Mr. Denny and a mining claim—A wholesale killing averted—Stories of shooting escapades.

Any one seeing Mr. Denny (the vice-president and biggest stockholder of our company) now would think him only a quiet man of affairs, yet some years ago he was known as one of the finest fighting men of New Mexico or Colorado. While working a prospect he had near Silver City, New Mexico, he decided to study law, did so successfully, and was called to the bar; but his ideas of practice were peculiar. He was employed by a mining company to protect a mining claim that was in litigation and which the opposing parties were about to take possession of while court was not in session. He put in an injunction of his own devising; he laid in a stock of provisions and water, built a barricade of dynamite boxes in the mouth of the tunnel, took up his position with a Winchester, and defied the sheriff and posse to oust him till the case could be tried; and the sheriff, not seeing any way to dissolve the injunction, left him strictly alone. Later, the court found for his clients. In the same city he had heard that an Italian named Carrera had made some slanderous remarks about him. Though this Carrera weighed nearly 200 lbs. and Denny at that time only about 125 lbs., he went up to the former’s office with a paper for him to sign, retracting what he had formerly said. Carrera refused, and Denny beat him till he signed. Then Denny took the document to the office of the daily paper and asked them to publish Carrera’s free and full retractation. But as the document had accumulated much blood during the progress of negotiations, the editor refused to publish it on the ground that “Carrera did not sign that of his own free will and volition.” “Sure he did,” said Denny; “I made him.”

Silver City had the reputation of being a camp in which more men were killed than any other in the United States. On one occasion a young fellow was shot in a billiard hall and was laid upon one of the tables to pass away in comfort. He had been what is known as a “grandstander” all his life (playing to the gallery), and as he lay there dying he suddenly raised himself on his elbow and said to the assembled crowd, "Boys, ain’t I dying brave"—a grandstander to the last!

Kingston, New Mexico, was divided into two factions, Denny at the head of one and a man named Bill Langly at the head of the other. One day Denny was walking down the street, and happened to be unarmed, when Bill Langly stepped out of a saloon and emptied his pistol at Denny across the street. Denny, who was walking towards Bill when he started shooting, did not increase his pace by the fraction of a second, but calmly walked on past Langly down to the blacksmith’s shop that Harry Carter owned at the time. Though Bill was a good shot he had been drinking, and so missed Denny with all six shots. Just as Harry Carter, who had heard and seen the shooting, ran out with a Winchester, which he handed to Denny, the sheriff came and arrested Langly. Denny walked out into the middle of the road, dropped on his knee, and, just as he was about to shoot, a woman happened to step into the line of fire; by the time she moved out of the way Langly and the sheriff had turned the corner and were out of sight. That woman unconsciously averted a wholesale killing, for while Denny knelt in the street some of the opposing faction had him covered from the door of a saloon, and Harry Carter and some of Denny’s friends were covering these men from the doorway of the smithy.

Denny does not forget the friends of his days of poverty now that he is a millionaire, for though Harry Carter has been working here as yard foreman it is simply of his own wish, because he preferred to feel independent. But Harry knows that his wife and children are provided for, no matter what may happen to him. Denny has offered to start him in business, but he does not care for this. Another friend and old-time partner is Tom Grand, whom I mentioned before as being down here prospecting for Denny. He is doing so under the following terms: Denny pays all expenses, and will put up the money necessary to develop any mine that is found, and the proceeds will be divided evenly. This also leaves a man feeling fairly independent, more so than if he were a mere pensioner.

Grand is a very good friend of mine, and as nice a man as one would wish to meet anywhere, yet he has the record of having killed three men in fights and seriously wounded four others; and at one time he was hunted over the hills of New Mexico by the state militia. He was generally very quiet, though full of fun, and I never could get him to tell me of any of his shooting scrapes, but on one occasion I saw even a drunken man realise that he was a bad man to fool with. A party of us were standing talking in front of the railway station in Guadalajara when a man we all knew came along just drunk enough to be aggressive, and began to make himself objectionable. Tom Grand had just come in from the mountains, and the clothes he had on were rough and dusty, and this attracted Mr. Drunk. He walked up to Tom and said, “My heaven, Grand, you look tough” (i.e. rough and dirty). “Yes,” said Tom, putting his face close up to the other, "and I'm just as tough as I look" (i.e. bad customer). The other understood the play on the words and the look on Tom’s face, and backed away full of apologies and did not bother us any more.

