The
first
twenty-six
graves
in
the
Virginia
cemetery
were
occupied
by
murdered
men.
So
everybody said,
so
everybody believed,
and
so
they
will
always
say
and
believe.
The
reason
why
there
was
so
much
slaughtering
done, was,
that
in
a
new
mining
district
the
rough
element
predominates,
and
a
person
is
not
respected
until
he
has "killed
his
man."
That
was
the
very
expression
used.
If
an
unknown
individual
arrived,
they
did
not
inquire
if
he
was
capable, honest, industrious, but—had
he
killed
his
man?
If
he
had not,
he
gravitated
to
his
natural
and
proper
position,
that
of
a
man
of
small consequence;
if
he
had,
the
cordiality
of
his
reception
was
graduated
according
to
the
number
of
his
dead.
It
was
tedious
work
struggling
up
to
a position
of
influence
with
bloodless
hands;
but
when
a
man
came
with
the
blood
of
half
a
dozen
men
on
his
soul,
his
worth
was
recognized
at
once
and
his
acquaintance
sought.
In
Nevada,
for
a time,
the
lawyer,
the
editor,
the
banker,
the
chief
desperado,
the
chief
gambler,
and
the
saloon
keeper, occupied
the
same
level
in
society,
and
it
was
the
highest.
The
cheapest
and
easiest
way
to
become
an
influential
man
and
be
looked
up
to
by
the
community
at
large,
was
to
stand
behind
a bar, wear a cluster-diamond pin,
and
sell
whisky. I
am
not
sure
but
that
the
saloon-keeper
held
a shade
higher
rank
than
any
other
member
of
society.
His
opinion
had weight.
It
was
his
privilege
to
say
how
the
elections
should
go.
No
great
movement
could
succeed
without
the
countenance
and
direction
of
the
saloon- keepers.
It
was
a high
favor
when
the
chief
saloon-keeper
consented
to
serve
in
the
legislature
or
the
board
of
aldermen.
Youthful
ambition
hardly
aspired
so
much
to
the
honors
of
the
law,
or
the
army
and
navy
as
to
the
dignity
of
proprietorship
in
a saloon.
To
be
a saloon-keeper
and
kill a
man
was
to
be
illustrious.
Hence
the
reader
will
not
be
surprised
to
learn
that
more
than
one
man
was
killed
in
Nevada
under
hardly
the
pretext
of
provocation,
so
impatient
was
the
slayer
to
achieve
reputation
and
throw
off
the
galling sense
of
being
held
in
indifferent
repute
by
his
associates. I
knew
two
youths
who
tried
to
"kill
their
men"
for
no
other
reason—and got
killed
themselves
for
their
pains. "There
goes
the
man
that
killed
Bill
Adams"
was
higher
praise
and
a
sweeter
sound
in
the
ears
of
this
sort
of
people
than
any
other
speech
that
admiring
lips
could
utter.
The
men
who
murdered
Virginia's
original
twenty-six cemetery-occupants
were
never
punished. Why?
Because
Alfred
the
Great,
when
he
invented
trial
by
jury
and
knew
that
he
had admirably
framed
it
to
secure
justice
in
his
age
of
the
world,
was
not
aware
that
in
the
nineteenth
century
the
condition
of
things
would
be
so
entirely
changed
that
unless
he
rose
from
the
grave
and
altered
the
jury
plan
to
meet
the
emergency,
it
would
prove
the
most
ingenious
and
infallible
agency
for
defeating
justice
that
human
wisdom
could
contrive.
For
how
could
he
imagine
that
we
simpletons
would
go
on
using
his
jury
plan
after
circumstances had
stripped
it
of
its
usefulness,
any
more
than
he
could
imagine
that
we
would
go
on
using
his
candle-clock
after
we
had
invented
chronometers?
In
his
day
news
could
not
travel fast,
and
hence
he
could
easily find a
jury
of
honest,
intelligent
men
who
had
not
heard
of
the
case
they
were
called
to
try—but
in
our
day
of
telegraphs
and
newspapers
his
plan
compels
us
to
swear
in
juries
composed
of
fools
and
rascals,
because
the
system
rigidly
excludes
honest
men
and
men
of
brains. I
remember
one
of
those
sorrowful
farces,
in
Virginia,
which
we
call
a
jury
trial. A noted
desperado
killed
Mr. B., a
good
citizen,
in
the
most
wanton
and
cold-blooded way.
Of
course
the
papers
were
full
of
it,
and
all
men
capable
of
reading, read
about
it.
