THE STORY OF JACK JONES

Recorded by Helen M. Smith, Field Reporter

When I landed in Arizona there were any number of men who did not answer such questions as “where did you some from” and “what is your name”. Personally, I always answered the last. My name was Jack Jones when I arrived in this state, it has been Jack Jones ever since.

I was a “song and dance artist” a “blackface comedian” by trade when I came to the northern part of Arizona. I made my living by putting on my acts in various saloons, etc. As I lived here I became interested in prospecting and have followed that trade or profession or whatever it might be called whenever my original profession failed; almost constantly of late.

Henry Ashurst “ran me out of” Williams many years ago; from where I eventually drifted to Cochise County. The way of it was this: Henry got one of his reform spells, wherein he decided that Williams needed wedding bells. I met him on the street.

“Old fellow,” he said, “wouldn’t you like to get married?”

There was a lady there of whom I was fond—but not that fond.

“No”, I answered.

“I’ll give you until seven o’clock tomorrow morning to get out of town, unless you reconsider in the meantime,” he told me.

About sundown that evening I drove ostentatiously down the main street in a buckboard, my belongings piled high beside and behind me, pots and pans tattling. Afterward I learned that those who remained in Williams heard a long peal of wedding bells the next day, and that quite a number took place in the ceremony.

I knew Billy Stiles and Burt Alvord well. I never cared for Alvord, but Billy was a nice fellow, quiet, well-mannered, well liked by everyone. I gave Billy his supper the night he was recaptured after he, Alvord, Burts and another outlaw had broken jail in Tombstone.

The officers suspected that Billy was somewhere around, and Sheriff Del Lewis and Lieutenant Brooks of the territorial rangers were on the lookout for him. One day a fellow rode up to my place near Naco on a horse which I recognized instantly as belonging to Lieutenant Brooks. I realized at once that this man was a spotter trying to find out from me the where abouts of Stiles and Alvord. I let him know without hesitation that I knew his business; and he got not no information from me. I know the man who did tell the officers where to find the fugitives; but at any rate Billy was captured while Alvord made his escape to Mexico.

As I said, Billy ate supper with me that night. Afterward he returned to their hideout, a place called Young’s ranch, near Naco. The officers located them there through the treachery of a man they trusted, and Alvord escaped while the others were taken.

In the fight that night, Sheriff Del Lewis came close to being wiped out; the fact that the sight of Alvord’s 30-30 was knocked to one side alone save him. In a way I do not care to say, I afterward got hold of this gun, which I had in my possession for some time. The sight had been twisted, probably in some hard riding Alvord had done that day. At any rate Alvord took deliberate and calculated aim at the sheriff and was quite surprised that he did not hit him. Two or three years afterward Alvord surrendered to this same sheriff at Naco.

I knew another outlaw, Chacon, by sight. I had no desire to know him any other way. Chacon was really a “bad hombre’ who with his men robbed whole towns and villages in Mexico, and who thought little of killing a man.

Chacon had become acquainted with Burt Alvord in Mexico, when Alvord was a deputy of John Slaughter’s, and presumably was there on official business. Alvord must even then have had a tendency toward outlawry, because it is certain that Chacon believed Alvord to be his friend.

Chacon came to Tombstone once, supposedly for the purpose of “getting” Sheriff John Slaughter, whom he hated. Slaughter learned Chacon was in town and planned to surprise him. How Slaughter learned the news is not known definitely, but my guess is that Chacon communicated with Alvord and Alvord told Slaughter. It would be in keeping with Alvord’s character, for as a matter of fact, he did betray Chacon to his death later.

This time Chacon escaped death by inches in making his escape during the attack by Slaughter and Alvord. Chacon seemed to give up his idea of killing Slaughter after that.

Later Chacon came back to United States soil when the ruales were making Mexico hot for him on account of the murder of a storekeeper of some consequence. The United States was not the safest place in the world for him either, since the territorial rangers were on the lookout for him in Arizona. He trusted himself to Alvord, who betrayed him. He was taken by the officer, assisted by Alvord himself, and hanged in Solomonville later. Alvord lost prestige among all who knew of the betrayal, and was never fully trusted again.

I have heard it said on good authority that Chacon on the gallows requested that he be allowed to return to Tombstone long enough to settle with Alvord, after which he promised faithfully to return immediately to Solomonville and himself place the noose around his neck. Of course he was hung without the granting of his request.

There is sometime comedy even in hold-ups and killings; it takes all kind of people to make a world. I wouldn’t have believed Davy Crockett of the Cowranch saloon in Naco was a coward if I hadn’t known of the hold-up of his roulette table. And the would be gangsters who tried to pull the hold-up were two of the sorriest excuses for outlaws of any I have known.

The Cowranch saloon had a restaurant in connection, with a door communicating between the two at one side and about half way down the side of the room. Davy Crockett’s roulette table was near this main entrance, opposite the bar. Tables for other games extended down the side of the room below this. It was very late, most of the occupants of the saloon were gone, and they had just collected the money from the tables and were ready to place it in the safe, when the outlaw entered. Davy Crockett was standing behind his table, and E.P. Ellis, constable, was standing to one side. The outlaw pulled a gun on the men, a partner at the same time standing in the door between the restaurant and saloon. This partner covered the occupants of the room while the first outlaw began to rake up the money at the table. There were two others in the room—the barkeeper, and the piano player, a boy called The Fiddling Kid. The Kid had been sitting at the piano, idly striking notes, when the outlaw entered. He had a gun, which he kept snapping at the outlaw—the gun was not loaded—while the outlaw kept warning him he would be killed if he tried any funny business. The barkeeper, who was at the extreme end of the bar from the roulette table walked the full length of the bar, around the safe, over to the roulette table, reached under the table and pulled out a sawed-off shot-gun hidden under the table. This he handed to the constable, Ellis, saying: “Here, you kill him. I don’t want to.”

Ellis took the gun and shot the outlaw at the table, while his partner, who should have prevented the whole business, took to his heels.

And now comes the second comedy (?) of the evening. Crockett had apparently been becoming more and more frightened. At the word that the outlaw was dead, the tension suddenly cleared for him; he lost his head completely and pulled his gun, firing five times rapidly at the just killed outlaw, while standing almost over him. None of the shots hit the body, but there were holes in the floor, moulding knocked from the table and the round of a chair splintered. Ellis took out after the escaped outlaw, but he was never found.

I have seen a number of killings, most of them sordid enough affairs of little interest at best. And there is little of interest and little of romance in the life of a prospector.

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