the only clue I had to their identity was that one smelled strongly of iodine.

The next night I was in a saloon at Bisbee. Three men walked up to the bar, and laid down thirty-five cents for a purchase. One of them smelled of iodine. It was scarcely possible that it was my identical thirty-five cents, but I suddenly asked in a hard tone if that was my thirty-five cents.

They looked queer for a minute, and then turned on their heels and walked out. I didn’t have the chance to ask about the baby shoes. They didn’t get my roll anyhow.

Once I was doing some prospecting in the Chiracahuas. I had a more pretentious outfit than usual, including a young man of seventeen or eighteen, Billy Starbeck. Black Jack and his gang was holed up in the upper end of the canyon. They never bothered us, in fact, scarcely ever spoke to us. Billy Starbeck’s taste ran to bright neckties and fancy jewelry. Once we returned to our cabin after a day’s work, to find all Billy’s “doodads” on the kitchen table, sorted out in piles. Tracks of the horses of Black Jack’s gang led to the house. It was easy to figure out that they had planned to steal Billy’s ornaments, and then had thought better of it. Billy completely lost his temper, grabbed all the guns on the place, and was going up and clean up on the whole gang. We had a difficult time to hold him back.

The Earp-Clanton feud, about which so much fuss is raised, was little more than rivalry between the sheriff’s office and the police. Most of the “bad men” I knew were bad only when under the influence of liquor. There was nothing romantic about them; most of their so-called bravery and thrilling exploits were accident rather than intention. One or two of two of the Earps, John Slaughter, and possibly one or two others of the period were really brave men. Most of the hold-up men bungled their holdups as badly as you or I would have done.

Pearce has made more real money than Tombstone, So much was spent for worthless claims etc. in Tombstone that it is safe to say that more money was put in the ground there than was ever taken out.

Copied from microfilm by Wilola Follett, transcribed by Vynette Sage, made available and maintained on the internet via Jean Walker.

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