USA > Kansas > Sedgwick County > History of Wichita and Sedgwick County, Kansas, past and present, including an account of the cities, towns and villages of the county, Vol. I > Part 25
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"24, 38, 56, 21, 19, 33, 11, 17, Keno."
Usually these sounds were followed by language not permissi- ble in good society and never heard in Sunday school or church.
KENO ROOM DESCRIBED.
For the edification of those who never matriculated in keno, it is herein stated that this keno room was about 45x70 feet, and had six or eight long tables running from east to west. There was a chair about every two feet around this table, and these chairs were usually occupied. At midnight there was served a lunch, and those who were thirsty did drink, and those that were hungry did eat.
North of the New York corner, where the Hub clothing store now is, stood the Southern Hotel, which burned one night. A large lady appeared at the window and expressed a desire to be saved. Jim Steele, who weighed something over twenty stone, told her to jump, and he her saviour would be. The offer was immediately accepted. In about three seconds, at least 600 pounds of humanity was rolling around in the alley, as if it were a two- headed phenomenon. On the Main street front of this corner was Jim Hope's wholesale and retail liquor house, on the alley corner. Immediately north of this was the Oyster Bay Restau- rant, conducted by Andy Wilt, and south on the corner was Steele & Smith's old land office. Between Hope and the land office was a theater. The first block on Main street, north, was the real business section of the city at that time. Douglas avenue, east from the corner, had no business except in the old Eagle
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Block. George Salisbury, barrister at law, was an occupant of the Paul Eaton stand overhead. He had a law office in front and residence on the second floor back.
George was a "shekel" gatherer who had no superior. It is doubted if he had an equal. His library was imposing, until examined with a critic's eye. Once upon a time he defended a traveling book peddler, who had a consignment of Webster's dictionaries. Said peddler was short on cash, but was long on dictionaries. George took 100 Webster's dictionaries and put them on his shelf as fillers. George, for lung power, had no human equal in the law. His equal, if any, was a Spanish jack, and a reference to the jack by Judge S. M. Tucker in connection with George's lung power almost produced a duel, but this is another story. George left Wichita for Pueblo, thence to Cripple Creek, now unknown, but wherever he is and whatsoever he is doing, the sinking sun shows that George has more cash in his purse than he had when the sun rose. George, as a speaker, had no equal in Wichita. Others were more eloquent, more logical, some closer reasoners. Some, at times, were louder, but taking it all in all, George's speeches, for length, breadth and thickness, have never been surpassed since the days when old Bill Allen, of Ohio, put a foghorn out of commission on the Ohio river in the Hard Cider campaign of "Tippecanoe and Tyler too, and little Van is a used-up man." At one time there was an auction store in the Paul Eaton stand, conducted by "Four Eyes" Fred Han- num and Tom Conklin. "Four Eyes," if he had been a lawyer, could have paid entrance fees and entered for the nine-hour test against Salisbury. On one occasion "Four Eyes" was selling a mule on Main street while George was in justice court across the street, defending a' "coon" for stealing a watch. The united voices of these two orators paralyzed Main street and stopped the noise of Emil Werner's organ next door. Both orators ap- pealed to the police court for protection from the other, one in the interest of justice and liberty, the other on the ground of interference with trade and commerce.
There was a mighty strife betwixt Douglas avenue and Main street. The Santa Fe depot on the east and the toll bridge on the west, naturally made Douglas avenue the main business artery of the great metropolis. When this mighty business was done, and Main street was downcast, disheartened and humbled, Greiffenstein, commonly called "Dutch Bill," without a collar
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and with his vest unbuttoned and a heavy gold watch chain hanging down at the left side, rubbing his snow-blind eyes and sending upward wreaths of smoke from blended tobacco and perique, waved his pipe as a magic wand, and prophesied the future of Douglas avenue, about as follows: "This royal infant, yet in its cradle, contains for its people a thousand blessings, which time will bring to ripeness."
NOT EXACT QUOTATION.
Now, this is not exactly what William said on that occasion, but that is what he meant. His dream is not yet fulfilled. The crowd then adjourned and went over to Tom Jewel's place to play a game of "devil among the tailors," which was one of William's favorite games.
