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The machine was a box three to five feet long and about eight inches deep. The pay dirt was shoveled into the box. Then while the water was poured over the dirt the box was rocked back and forth like a baby's cradle. The gold sank to the bottom and the dirt and gravel were washed away. It took a long time to wash away a bucket of pay dirt, but it was faster than panning for gold. One group of five men was using another new machine. It was a large wooden box called a "long tom." It was like the cradle only much longer and bigger and could hold more pay dirt. The long tom, however, was expensive for it was made of lumber, and lumber was still very scarce. "The machines certainly are improvements over the slow, tiresome panning method," John said to the new miners at the bar. "Where did you buy them?" "We bought ours at Marysville," a man replied. "But you can get them at most mining stores now." "I must get some for my trading post," said John. "Get a cradle for me," said a man in John's party. Three men quickly decided to work together and they wanted a long tom. Four others became partners on the spot and they, too, ordered a long tom. "I'll get them," John promised. "Cradles! Long toms!" scoffed a man. "You can have your fancy machines! I'll pan out my gold." Most of the miners agreed. The pan, pick, and shovel were still their favorite tools. "Bidwell," said a tall, keen-eyed miner, "we're having some trouble with a couple of men in camp." We want you to settle the dispute." "What is the matter?" asked John. "Well," the miner replied, :"when we came up here we decided to adopt the camp laws used in the diggings around Coloma. Now, according to these laws, the gold-bearing ground must be equally shared by the men in camp. In order to do this here each man is entitled to stake out a claim twenty-four feet square. The claim is his as long as he works it." "What can he do if the claim is not a good one?" questioned John. "He can stake out another claim whenever he wishes," the miner answered. "But he can work only one claim at a time." "That is a fair law and should be enforced." "Yes, but the men causing the trouble have staked out more ground than they are entitled to claim. One of the men jumped my claim. He said it belonged to him last year." "And you let him keep it?" "I didn't want any trouble with you, Bidwell. The man said you were his friend and he..." "No claim jumper is a friend of mine," interrupted John. "l know from experience that claim jumpers are greedy, lawless men." "Then you are on our side?" "I'm for law and order," John replied in a firm voice. "And if you have set up camp laws they must be obeyed by everyone." "Good!" the miners exclaimed. "Now, I want to talk to those troublemakers," said John. "Where are they?" "They are working on their claims," a miner answered. "Shall I tell them you want to see them?" John nodded. The miner left the group. In a few minutes he returned, followed by two rough-looking men. "Hello, Bidwell," the men said with a great show of pretending they were glad to see him. "Hello," John replied. "I understand," he continued, "that you are causing a little unnecessary trouble here at the bar." "We can explain everything." "Stake out your claims according to the law of the mining camps and I'll listen to your story." "And if we don't?" sneered one of the men. "Then you'll have exactly one hour to leave the bar," John answered. He pulled his watch from his pocket, glanced at it and slipped it back into his pocket again. "It's four o'clock. You have until five to make up your minds. I'll wait here for your decision." Muttering to each other the men walked slowly away. They looked back once and then walked on to their claims downstream. "Let's run them out of camp," spoke up a miner. "No," said John quickly. "They have an hour to decide what they want to do. You asked me to settle this dispute. Let me handle it my own way. Now, go back to work," he added. He turned to the members of his party. "Stake out your claims, boys.' Although the miners protested, they finally agreed to do as John wished. They remained near by, however, and watched him with anxious eyes. John waited quietly. Occasionally he looked at his watch, and once he shook it, thinking it had stopped. Slowly the time dragged by. A few minutes before five o'clock a miner shouted, "Here they come, Bidwell!" At once all the miners dropped their tools and rushed to where John was standing. In silence they formed a half-circle around him. When the two men were near, john stepped forward. Intently he studied their bearded faces. They refused to meet his steady gaze. "You win, Bidwell," the older man said. "We'll stake out our lawful claims in the morning." "You'll stake them out right now," John replied. "And I'll measure them." "Well .... all right," the men agreed. That night as the miners cooked their suppers of beans and salt pork, they laughed and talked as though nothing had happened. Later they gathered around a big campfire and sang their favorite songs. All was well at Bidwell's Bar. In the morning, before sunrise, John was awakened by the angry