Custer and Crockett

by Gregory Urbach

  “You may wish to stay here at Crockett’s Fort, humming bird,” I warned Isabella.

  She was dressed in red riding leathers with a broad brim trail hat, as was Morning Star. Neither woman would be dissuaded from joining us.

  “Do you think I’ve never seen a hanging, George?” Isabella said.

  “I look forward to the white man’s justice,” Morning Star added.

  “It’s everybody’s justice, young lady. I will thank you to remember that,” I said, still sensitive of criticism by a few malcontents.

  ____________

  On the third day of our journey we reached Placerville, a growing settlement where the search for gold was becoming industrialized. One day it might become the county seat. The next morning, we rode through thick woods back down toward the American River nine miles away, where we found Coloma near the site of our first discovery.

  Coloma had grown from a sleepy Nisenan village to a town of twelve hundred prospectors, merchants, Indians, a Chinese laundry, and home to Company B of the Seventh Calvary. Major Nat Brister greeted us at Fort Necessity, which looked more like a big corral than a fort. A blockhouse and the company headquarters sat on a knoll overlooking the town square. The river was only a few hundred yards away.

  “Good to see you, General,” Brister said, my age, thick in the chest, and looking hardy. I had liked his cool presence at the Alamo, and the bushy auburn hair gave him a striking appearance.

  “No trouble about the prisoners?” I asked.

  “None the boys can’t handle,” Brister said.

  “We’ll hold the trials in the morning,” I announced.

  “Yes, sir,” Brister said with a salute, going to make the arrangements.

  There was a swagger in Brister’s step that told me morale was high.

  The troopers milling about the plaza looked satisfied with their duties, unlike most frontier posts, where danger or drudgery eventually saps the spirit. Officers like myself could find excitement in Chicago or New York while on leave, but the rank and file could afford no such holiday.

  With an hour left before sunset, Isabella, Tom, Morning Star and I walked through the new town, which reminded me of Dodge City. The outskirts was mostly tents and wood shacks. The main road running parallel to the river was still dirt except for two sidewalks. Gravel had been added in places to fill in mud holes. But the plaza was a little better, beginning to show evidence of civilization.

  “Colonel Crockett has done well here,” Morning Star observed, for most of the buildings were made of sturdy wood framing with solid stone foundations. I admired the broad porches, suitable for lounging on a summer evening.

  The town center was laid out in typical Spanish style, with a customs house and hotel. Two more hotels were under construction. There were also five taverns and, behind them, a house for what we in the army often call fancy women. Such commerce was not encouraged, but I would not provoke a riot by preventing it.

  “Are the Franciscans building a church?” Isabella asked, pointing to a new foundation being laid beyond the plaza.

  “They have souls to save,” I said.

  “A lot of souls, and not just the Indians,” Tom said.

  “The church will give comfort to the community,” Isabella said. “George and I will make a generous donation.”

  “We will?” I said with surprise.

  “Yes, George,” Isabella replied, giving my elbow a tug.

  As the daughter of a prominent family, Isabella well understood how to show status in a community. Libbie had helped my army career in a similar fashion.

  Many greeted us in the plaza, among them prospectors, merchants, and some of my own troopers. There were also scores of Indians, mostly Nisenan, but also Patwin and Washo. We required no extra attention, for everyone was busy, and gradually worked our way down to the river. The blue current was vigorous here, flowing among heavy growths of trees. I noticed a hand-painted sign on a wooden post indicating the spot where Voss had found the first nuggets. A sign I’d wanted my name on.

  “It’s beautiful, George,” Isabella said.

  “Prettier before hundreds of miners started dredging,” I said, for the riverbank was now filled with sluice boxes, timber mills, flour mills and breakwaters. “And this is only the beginning. As more immigrants arrive, we’ll expand operations. Within the year, we’ll have engineers following the richest veins deep into the mountain sides.”

  ”You have such vision,” Isabella said, staring at me with awe.

  “No, hummingbird. Every schoolboy of my generation grew up reading about the California Gold Rush,” I admitted. “When I look at these diggings, I don’t see the future. I see the past.”