The bridge and depot were the beginning of the demolition of Main street. Lank Moore, Joe Allen, Sam Houck, Al Thomas, Hess and Getto, fled from North Main street, as rats from a sink- ing ship; that is, all fled to Douglas avenue, except Lank Moore, who was so disgusted that he went to Arizona. These men were all stout North Main street adherents, but they could not abide to see the trade going away from them, and they built on Douglas avenue, between Main and Market. Sol Kohn tore down a two- story brick building, formerly occupied as a wholesale house by Todd & Royal, at the corner of First and Main, and rebuilt the same on Douglas avenue, where the State Savings Bank and Gov- ernor Stanley's office are now situated, and the supremacy of the New York corner was fixed for a generation, if not for all time.
The lawyers also moved down from North Main street. Gov- ernor Stanley, also McClees and H. C. Day, loan agents, moved over the building where Vail's jewelry store was. Sluss and Hatton moved over the old Wichita Savings Bank; Balderston over the second story of the present site of the Shelley drug store.
R. S. Timmons, from Baltimore, also was on the second floor of this building. One John Stanard also hibernated in a room on the second floor. Adams, English, Ruggles and Yank Owens were over Richard & Rogers' store in this same New York block. This last firm had a sign, two and one-half feet wide and eighteen feet long, on which was printed in large goldleaf letters, "Adams, English & Ruggles, Lawyers." George Reeves denominated this
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"the brass front firm," and it went by the name of the "brass front" until the end.
OLD-TIME LAW FIRMS.
Then the firm of; Adams & Dale, succeeded by Dale & Dale, and then by Dale & Reed, were over the second floor on the corner west of Houck's store; also, Stanley & Wall occupied rooms at Stanley's old office. Stanley & Hatton and H. C. Higgenbotham were also there. Dr. Furley had an office over the old Charlie Lawrence drug store on the second lot east of the corner. The doctor had a "writ of assistance" served on him one night by Charlie Hill, his landlord. "Doc" had been up the street, calling on a young lady, and when he returned he found his carpet, chairs, stove and desks all piled up on the sidewalk and in the gutter. This at that time was, and as far as I know, ever since has been the most rapid forcible-entry-and-detention law suit that ever took place in Wichita. Charlie was not only plaintiff, but he was the justice of the peace and constable. With him, to think was to act. It is said that the doctor and Charlie Hill were never friends after this occasion, but of this I do not know. Dr. McAdams moved in the next day.
Robert S. Timmons, above spoken of, was a lawyer from Bal- timore. He used tobacco in all forms, and whittled pine sticks. He went to Quannah, Texas, where afterward he became wealthy, and there died.
D. B. Butcher, a jeweler, called "Butch," was on the first floor. M. L. Garver and L. B. Bunnell and R. H. Roys had offices in the building torn down.
R. H. Roys, attorney at law, was a careful, methodical and painstaking, regular, perennial, non-union chess player. Law and money-making was a side issue with him. He at one time tried to get up a chess club, to be called "Calumet," or calamus root, or something of that sort. Probably Roys is this minute sitting with a chess board in front, working on the problem, "white to move and checkmate in five moves."
HE HAD NO PRACTICE.
John Stanard, as a lawyer, attended court regularly, looked after the call of the docket, but did not have any practice.
John came from Pennsylvania, but where he went to no one
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knoweth. It was currently reported that John received an an- nuity, which was paid every ninety days, and which boarded and clothed him and allowed him to dress in black broadcloth and appear dignified. John Stanard had naturally at all times as much dignity as Judge Reed used to have in the morning, after attending an installation at the Consistory, and desired to appear as Perfect Master or Knight of the Brazen Serpent.
The young ladies of the town, when the old building was new, as I recall them, were Laura, Emma, Jose and Lou, Matie, Julia, Cora and Sue. There were Emmas three and Lauras two.
The trade of the town then was between Main and Market streets. Stanley, as county attorney, a few years afterward, sold at judicial tax sale over one thousand lots for delinquent taxes. He did not get enough money to pay the taxes. The costs ran up in thousands of dollars. Three particular lots now called to mind, which were in this judicial tax sale, sold for $100 each, and they are now, on present Wichita values, worth about $40,000.
The land office moved from Second and Main streets to 103 West Douglas avenue. The first mortgage on the Occidental Hotel, now called the Baltimore, was foreclosed and the hotel shut up. A fire at the corner of Second and Main streets, destroy- ing a two-story building, left a vacant spot where the Northern Building now stands. The burning of two buildings on the left side of Main street, between Second and Third streets, where Winner and MeNutt, to get some insurance money, burned the body of a man named Seiver, otherwise called "Tex." All of these things, taken together, gave Main street a "raggedy" appearance.
