MRS. ROSA SCHUSTER

Of Tombstone

Recorded by Edward J. Kelley, Field Reporter

Forward

Almost hidden by greasewood and sagebrush on the extreme southern edge of Tombstone, is the house of Mrs. Rosa F.T. Schuster. From its front porch can be easily seen the old Bird Cage, Crystal Palace Saloon, O.K. Stables, the old county courthouse and the spires of the Catholic and Episcopal churches.

She has seen the construction of the famous courthouse, the lynching of Jack Heath, rubbed elbows with Wyatt Earp and his brothers, seen the wild red-light district surrounding the Bird Cage come and go, had real Indian scares, seen millions upon millions of dollars pour out of the local mines, neighbored with the families of Tombstone miners and cowboys, heard the clicking of the roulette wheel’s ivory ball and the bark of angry Colts as she walked down its main business streets where two out of every three buildings were gambling halls, seen many of those events that so rapidly filled Boot Hill Cemetery, and nursed the sick.

Despite the fact she is not so young as she was sixty or seventy years ago, her mind and memory are as clear as the proverbial bell. She is as active as a girl, fends for herself and is as coy about her age as a lady of the early nineties.

Her generosity to the down and out is known to all.

She tells of Tombstone’s past glories in good fluent English, but whenever imposed upon by passing wayfarers or rogues, exhibits a still more capacious American vocabulary. On such occasions she is never at loss for a word. Her descriptive ability then reeks of Tombstone and the early west flavored with no small dash of muleskinner, so well blended that the culprit slinks away in shame and fear.

She attends St. Paul’s regularly, gets a great kick out of all the daily happenings of the camp, is active in church work and enjoys life to the full. A hard worker all her life, she is too spry to idle away her hours, so is doing something all the time. Her greatest enjoyment is listening to new citizens of Tombstone of one or two years residence there, describing the early days of the camp.

She is really one of the very few remaining early settlers of Cochise County.

HER STORY

I was born Rosa F. Talbot, you have a nerve asking me when, in England and came to New Mexico, via New York in 1880 where I married Mr. Schuster the same year. Yes, it was a decided change from the old country. Can you imagine quiet England, then suddenly a slow steamer, slow trains, slow wagons and the small white population of the Territory of New Mexico? I was interested by everything, all the time.

My husband and I moved to Tombstone early in 1881. He died a few years ago and I have lived here alone ever since.

What do I consider the outstanding events here the past fifty-seven years? That is hard for me to answer. No matter what occurred, it created a very small ripple at the time. It is only in review I can now spot the high lights.

In 1882 there was an Indian scare, the Apaches chasing prospectors and travellers right into town, but Indians were an old story and so this passed over soon. With Geronimo’s capture we commenced to forget Indians and in but a few years, we completed forgot there was such a thing, which I think is odd for we were always compelled to keep the Apaches first in our minds if we cared to live any length of time.

I think the liveliest event was the lynching of Jack Heath early in 1884. Heath was said to be one of the six men who help up and robbed Bisbee a few months before, during which fracas a woman was killed. All six were caught and tried right here in Tombstone. Five were condemned to be hung and Heath was sentenced to life. The Bisbee people approved the death sentence for the five, but angrily disapproved of the idea Heath was to be let off with only life imprisonment. They decided to make it six even by lynching Heath and an army of them came over in wagons and buggies as well as horseback for that purpose.

At first the Tombstone men resented the idea of outsiders coming in here to start a rumpus, and for a while it looked as if there would be a battlefield around this house we are in, but when the local people remembered a woman had been killed by this gang, possibly by Heath himself, they veered around and helped the Bisbeeites. The Sheriff’s office gave the man up without much of a struggle. I suppose their sympathies were with the voters, and Heath was hung right in town with much needless shooting and uproar.

Later on in that same year, the miners struck for higher wages. The mine owners were a hard headed bunch who shut the mines down and fought it out with the men. Some of the workers made threats which gave the mine owners sufficient excuse to ask for military protection. The garrison of Fort Huachuca was moved in here and we were under martial law for a month. By the time the strike was settled, the water had risen in the mines until they were pretty well drowned out. By the time they were unwatered and work resumed, the price of silver had dropped from the old ratio of 16 to 1 and the men never again made the big money of the early days.