  “Autie’s just being dramatic,” Tom said. “We’ve been working our goddamn butts off around here. The reason we haven’t had the same problems as 1849 is because we’ve learned from their mistakes.”

  “What do you mean, Thomas?” Morning Star asked.

  “First time around, this was a lawless country,” Tom explained. “Gold seekers came in without any scruples. They stole horses and cattle. Trampled crops. Robbed travelers. Outlaws stole from honest prospectors, and they killed the Indians, forcing the Indians to fight back. Vigilante justice was unable to keep order.”

  “And this time you’ve done better?” Morning Star said.

  “The Indians seem peaceful. Most of the time,” I replied. “Few of the vaqueros complain about rustling. Those who think they can break the law are proven wrong.”

  “That’s why we’re here today,” Tom said.

  We had nice rooms on the top floor of the new Park Avenue Hotel, with a long patio overlooking the river. We could hear the rushing water beyond the trees, observe birds high in the branches, and smell the green forest. Few places I knew were as beautiful.

  I invited Major Brister to dinner, along with the mayor, Giovanni Raffetto. I learned Raffetto was a merchant from St. Louis, typical of the sturdy frontier type, with shaggy brown hair, trimmed beard, and prone to wearing flannel shirts. As an administrator, he had proved reasonably honest.

  Joining us was Dr. Amos Pollard on his first trip to the high country. Pollard was a well-spoken physician who had come a long way from his native Massachusetts, or the medical practice he once held in Manhattan before losing his wife. Thirty-three years old, tall, thin and bald, Pollard was more interested in building hospitals than filling them. His courage treating the wounded at the Alamo had impressed me.

  Our official host was Chief Maidu. The chief brought his oldest son, Konkow, who was Slow’s age, and the boys sat together at a small card table deep in talk. To keep the flies away, a delicately woven netting had been hung around the edge of the patio. The netting, made by Nisenan squaws, was in high demand. I promised to buy one for Isabella after hearing Tom had bought one for Morning Star.

  “Qué opinas jefe?” I asked the forty-year-old chief, a distinguished leader with his long black hair tied in the back. His narrow eyes could be fierce, but more often than not, he was genial.

  “My opinion may change after the judgment,” Maidu replied, his accent rough but intelligible.

  “We brought a reporter from the San Francisco Examiner. Marcus will send the story to New Orleans, New York and London,” I said, though I doubted a village chieftain could grasp the implications. “Notices will be posted in Sacramento, Oakland, Monterey, and on the Embarcadero.”

  “We know the meaning,” Maidu said, unimpressed with my litany. “Many chiefs and their sons have come from far tribes to see the white man’s justice. All will know.”

  “Nat, good work on the town,” Tom said, thinking it time to change subject. “It’s bigger than Deadwood and looks better.”

  “Never heard of Deadwood, Tommy, but I can’t take all the credit,” Brister replied. “Colonel Crockett is up here every few weeks telling stories and kicking butt. There’s not a man in Coloma who won’t walk into hell for him.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t com
e to that,” Pollard said, having walked there once already on a cold March morning.

  “There should be a good market, tomorrow. Morning Star and I will need our coins ready,” Isabella remarked.

  “That’s true,” Brister said, offering the ladies a smile.

  “Market?” Tom asked.

  “People come from all over for a hanging,” Isabella explained. “There will be vendors of fresh fruit, pies, scarfs, and leather. The taverns will run dry.”

  “Nathaniel?” I asked, making a point by using his first name. Which I rarely did.

  “Don’t worry, General. The taverns won’t run dry,” Brister replied. He turned to Tom and they laughed, tapping the table with their spoons.

  “I don’t want a drunken mob tomorrow,” I protested.

  “Beer’s kinda weak. Need to drink a lot to get drunk,” Brister added.

  “Drunk Indians are nothing to laugh about,” I insisted.

  “General Custer, there is no reason for concern,” Raffetto promised, raising his hands for attention. “The constables are on duty. As Major Brister and Colonel Custer well know. I believe they are teasing you.”