In this New York block, as it was then called, Kohn Brothers had the corner, just torn down. Charlie Hill occupied the drug store at 102 East Douglas avenue, afterward sold to Charlie Law- rence, Richards & Rogers, Allen & Tucker, grocers, and the J. P. Allen drug store and Murphy & Riley, filled this corner to the alley west of Houck's hardware store.
A GORGEOUS LAW OFFICE.
At that time the most gorgeous law office in Wichita was on the New York corner, over the second floor of this building. It was occupied by Robert J. Christy, formerly of Peabody, Kan .; formerly of Pittsburg, Pa., and lastly of the Pacific coast. Christy bought $1,000 or $1,500 worth of books and had carpets, chairs
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and desks which made the ordinary Wichita attorney's mouth water. My recollection now is that Sluss sold all these books under chattel mortgage and thereby distributed a good many good law books around town, amongst the attorneys, which, per- haps, but for Robert J. Christy, would not have been on any law book shelf in Wichita for manay years. Sale under this chattel mortgage caused the iron to enter into the soul of Robert J. Christy, and he pronounced a curse and doom upon the town and abandoned it forever.
In the front room in this corner building, just torn down, Jim McCullough, a whole-souled Scotchman, who had plenty of money and simply had a law office as a matter of introduction into good society, died. At that time Jim was city attorney. He made an oral will and bequeathed the office of city attorney to Judge Balderston. While there was no provision of law that per- mitted an officer, when dying, to bequeath his office to any succes- sor, Jim Hope, who was mayor at the time, to carry out the wishes of the testator, accordingly appointed Judge Balderston as city attorney.
In front of this old corner building, Mike Meagher shot Sill Powell one night. Judge Jewett was a witness to the act. Noth- ing was ever done with Mike Meagher. The shot was heard around the corner and across the street and emptied old Eagle Hall of the theater-going public. At that time Simon Show was in progress in old Eagle Hall. Simon at that date was the star attraction in southwestern Kansas on the coal-oil circuit.
Whether or not Jim McCullough would have been a good law- yer, had he lived, no one can tell. Jim was too rich, with his income of $200 a month in Wichita in 1874, to go through the drudgery of the ordinary law office. An old lawyer used to say that the quotation in the Bible, "It is harder for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven than for a camel to go through the eye of a needle," was a mis-translation, and that it should have said, "It is harder for a rich man to become a lawyer than for a camel to go through the eye of a needle."
McCullough used to throw bones to the writer which were snapped up like a stray dog at the back end of a butcher shop in the long, hot, dry summer of 1874, about the time the grass- hoppers swept the verdure of the fields of Kansas, even as the gardens and vineyards of France were swept, in the Franco- Prussian war, by Bismarck's Iron Dice of Destiny.
CHAPTER XXV. THE LEGEND OF JOHN FARMER.
By KOS HARRIS.
Many moons ago a tale to the writer was told, the which he will now unfold, concerning an old Wichita resident and citizen. The same was verified by him some years after the occurrence. There is now on the west side a real estate dealer and broker of the same name. It may be the same man; anyone who is curious can ask him.
The John Farmer who is the hero of this legend came to Wichita in its raw days, when bricks were unknown, when stone was as scarce as diamonds, lumber was higher in proportion than the present prices quoted by any "lumber trust" compared to the price before there was any trust. The assumption that there doth exist a lumber trust is founded on observation, conditions and a lack of real genuine, all wool, yard wide competition. But in the days whereof I write, lumber was high-higher than gold on "Black Friday," higher than "horse-liver" and "cat-chops" in Paris in January, A. D. 1871. There was a saw mill at the junction of Chisholm creek and the Arkansas that sawed cotton- wood, and the small area of cottonwood fit to cut was watched as closely as a hen watches her chicks when a marauding hawk is overhead. John Farmer had a claim, whereon there was some small timber, and naturally desired to be among the pioneer tim- .ber dealers and reap the benefit of his foresight in getting a pre- emption that had timber on it. The majority of the would-be purchasers were "short" on cash, but long on promise, and as John had timber and the buyer had no cash, the trade, the nego- tiation, the commerce, was as at a standstill. All negotiations were broken off, and therein lies the deep, dark, despicable vil- lainy that proved John's disastrous undoing.