voices of shouting men. He jumped out of his bunk and hurriedly began to dress. As he was pulling on his high, black boots a knock sounded on the door of his shanty. "Come" I'm, John called. The door was thrown open. A wild-eyed, excited miner burst into the room. "I've been robbed!" he cried. "Robbed of every ounce of gold dust. Two thousand dollars' worth of gold!" "What!" "I tell you I've been robbed. They did it. They did it...those sneaking claim jumpers. If I can find them I'll shoot them. I'll kill them. "Just a minute. Just a minute," said John trying to calm the miner. ,What do you mean...if you can find them? Have they left camp?" "Yes! Yes! They have pulled up stakes, taken their tent, pack animals, and cleared out." "They can't be far from here. We'll get them and bring them back to camp." While they were talking other miners crowded into the small room. They were shouting, interrupting one another, trying to tell their stories of the robbery." "I heard a noise outside my tent about three o'clock this morning," said a miner. "It was four," spoke up his partner. "Let's find these scoundrels," shouted another, "and hang them to show other robbers what to expect here at the bar." "Men! Men!" John held up his right hand for silence. "There must be a better way to solve this problem. Surely the law of the mining camps must provide orderly trials for these men. Remember they are not criminals until they have been proved guilty by law." He paused and looked from man to man. They remained silent. "Can't you see that I am right?" John asked. "Can't you see that without justice we have no law...no order?" "I guess you're right, Bidwell," a miner finally said. "What do you want us to do?" "I want these men to have a fair trial. If they are innocent, they must be cleared of the charges of robbery. If they are guilty, then they must be punished. That is all I want." "All right, Bidwell. We'll do as you say." "You know, boys." a bearded old miner said scratching his head, "we almost let our tempers get the best of us. Tanks, Bidwell, for panning us out of trouble." "Yes," the others agreed. "Thanks a lot." John smiled quickly. "I was doing a little panning for myself, too. We are all in this together, so let's keep on the side of law and order."The miners cheered. "Now, let's get down to business," said John. "We must find the men and bring them back to camp. More than likely they are heading for Marysville. I know a place or two along the way where they could hide out for a few days." He nodded to three miners. "Come," he added, "let's hit the trail." John and his companions were soon on their way. They were mounted on mules and rode at a slow, but steady pace. No amount of urging could make the sure-footed, sturdy little animals hurry unless they wanted to, for they were as stubborn as they were reliable. As John suspected the robbers were found in a hideout off the trail leading to Marysville. The searching party closed in on the men so quietly, swiftly they had no time to put up a fight. They were disarmed at once. Although they loudly protested their innocence the stolen gold was found in their packs. They were terror-stricken when John told them they were to stand trial for their crimes. They begged and pleaded not to be taken back to camp. They were certain the miners would hang them. Everything had been attended to even before the guilty pair had been found. They were guilty all right, but they would get a fair trial! Twelve miners had been chosen to make up the jury. John had been elected judge of the newly formed court. At first John declined to become judge. He wanted the miners to run the court and enforce their own laws. They explained that since he was their senator, he had legal experience and they had none. Then, too, they admired and respected him. John thanked the miners and accepted the highest honor they could give him. Then, without wasting more time, John and the members of the jury took their places by a campfire. The miners gathered around them. The men charged with robbery were brought forward and the trial began. In less than ten minutes the trial was over. The men had been found guilty by law. The stolen gold was given back to the rightful owner. The men were sentenced to leave the bar and never to return, if they wished to save their worthless necks. If they did return, they would be hanged from the first tree in sight. That was the law of the mining camps...swift and perhaps harsh, but to the point. There was no need for fancy legal forms. It was merely a question of right or wrong, guilty or innocent. It was the law of strong men determined to live decently. Silently the miners watched the two robbers leave camp. When they were lost in the darkness of the night the miners turned again to John. "By jingo," spoke up the miner who had recovered his gold, "I can't help but feel sorry for those two scoundrels." "Well, I'm not," said another. "I'm sorry for them and sorry for us, too," said John. "You see, in the past, we men lived together and trusted one another. Now, greedy, lawless men have come to the gold fields. From now on, there will be plenty of trouble in the diggings."