  Raffetto took out his hand-carved pipe and gave it a light, leaning back in his comfortable Birchwood chair. Tom and Pollard lit cigars.

  “The General worries too much,” Morning Star said.

  “Young lady, a general who doesn’t worry too much isn’t fit to wear his stars,” I replied.

  The next morning dawned clear except for a mist rising off the river. We had a nice breakfast of eggs rolled in tortillas, bits of ham, and strong coffee. There was no wine, by the gentlemen or the ladies. There would be no drinking until after the day’s business.

  “Ya lookin’ good, sir,” John said, helping me dress.

  “Thank you, Mr. Armstrong,” I replied. “I know I don’t say it often, but I’m glad to have you in my service.”

  “Ain’t no need, sir. No need at all,” John said. “Still be Mr. Chenoweth’s slave if not for you. Still be living in a shed, eatin’ scraps off the master’s table. Being yo man is my privilege.”

  I looked John in the eye and shook his hand. In another life, I’d taken much for granted from those who cooked my food, mended my clothes, set up my tent, and polished my boots. It was time to learn from those mistakes.

  I walked down the creaking plank stairs and out on the broad patio where several hundred people had already gathered. It was a conglomeration of California, all types in all ages and genders. I was wearing my best dress uniform, a dark blue jacket, gray trousers, gold buttons and a red scarf. John had polished my old black boots to a shine. My hair, growing long again, was thoroughly combed, my bushy mustache trimmed. I gazed steadily, knowing my steel blue eyes could be seen from anyplace in the crowd.

  “Let the proceedings begin,” I announced.

  A high pinewood bench had been erected on the south side of the plaza with three tall stools. The center of the plaza was kept clear by Raffetto’s constables, half of whom were uniformed Indians. A clever move on his part. Company C was formed in skirmish formation to the west, but their weapons were holstered. They were there to protect, not intimidate. Company B loitered to the north of the plaza, mixed in with the spectators. Joining me on the judge’s bench were Chief Maidu and Mayor Raffetto, representing civilian authority.

  “Bring out the prisoners,” Raffetto said, his native Italian accent sounding almost Southern.

  Six men were brought out of the adobe headquarters, three whites and three Indians. Their clothes were disheveled, their hands tied behind their backs. All appeared of the rougher sort.

  “These are of my tribe,” Chief Maidu said, standing up and pointing at the Indians. The chief was immaculate in white leather and an elaborate feather headdress, more reminiscent of the Sioux than the Nisenan. I wondered if Slow had sold it to him. “They killed four gold hunters, then stole their guns and clothes. They boasted of their deed. They are to face justice.”

  “Witnesses?” I summoned.

  For thirty minutes, a small list of Indians and tradesmen gave testimony to the foul deed. There was no doubt of their guilt. After consulting with my fellow judges, I pronounced sentence.

  “Death by hanging,” I said.

  The crowd stirred but remained quiet. I believed the judgment popular, but there was no cheering. This was only the first act.

  “These white men have been charged with killing Mésto of the Nisenan tribe and raping his wife,” Raffetto said. “They are Tom Miller, Bull Backstend and Ronald Wynton.”

  “There ain’t no witnesses agin’ us!” Miller shouted, struggling against his bonds.

  “That we shall see,” Raffetto answered. “Bring the witnesses forward.”

  Eight witnesses came forward, five squaws and three Indian boys. The boys were dressed well for the occasion in flannel shirts and fine buckskin jackets. I had a hunch Raffetto paid for the outfits. Father Sanchez, the new town friar, stepped up with a Bible to swear them in.

  “Wait! Wait,” Miller yelled. “Them is Indians. No Indian can testify agin’ a white man. No place, no never.”

  “Welcome to the Buffalo Flag, Mr. Miller,” I said, pounding a mallet on the podium. “Let the witnesses proceed.”

  The women gave their testimony in Maiduan, translated by a mixed blood carpenter named José. The Indian boys spoke English and a little Spanish. They were convincing, explaining how the drunken white men had invaded their camp, then robbed, raped and murdered. Not discreet about their deeds, the villains had been tracked to a Placerville saloon by the young boys and reported to the constable. Several law officers had been injured in the arrest.