At this time, in our peaceful hamlet, when buffalo hides were
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legal tender, buffalo rump was steak and roasts, there was one Harry Van Trees, a duly elected and qualified "justice of th' peace," as full of tricks as a dog of fleas, hungry as a hound, out at the toes and also the knees, who had been living on beer, crackers and cheese, and who was growing tired of these and was ripe for stratagem and spoils. The timber buyers or thieves had recourse to the cunning and judicial wisdom of Judge Van Trees, who evolved a scheme as follows: One lovely morning, just about the break of day, John Farmer heard a crash like that made by falling timber. He got on some clothing right away and found that during his stunts the thieves were "making hay."
He scared them off with a gun, and put them on the run, And deemed the victory won,
But did not reckon on the hours till the setting of the sun.
John recognized several of the malefactors, and under the advice of some neighbors, he sought the fount of justice of Judge Van Trees, on North Main street. He found the place by a sign as thereafter set out.
I am informed that the blind goddess at this date occupied a one-story edifice, twelve by fourteen, at least ten feet high, made of cottonwood lumber, with a square front so as to be as pre- tentious as possible. John explained the nature of the crime com- mitted, and demanded that a warrant be issued. Judge Van Trees inquired into the matter, consulted the old statutes of 1868, and Spaulding's Treatise, and Swan, and Plumb. These books at that date were a law library in the law offices in the great terra incognita south and west of Emporia, at which time Emporia was the end of wisdom and beginning of ignorance in law and religion, politics, commerce and real business. The judge, as he looked John over, unto himself softly said:
Here is a chunk of raw Irish clay Which Providence hath put in our way To furnish food for a rainy day ; Therefore, let us be thankful and "prey."
The judge saw that John knew nothing of procedure, nothing of his legal rights; and, contrary to the statutes in such cases made and provided, he demanded a deposit of costs to the extent
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of $5, which John "put up," and the law commenced to grind. The celerity of the officer who served the warrant was a surprise to John. The officer was Mike or John Maher, Jim Cairns or Ike Walker. The criminals seemed to have courted arrest, as they were all in court in one hour, demanding separate trial, which was granted. All defendants were out on bail. After dinner one case was called and trial commenced. After all testimony was in and the case argued, the court discharged the defendant and made a finding that the prosecution was malicious, and held the prosecuting witness for all costs, taxed at $50. This was a de- nouement not anticipated. There was no compassion, no relent- ing ruth, for the Irish youth who had told the truth; who was as green as his own Emerald Isle, even causing his tormentors to smile at his lack of guile, as they all the while were preparing to divide up his hard-earned money ; yea, verily, even as Joseph's brethren divided up his price when he was sold into Gilead for twenty shekels. John was encompassed round and about by his enemies. In all the land there was no protecting hand to assuage his grief or grant unto him relief, for as much as the judge, of all the timber thieves, was the chief; though it passeth all belief that such "things" could be, yet such "things" were.
The judge at last grew merciful, and, as John had no shekels, rhino, mapus, chink, argumentum ad crumenam at hand, the court took his note for $50, due in ninety days, and immediately took the same to Sol Kohn and got the money on it. He discharged ye prisoner, who, thankful to "get off with his skin," hurried home, and then the deep damnation of the plot broke out on John even as chickenpox on a healthy child. All the cut timber was gone; the timber thieves out on bond had, during the trial of the malefactor placed on trial, gone to the land and, unmolested by any one, had leisurely taken all they had cut in the morning, and John was left lamenting.
Note .- Mr. Harris is without a doubt the most prolific writer in Wichita outside of the newspaper profession. His writings cover a great variety of subjects, and his style is terse and vigor- ous. He possesses a great fund of humor, unlimited information, and a large good fellowship. His productions are always eagerly read by the people of Sedgwick county. Kos Harris is the Mark Twain of southern Kansas .- Editor.
CHAPTER XXVI. WILLIAM MATHEWSON-BUFFALO BILL-LAST OF THE OLD SCOUTS.
By DALE RESING.
I went to get the history of a city, and came back with the annals of an empire tucked away in my notebook. I had sought only for a few facts relative to the founding of a city, but when I had finished seeking there was enough material in my possession to build a reliable chronicle of the early days of Kansas and then leave plenty to write a fair-sized biography of the Last of the Old Scouts. The Last of the Old Scouts! The final shoot of that old stock of hardy frontiersmen which blazed the way from the Alleghanies to the Rockies for the thousands who later harked to the call of "Westward Ho!" Much has been written of Daniel Boone, the founder of the nineteenth-century school of frontiers- manship. Every youngster in the land knows how he went into the wilds of Kentucky in 1769, and there, fighting and treating with the Indians, paved the way for the future settlement of that country. Not a lad but knows of the wonderful exploits of David Crockett, who passed Boone's last settlement in Missouri and placed the outposts of civilization a little farther to the west, and then died at the hand of the bloody butcher, Santa Anna, in the Alamo. And the intrepid courage, skill and endurance of Kit Carson are subjects for many a thrilling tale in all future genera- tions. But of the last of this illustrious line of daring explorers, hunters, Indian scouts and fighters little has ever been written. History says practically nothing of his life and deeds; and yet none of his famous predecessors of the same school did more to prepare the pathway for Western emigration and settlement. None saved more lives than this Last of the Old Scouts, who in his time rescued fifty-four women and children from camps of savage Indians, and prevented the massacre of hundreds of others.