Who was the most distinguished man associated with the camp in those days? Well, there were hundreds. Almost every man wore mustachios like Texan cow horns and beards were in style. The tin horn gamblers usually trimmed theirs and slicked ‘m down with grease or wax, while the cowmen let them wander where they would. Anyhow, they all looked more masculine and impressive than the smooth faced rascals of today. Oh, you mean what particular one I admired. I think the Reverend Endicott Peabody would be that man. He came from Boston and had a string of letters like an alphabet hitched onto his name. This was his first ministry. He was a good mixer and because of his readiness to oblige at all times was liked by everyone. I remember when we were securing donations to build St. Paul’s. The committee stood outside the Crystal Palace Saloon while he walked in to secure contributions. Wyatt Earp was dealing faro. How do I know it was faro? Should I blush? By merely walking down Allen Street in those days you could see and hear everything. The Bird Cage was at one end and a church at the other. Anyhow, the Reverend made known his mission. Promptly Earp counted out a stack of gold twenties.

“This is my profit for today,” he said as he handed them over. Then he went with the minister to the roulette, poker and other games and all donated as liberally. They were really pleasant about it and invited Endicott Peabody to have a drink. He had a glass of wine with them while they ordered what they wished and then the committee proceeded to the other houses in their order.

A short time ago I dropped into the Crystal Palace with a subscription list for the Church. I have known most of the boys there since the day they were born, but how some of the other church members frowned on me for doing it. I still feel chilled. It seems I am unorthodox, unethical and impetuous and will fill an early grave. However, I note with pleasure that the Rev. Endicott Peabody is yet hale and hearty and still going strong at the head of a big eastern school. In the meantime, he has not only officiated at the marriage of the President of the United States, but also at the marriages of the President’s two sons. Some distinction for Tombstone and an old Tombstoner, I think.

After St. Paul’s was built, two of its most prominent members, Charley Leach and George Parsons, sat directly in front of me one Sunday. Both were sleepy eyed and heavy lidded as they had just left an all night poker game where-in Leach had won quite a sum from Parsons.

Mr. Parsons was asked to pass the plate. When he reached Leach, that pillar of the church placed a silver dollar in the box, but Parsons did not move.

“Come again. Ten percent of last night’s winnings is the ante,” he said.

Leach fished out a golden twenty and added that to his contribution, meanwhile whispering, “I’ll have to win this back from you during the week.”

One Saturday Dr. Peabody went down to Charleston to make collections and round up a congregation for the services he was going to hold on Sunday there. In the largest saloon he stepped up to the faro table, introduced himself and asked them all to be present at Sunday services.

It was a tough bunch in a tough saloon in a notoriously tough town.

“Are you going to bring your gun?” growled one of the toughest.

“Are you going to bring a doctor?” added another bad egg.

“Better bring an undertaker,” said a third. None of them had cracked a smile. They were giving him “the works”, as the pastor’s accent always betrayed the “Bostoness” before he spoke five words. They loved to scare sky pilots.

But the sky pilot did not scare. “Boys, I sincerely hope you be as happy and healthy Monday morning as I will be at that time. All of you,” he laughed at them.

During the night one of these hecklers was shot and the other two lost their stacks. Anyhow, every hoss thief, smuggler and high-grader in Charleston mingled with the regular church attendants at services the next day, and the contributions amounted to over seventy five dollars.

About twelve years ago, Dr. Peabody and his wife came out to Phoenix to assist in the consecration of St. Paul’s Cathedral there. On their return trip they stopped over in Tombstone some days to review the old scenes he remembered so well.

Candidly, Mrs. Peabody told me she thought it was the most God-forsaken place she had ever seen, but the doctor had the time of his life revisiting the whole countryside.

One of my greatest treasures is a letter from the Rev. Endicott Peabody written June 12th, 1934.

Did I personally know Wyatt Earp, the old city Marshall? Of course, just as I knew pretty nearly everyone else in camp. A number of his relatives have visited me from time to time the past few years.

What did I think of him? Well, er, er, I guess he must have been just the man for the place. It takes a certain kind of a man to handle a certain kind of people, and he stayed for quite a while. You know we had a number of hard characters here in his day and he kept the lid on pretty well.

I cannot say I though much of Doc Halliday and some of the rest of the crowd that Earp trained with. I have heard Mr. Schuster describe several occasions on which they crawfished when up against one of the real old timers.

No. Tombstone was never a really tough camp as some people seem to think. Mr. Schuster used to assure me that if you were handy with a gun, was careful to say little at all times and kept an eye out behind as well as in front, you were pretty safe. Of course a lot of bad men came here at different times who would pirouette around with a gun in their hand and act the bully for a while. But sooner or later there always cropped up someone a mite faster, who would eventually down the first bad actor, and in turn, be downed by a faster man later. And so on and so on, ad infinitum as Dr. Peabody might say. Boot Hill got them all in due time, so you see we were a well conducted camp.

USGENWEB NOTICE: These electronic pages may NOT be reproduced in any format for profit or presentation by any other organization or persons. Persons or organizations desiring to use this material must obtain written consent of the archivist or submitter.

---