  “Have you a defense?” Raffetto asked.

  “We weren’t even thar,” Backstend denied, a bearish man with a black beard. “Ask Rumford. Ask Skinny Sam.”

  There was a shuffle in the back of the crowd and two men came forward. Maxwell Rumford owned one of the general stores. The heavyset merchant was from Alabama and known to resent my lenient Indian policies, but his work ethic had made him prosperous. The second was a sometime prospector called Skinny Sam, a fitting nickname, typically found doing menial labor around Buckhorn’s Tavern. When he wasn’t lying in an alley dead drunk.

  “They was with us,” Skinny Sam said, speaking loud enough for all to hear. “We played cards. Played the whole day. I won five dollars. They could not been up in creek country.”

  “Yes, they were in town,” Rumford said a bit more hesitantly. “They ordered supplies. Bought shovels and coffee.”

  There was a murmuring through the crowd. The whites chose to believe the story, while the Indians didn’t. I glanced at Raffetto and saw he didn’t believe the alibi, either. I waited for the crowd to quiet down.

  “May we see the invoices?” I requested.

  “The what?” Rumford said.

  “I’ve been in your store, sir. You make receipts for everything,” I pointed out. “I would like to see your books for the supplies these men purchased.”

  “I don’t know, sir. They may be hard to find,” Rumford stalled.

  “Sir, if you cannot produce the invoices, you may be hanged as an accomplice,” I warned.

  There was silence. Rumford looked at the defendants, wondering what he should do. Everyone in the crowd leaned forward to hear his response.

  “There are no invoices,” Rumford conceded.

  I nodded for Raffetto to proceed.

  “Is there additional testimony?” Raffetto requested.

  No one stepped forward. There had never been any doubt about their guilt, so reaching a verdict didn’t take long. I stood up, removed my hat, and took a dramatic pause. The hundred times I had watched my old friend Lawrence Barrett perform were not wasted.

  “The defendants are pronounced guilty. The sentence is death by hanging,” I declared.

  The spectators were stunned at first, then the Indians showed approval. Reaction among the white townspeople was mixed.


  “Death? Fer killin’ In’dins? Is you out of yo’ mind?” Wynton said, so angry he was spitting.

  “Friar Sanchez, the condemned have half an hour to make their peace. Constable Jacobs, make ready the gallows,” I instructed, pounding my mallet with authority.

  I thanked Raffetto and Chief Maidu before walking back toward my hotel. Behind me, a clerk was busy making out the death warrants. Slow and Morning Star met me on the porch.

  “What do you think, lad?” I asked, quite pleased with myself.

  “What of the Eighth Commandment? Those who bear false witness?” Slow asked.

  “By god, boy, you are the smart one,” I answered.

  I rushed back to the high bench, straightened my jacket, and pounded the mallet for attention.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, a last piece of business,” I shouted, my voice a bit too high-pitched. “In the opinion of this court, Mr. Rumford and Skinny Sam have borne false witness. Perjury is a serious crime. I sentence both to confiscation of their goods and exile from California.”

  “Confiscate? General Custer, no. I meant no harm,” Rumford apologized. “I only sought to help friends.”

  “And to free three murderers, sir,” I rejoined.

  The man was thinking of his business, probably worth ten thousand dollars. Sam said nothing, not bright enough to think up a new lie.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Rumford pleaded.

  “You will be sorry. That is a promise,” I said.

  As Rumford and Skinny Sam were led away by the constables, I turned to Raffetto.

  “The storekeeper will ask you to intercede on his behalf,” I whispered. “Is he of value to your community?”

  “Max is a trifle outspoken, but reliable,” Raffetto replied.

  “Take up his cause. On your recommendation, I will remit the sentence. In exchange for a fine, of course.”

  “Of course, sir,” Raffetto said, happy with the arrangement. The appearance of such influence would enhance his status among the other merchants. “What about Skinny Sam?”

  “He has thirty days to leave California or I’ll hang him,” I answered, for saloon trash only cause trouble.