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No frontiersman fought the wild hordes of redskins with more courage and valor; and yet none was more respected, more feared and more beloved by the Indians than this last of the old-time pioneers. William Mathewson is his name. William Mathewson, of Wichita, heir in direct line to the prowess of Daniel Boone, 1735 to 1822; David Crockett, 1786 to 1836; and Kit Carson, 1809 to 1868. William Mathewson, 1830 and still living-living and pining, in his comfortable, modern home, for those old-time hardships and comrades of forty years ago, when men were men on the plains of Kansas, and lived only when they were men. So, it was to William Mathewson that I went for information regard- ing the foundation of the city of Wichita. And from him I went away with more appreciation of the danger and hardship of a pioneer life than I had ever gleaned from a dozen books.
He eyed me stolidly as I entered his cozy little parlor on the chill October evening, and backed up to the cheerful blaze of the grate fire. And I as frankly scanned his battle-scarred counte- nance. It was a noble brow that I saw-high, broad and fringed with snowy hair, combed backward. Beneath shaggy eyebrows two gray-blue eyes gleamed steady and stern. The mouth was thin, straight and firm. A square, lean jaw and sinewy neck based the noble proportions of the head. A deep scar in the chin was half hidden by the scraggly gray hairs of the beard. But striking beyond other features was the huge, hooked nose, like the beak of an eagle. "What's the use of my talking of these things to you?" he had said when I queried him regarding his connec- tion with the early history of Kansas. "Why should I speak of them to anybody? You can't understand; you don't know what they mean. Nobody knows or can know, except those who were here in those early days. I could tell you of the hardships, the drouths, the famines, the terrible massacres, but even then you couldn't understand." The words were spoken half reprovingly, half sadly. As they fell from the lips of William Mathewson, the Last of the Old Scouts, I scanned the stern, battle-scarred face of the old Indian warrior with a keen interest. Yes; he was right. There was no possibility of any one of the present generation realizing half the horror, half the privation, the danger through which passed the pioneers of the great Middle West. Those scars on that austere countenance were too deep to fathom; those lines and furrows carried by too stern a hardship to understand.
The eyes of William Mathewson closed. His head rested
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wearily in his hand, while I, the visitor, sat silent and full of inspired admiration. I had heard of Indian fighters, read of them in books; but never in my life had I beheld one belonging to the old school. And now that it was one of the greatest of them who was before me, I was dumb with mingled sensations.
I tried to grasp the trend of the old scout's thought. But it ran too fast for me. On and on it raced, touching here and there on the greatest deeds of a life full of adventure, till sixty years were covered, and William Mathewson, with a few sturdy com- rades, was seen crossing the vast prairies west of the Mississippi in the year of 1849. For three hours I listened to the incidents and experiences of this man's life. And when it was over I went out of the cozy little parlor half fearing that instead of seeing the well lighted street of the city I should find a wide, moon-lighted prairie, dotted here and there with the camp fires of Indian lodges. Thus vivid were the tales of adventure told by the Last of the Old Scouts. When we had sat for a long time silent, he spoke again. Staring with half-shut eyes into the cheerful grate fire, his thoughts doubtless wandering over some half-forgotten trail of the prairie trod half a century ago, I hungrily waiting for him to pick up the thread and lead me with him through some of those vast, strange wildernesses. My nostrils dilated as did those of my host to sense the smell of camp-fire smoke. In my veins raced something of that flame called "wanderlust." "You have never tasted buffalo meat, young man," said the old scout, abruptly, "and you don't know what real eating is. I wish I had a big juicy steak out of a young buffalo cow to give you. It's the finest meat in the world-just as much superior to the best of corn-fed beef as the beef is superior to mule meat. I know, for I've eaten all of them. Many's the time I've lived on buffalo meat alone. And it was good living, too. There is more nutrition in a buffalo steak than in any meat a man ever ate."
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