And
of
course
all
men
not
deaf
and
dumb
and
idiotic, talked
about
it. A jury-list
was
made
out,
and
Mr. B. L., a
prominent
banker
and
a
valued
citizen,
was
questioned
precisely
as
he
would
have
been
questioned
in
any
court
in
America: "Have
you
heard
of
this
homicide?" "Yes." "Have
you
held
conversations
upon
the
subject?" "Yes." "Have
you
formed
or
expressed
opinions
about
it?" "Yes." "Have
you
read
the
newspaper
accounts
of
it?" "Yes." "We
do
not
want
you." A minister, intelligent, esteemed,
and
greatly
respected; a
merchant
of
high
character
and
known probity; a mining
superintendent
of
intelligence
and
unblemished reputation; a
quartz
mill owner
of
excellent
standing,
were
all
questioned
in
the
same
way,
and
all
set
aside.
Each
said
the
public talk
and
the
newspaper
reports
had
not
so
biased
his
mind
but
that
sworn
testimony
would
overthrow
his
previously
formed
opinions
and
enable
him
to
render a
verdict
without
prejudice
and
in
accordance
with
the
facts.
But
of
course
such
men
could
not
be
trusted
with
the
case.
Ignoramuses
alone
could
mete
out
unsullied justice.
When
the
peremptory
challenges
were
all
exhausted, a
jury
of
twelve
men
was
impaneled—a
jury
who
swore
they
had
neither
heard, read, talked
about
nor
expressed
an
opinion
concerning a
murder
which
the
very
cattle
in
the
corrals,
the
Indians
in
the
sage-brush
and
the
stones
in
the
streets
were
cognizant of!
It
was
a
jury
composed
of
two
desperadoes,
two
low
beer-house politicians,
three
bar-keepers,
two
ranchmen
who
could
not
read,
and
three
dull, stupid,
human
donkeys!
It
actually came
out
afterward,
that
one
of
these
latter
thought
that
incest
and
arson
were
the
same
thing.
The
verdict
rendered
by
this
jury
was,
Not
Guilty.
What
else
could
one
expect?
The
jury
system
puts
a
ban
upon
intelligence
and
honesty,
and
a
premium
upon
ignorance,
stupidity
and
perjury.
It
is
a
shame
that
we
must
continue
to
use
a worthless
system
because
it
was
good
a
thousand
years
ago.
In
this
age,
when
a gentleman
of
high
social
standing,
intelligence
and
probity,
swears
that
testimony
given
under
solemn
oath
will
outweigh,
with
him,
street
talk
and
newspaper
reports
based
upon
mere
hearsay,
he
is
worth
a
hundred
jurymen
who
will
swear
to
their
own
ignorance
and
stupidity,
and
justice
would
be
far
safer
in
his
hands
than
in
theirs.
Why
could
not
the
jury
law
be
so
altered
as
to
give
men
of
brains
and
honesty
and
equal
chance
with
fools
and
miscreants?
Is
it
right
to
show
the
present
favoritism
to
one
class
of
men
and
inflict
a disability
on
another,
in
a
land
whose
boast
is
that
all
its
citizens
are
free
and
equal? I
am
a
candidate
for
the
legislature. I
desire
to
tamper
with
the
jury
law. I
wish
to
so
alter
it
as
to
put
a
premium
on
intelligence
and
character,
and
close
the
jury
box
against idiots, blacklegs,
and
people
who
do
not
read newspapers.
But
no
doubt
I
shall
be
defeated—every
effort
I
make
to
save
the
country
"misses fire." My idea,
when
I began
this
chapter,
was
to
say
something
about
desperadoism
in
the
"flush times"
of
Nevada.
To
attempt a portrayal
of
that
era
and
that
land,
and
leave
out
the
blood
and
carnage,
would
be
like
portraying
Mormondom
and
leaving
out
polygamy.
The
desperado
stalked
the
streets
with
a swagger graded according
to
the
number
of
his
homicides,
and
a
nod
of
recognition
from
him
was
sufficient
to
make
a
humble
admirer
happy
for
the
rest
of
the
day.
The
deference
that
was
paid
to
a
desperado
of
wide
reputation,
and
who
"kept
his
private
graveyard,"
as
the
phrase went,
was
marked,
and
cheerfully accorded.
When
he
moved
along
the
sidewalk
in
his
excessively
long-tailed frock- coat, shiny stump-toed boots,
and
with
dainty
little
slouch
hat
tipped
over
left eye,
the
small-fry roughs
made
room
for
his
majesty;
when
he
entered
the
restaurant,
the
waiters
deserted
bankers
and
merchants
to
overwhelm
him
with
obsequious
service;
when
he
shouldered
his
way
to
a bar,
the
shouldered
parties
wheeled indignantly,
recognized
him, and—apologized.
They
got a
look
in
return
that
froze
their
marrow,
and
by
that
time a
curled
and
breast-pinned
bar
keeper
was
beaming
over
the
counter,
proud
of
the
established
acquaintanceship
that
permitted
such
a
familiar
form
of
speech
as: "How're ye, Billy,
old
fel?