Chris SchneiderThe Golden DreamReprinted from the bookTales Out of OregonbyRalf FriedmanAlmost half of Oregon's gold came from the mines of Cornucopia, northeast of Baker. But Chris Schneider swears that only a small fraction of the rich veins deep in the dark maw of the undulating hills has been worked. Chris ought to know. He came 'to Cornucopia as a lad of eleven in 1897 and except for short-term jobs in other mining camps his life has been closely intertwined with the history of the place. Cornucopia, overlooking the flowing green meadows of Pine Valley from its perch on the pine-clad hem of the Wallowa range, was only 14 years old when Chris arrived. He went to work in the mines at 17 and remained a miner for 38 years. That's a lot of time underground, in a very dangerous occupation, but Chris was lucky. In all those years he was never once seriously hurt. But his father was killed and so was his wife's first husband. While the mines ran, things were lively, though leisurely, in Cornucopia. Before the coming of the automobile, horse-drawn freight wagons carted goods from Baker, taking three days up, a day to change loads, and three days back. The cargo to Baker was gold shipped in brick form and sent parcel post,, insured. There were no holdups, a matter which Chris never regretted. "Life in the mines was hectic enough," he recalled dryly. Incorporated in 1914, Cornucopia in its prime boasted 700 persons, 300 of whom were miners on the company payroll. The town had a post office, two-room grade school, city hall and jail, the two-story Keller Hotel, two mercantile stores, two taverns, two dance halls, and several sundry establishments, such as a barber shop. Elected officials consisted of a mayor, seven councilmen and a constable. Chris knows all about the mayor's job. He was elected to that post in 1922 and reelected nine consecutive times. He was in office when the town shut down. "I never wanted the job," he told us. "Three or four times I campaigned for my opponent. Once I won by one vote and my opponent demanded a recount. I said he was right, that he had really won, but when they counted again I was still ahead by that one vote. I declined every nomination, but they kept on electing me. I even thought of stuffing tho ballot box once, but somebody was watching." In 1934 a long tunnel in the Union Companion mine was started. Completed in 1936, it was dug to one-and-one-quarter miles long and 2,200 feet from apex to bottom. Everyone predicted the town would skyrocket, with gold as plentiful as honey in the horn. But five years later the giddy predictions collapsed overnight. Oh October 31, 1941, the mine was abruptly dosed. Within 24 hours a mass exodus was under way. Without pausing to write their resignations the constable and seven councilmen pulled stakes, followed by the miners, the school teachers, the hotel proprietor, the barber, the merchants, the postmaster and the bartenders. Houses were hastily boarded up and shops, stripped of their goods, were completely abandoned. Cornucopia was dead. Only Chris Schneider stayed on, as watchman. The following year he married Jessie Mires and the two settled down to keep the ghosts company. We first met Chris some years back, when we drove to Cornucopia and spread our sleeping bags under a lacy pine tree on the banks of Pine Creek. The water was clear and swift, with a regular, cheerful beat which through the night formed a soothing rhythm. Just before twilight we strolled around and peeked into some of the cabins we found among clumps of pines. You couldn't see some of them until you were almost at the doorstep. The beauty of Cornucopia, we agreed, was that you could camp just about wherever you wished, with no danger that anybody would come along screaming that you were on private property, or that you had to have a permit, or that you had to pay a dollar or two to stay overnight. We could have chosen any cabin we wanted but most of those we saw seemed infested by pack rats. Anyway, it was much nicer sleeping under a pine tree, with the sky so close there appeared to be a star hanging from every branch. Next morning, before we started looking for Chris Schneider, we spotted some men on tractors standing in front of a cabin squatted on a rise in a meadow. They informed us that a logging contractor had purchased a bunch of houses, at $300 each, and was moving them intact down to Pine Valley, where he was selling them to farmers for $900 apiece. We found Chris and Jessie Schneider in a large, white frame building at the upper end of what was once Main Street. The house was well-furnished and adequately heated by wood. It had a piano, radio and telephone. Winter storms sometimes caused power failure but phone service was quickly restored. "I don't think we've spent more than a week at a time without telephone service," said Chris. He considered that pretty good. The house also had running water, coming in through pipes from the "city water system," a tank on the hill. Keeping the water in the tank from freezing in the winter was somewhat of a problem but after so many years in Cornucopia there weren't many such problems Chris couldn't handle. From late spring to early fall, tourists, who wanted to know all about the olden days. He had given so many tours of the town he couldn't even approximate the number. He charged no fee and declined all monetary compensation. "Just drop me a postcard sometime," he'd say. And some people actually did. After the last tourist and camper departed, Chris put on a feverish spurt of stocking up for winter. Once a week, through the long snow months, he strapped on his skis and glided down to Carson, six miles below, to pick up the mail and a few groceries. It took him 90 minutes to descend, three hours to return. "I never worry about him," said his wife, as she sat at the sewing machine, working at garments for her grandchildren. "That man is capable, absolutely capable." We followed Chris down Main Street, now a maimed jag of rocky road. The crude shops of yesteryear, ravaged by the elements, were eerie landmarks waiting for a banshee wind to claw them to splinters. The awkward lettering on the clapboard fronts and the rough, frontier style of the sagging structures showed plainly that Cornucopia never lacked in earthiness. Chris was already 70 but he looked ten years younger and he walked erect, with a long, brisk stride that would have done honor to a man of forty. When he had something to show us he'd stop, push up the brim of his hat, fold his arms, and point with the tilt of his chin. He spoke slowly, sometimes with wit, and patiently answered all our questions. lie seemed to grow six inches taller in front of the Union Companion Mine. "Some day," he vowed, "she'll come back. ! know she will. Why, she hardly been touched." But then his .shoulders slouched and he added wistfully, "But I don't think I'll ever see the time. She'll come back, but ! won't be around." About nine months later ! sent Chris a magazine article ! had done on Cornucopia. He wrote back: "! sure enjoyed your words. ! like phrases that catch the eye and sing in the ear and paint a living picture, and you have done that. I didn't have much schooling but I like to read a lot. Right now I'm reading Shakespeare again. He really opens your mind and fills your heart." A few years later Chris and Jessie acknowledged they weren't as hardy as they used to be, so in the winter they moved down to Halfway, 12 miles below. By now Chris was convinced he'd see no more gold come out of Cornucopia. |
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