The life some of these prospectors lead would kill any man who was not made of iron and had not courage to spare. Tom Grand was telling me of one experience of his when he was opening up a tunnel one winter all by himself, forty miles from the nearest habitation. It was 15° F. below zero, and he could find nothing to burn but sage brush. Any one who knows or has seen sage brush can imagine what a delightfully cheerful fire it would make! Then the loneliness would drive most men crazy. On another occasion Grand, Denny, and another man were up in Colorado prospecting in the Grand Canyon, when the third man fell over the bluff to a ledge 150 feet below. They had no means of getting up the body for burial, and all they could do was to lower a red blanket by strings till it covered the body; and so they had to leave him, trusting that nothing would touch the body for fear of the blanket. It is hard to get these men to talk of the past—they live in the present and the future. Harry Carter once told me of a narrow escape he had years ago at Kingston, New Mexico. I was mentioning a case of a policeman and he said, “Why, I had just such a thing happen to me.” He had got into an argument with a friend of his who was pretty drunk at the time. The argument waxed warm, when suddenly this man jerked out his gun and swore he would kill Carter. Harry was taken by surprise and was unarmed. He was leaning against the open door, and as he told it to me in his own words, “Right back of the door at my elbow there was a Winchester rifle leaning against the wall, which I had noticed as I came in. When the drunken idiot threw his gun down on me, I remembered it, and it flashed across my mind that I would jump back, grab the rifle, and take my chances. All that kept me from doing it was the thought that the darned thing might be empty, in which case I would have looked like a fool and been killed sure. I found out later that it was not only loaded but had a cartridge in the barrel” (he meant he would not have had to work the lever to throw one in the barrel). “Still, as things turned out, it was just as well I did not get hold of it. While I was debating what to do, Jack was getting himself all worked up to the shooting point, and the madder he got the nearer he came to me, cursing all the time like a trooper. I was expecting him to shoot any minute, when he stepped too close and I saw my chance. I made a quick grab for the gun, and, as luck would have it, my hand slid down the barrel and the hammer fell on the fork here between the thumb and first finger; that was all that saved me.” “Well,” I said, as he stopped, “what did you do to him?” "Do to him? why, I didn’t do anything to him; he was a friend of mine, and would never have thought of hurting me if he had been sober." After a few minutes’ thought, he said, "Oh yes I did, too—I kept the gun, and it was a fine Colt’s 45."

One day I was telling Harry Carter of what I had seen in the Silver King Saloon in San Antonio. He said, "Well, once I saw a thing like that in Kingston, which at that time was a very small camp, but it turned out different from what you described. Jim and Ben had trouble down in a saloon. Jim said to Ben, ‘I’ve got no show because I’m not heeled.’ 'Don’t let that bother you,' said Ben; ‘come on up to my cabin and I’ll heel you.’ So up they went, and, while Jim stayed outside, Ben went in and brought him out a pistol. They agreed to back off five paces and then empty their guns. But at the very first shot Jim shot Ben square between the eyes with the borrowed gun."

Harry Carter left the company last year and went back to California, where he has bought a ranch and is farming, and I have certainly missed him, both as a great help in the business, and as a good fellow out of working hours.

I mentioned that since my arrival in Mexico some of my views had been changed as regards American business methods. Rather I should say that I have at last come in contact with American gentlemen in business, and not the class I had heretofore met. I will now try and describe our manager in Mexico, Mr. H. Wilkin, and his assistant, Mr. P. H. Harway, under whom directly I worked for the first six years I was with the company. Mr. H. Wilkin is a young man, probably two or three years younger than myself, standing some two inches over six feet in his socks, with shoulders to correspond, fair hair and blue eyes. He is a lawyer by profession, and a born diplomat: he would have made a great success if he had entered the United States Diplomatic Service. I have seen him take a hostile board of aldermen and have them all agreeing with him in an hour’s talk. When we had some trouble in Chihuahua I saw him talk suggestions into the governor’s head in such a way that the governor really believed that he had originated them himself, and felt quite proud in consequence. To show his kindness to those under him I will mention two instances where I was the beneficiary. When in Tampico I broke down from climate and overwork, and the doctor ordered me off the job. I was in such a nervous condition that, seeing that I could not hold down the job, and wishing to make the way clear for the company, I sent in my resignation. As soon as Mr. Wilkin received my letter he got on the train, came down to Tampico, and came to see me. He said, “Let me have your leggings and your horse, then go home, forget the job, forget you wrote me, and rest. I will take your job off your hands!” This he did till I was fit to take up the reins again. Later, in Morelia, I had my room in the hotel looted; besides all my clothes, I lost some of the company’s money, all in small silver, that I had there for safe keeping (it is very hard to get change here, so when one gets it one holds on to it to pay the men). When Mr. Wilkin heard of the robbery he immediately wrote me to reimburse myself out of company funds for the entire loss, and so charge it upon the books. These are things a man with any red blood in his veins does not forget.

Mr. P. H. Harway is also a man well over six feet, about the same age as the manager, and took his degree as mining engineer. I worked directly under his orders for the first six years, but he left our company to take charge of Mr. Denny’s gas company in Mexico city, as vice-president and general manager. I never think of him without the kindliest feelings and deep gratitude for the thousands of kindnesses he has shown me during the years we worked together. At first there was some little friction before we understood one another’s peculiarities, and before I appreciated his great business ability. Most heads of jobs take all the credit to themselves, but Paul Harway, in a report to the directors in California, gave most of the credit for our good showing to Harry Carter and myself. This at the time meant $25 per month more salary to each of us. Paul Harway was the practical man of affairs of the company, and he and Mr. Wilkin made a team which was bound to force any business ahead, and we have been much crippled since he left. These two young fellows represent one of the best traits of American character. They are both sons of wealthy fathers, yet neither of them would be content to loaf at home. Paul Harway once said to me, “I want in later life to feel that I have done something, and made my mark, no matter how small.” If only all wealthy men’s sons were like that, more especially in England, how the world would go ahead. But it is more often that the man with push lacks capital, and the young fellow with capital lacks push. Harry Carter was fond of telling me that "An Englishman says, ‘Thank God, I have a father’; while the American and German say, 'Thank God, I have a son.'"