Glad
to
see
you. What'll
you
take—the
old
thing?"
The
"old thing" meant
his
customary
drink,
of
course.
The
best
known
names
in
the
Territory
of
Nevada
were
those
belonging
to
these
long-tailed
heroes
of
the
revolver. Orators, Governors,
capitalists
and
leaders
of
the
legislature
enjoyed
a
degree
of
fame,
but
it
seemed
local
and
meagre
when
contrasted
with
the
fame
of
such
men
as
Sam Brown,
Jack
Williams,
Billy
Mulligan,
Farmer
Pease, Sugarfoot Mike, Pock
Marked
Jake,
El
Dorado Johnny,
Jack
McNabb, Joe McGee,
Jack
Harris, Six-fingered Pete, etc., etc.
There
was
a
long
list
of
them.
They
were
brave,
reckless
men,
and
traveled
with
their
lives
in
their
hands.
To
give
them
their
due,
they
did
their
killing
principally
among
themselves,
and
seldom
molested
peaceable
citizens,
for
they
considered
it
small
credit
to
add
to
their
trophies
so
cheap
a
bauble
as
the
death
of
a
man
who
was
"not
on
the
shoot,"
as
they
phrased it.
They
killed
each
other
on
slight provocation,
and
hoped
and
expected
to
be
killed
themselves—for
they
held
it
almost
shame
to
die
otherwise
than
"with
their
boots
on,"
as
they
expressed it. I
remember
an
instance
of
a desperado's
contempt
for
such
small
game
as
a
private
citizen's life. I
was
taking
a
late
supper
in
a
restaurant
one
night,
with
two
reporters
and
a
little
printer named—Brown,
for
instance—any
name
will
do. Presently a
stranger
with
a long-tailed coat
on
came in,
and
not
noticing Brown's hat,
which
was
lying
in
a chair, sat
down
on
it.
Little
Brown sprang
up
and
became
abusive
in
a moment.
The
stranger
smiled,
smoothed
out
the
hat,
and
offered
it
to
Brown
with
profuse
apologies
couched
in
caustic
sarcasm,
and
begged
Brown
not
to
destroy
him. Brown threw
off
his
coat
and
challenged
the
man
to
fight—abused him,
threatened
him,
impeached
his
courage,
and
urged
and
even
implored
him
to
fight;
and
in
the
meantime
the
smiling
stranger
placed
himself
under
our
protection
in
mock distress.
But
presently
he
assumed
a
serious
tone,
and
said: "Very well, gentlemen,
if
we
must
fight,
we
must, I suppose.
But
don't
rush
into
danger
and
then
say
I gave
you
no
warning. I
am
more
than
a match
for
all
of
you
when
I
get
started. I
will
give
you
proofs,
and
then
if
my
friend
here
still
insists, I
will
try
to
accommodate
him."
The
table
we
were
sitting
at
was
about
five
feet long,
and
unusually cumbersome
and
heavy.
He
asked
us
to
put
our
hands
on
the
dishes
and
hold
them
in
their
places
a moment—one
of
them
was
a
large
oval
dish
with
a portly roast
on
it.
Then
he
sat down,
tilted
up
one
end
of
the
table,
set
two
of
the
legs
on
his
knees,
took
the
end
of
the
table
between
his
teeth,
took
his
hands
away,
and
pulled
down
with
his
teeth
till
the
table came
up
to
a
level
position, dishes
and
all!
He
said
he
could
lift a
keg
of
nails
with
his
teeth.
He
picked
up
a
common
glass
tumbler
and
bit
a semi-circle
out
of
it.
Then
he
opened
his
bosom
and
showed
us
a net-work
of
knife
and
bullet
scars;
showed
us
more
on
his
arms
and
face,
and
said
he
believed
he
had
bullets
enough
in
his
body
to
make
a
pig
of
lead.
He
was
armed
to
the
teeth.
He
closed
with
the
remark
that
he
was
Mr.——of Cariboo—a celebrated
name
whereat
we
shook
in
our
shoes. I
would
publish
the
name,
but
for
the
suspicion
that
he
might
come
and
carve
me.
He
finally
inquired
if
Brown
still
thirsted
for
blood. Brown
turned
the
thing
over
in
his
mind
a moment,
and
then—asked
him
to
supper.
With
the
permission
of
the
reader, I
will
group
together,
in
the
next
chapter,
some
samples
of
life
in
our
small
mountain
village
in
the
old
days
of
desperadoism. I
was
there
at
the
time.
The
reader
will
observe
peculiarities
in
our
official
society;
and
he
will
observe
also,
an
instance
of
how,
in
new
countries,
murders
breed murders.