This is a lovely and tranquil capture of Cajon Creek. The flowing water creates a gentle sense of movement through the composition, beautifully complemented by lush greenery along its banks. The subtle reflection of the trees and sky adds depth and interest, making the scene feel peaceful and inviting. The soft, diffused lighting enhances the calming atmosphere. Compositionally, the curve of the creek guides the viewer’s eye naturally through the image. A slight increase in contrast or clarity might make the textures pop a little more vividly, but overall, it’s a charming and well-executed photograph.
10,000 BCE – 1700s Native peoples, including the Southern Paiute and Western Shoshone, used the Tecopa, Shoshone, Resting Springs, and Amargosa River areas for thousands of years. Springs like Willow Creek and Ibex Springs supported seasonal camps and trade routes connecting the Mojave Desert to the Great Basin.
1829–1830 Antonio Armijo led the first successful trade caravan along what became known as the Old Spanish Trail. His route passed near Resting Springs and the future sites of Tecopa and Shoshone, helping establish a commercial corridor between New Mexico and California.
1844–1859 Resting Springs became an important stop on the Mormon Road, used by emigrants and freight teams. Conflicts occurred between Native groups and travelers. Chief Tecopa led local Paiute resistance before later reaching a peace agreement with settlers. In 1859, Lt. Williamson of the U.S. Army surveyed and recorded Resting Springs as a critical water stop.
1875–1880s A mining boom brought the founding of Brownsville, later renamed Tecopa, near Willow Creek. Prospectors also worked claims at Ibex Springs, building stone cabins and hauling ore by mule. Resting Springs was reoccupied briefly as a supply stop. Tecopa declined after richer discoveries nearby.
1900 Quon Sing, also known as Ah Foo, developed China Ranch near Tecopa by irrigating fields along Willow Creek. He grew fruit and raised livestock, leaving a legacy that remains part of the landscape today.
1907 The Tonopah and Tidewater Railroad reached Tecopa and Shoshone. A new townsite, called the Tecopa Triangle, was built closer to the rail line. Mining resumed with easier access to markets.
1910 Shoshone was founded by “Dad” Fairbanks as a rail stop and supply point for nearby mines. It soon had a general store, schoolhouse, and housing for workers.
1920s Mining activity increased at Ibex Springs. Shoshone continued to grow, and Tecopa Hot Springs began to attract visitors as a health retreat. The Shoshone post office was moved from the ghost town of Greenwater.
1930s Women in Shoshone built the Flower Building for community events. Miners lived in hand-dug dwellings at Dublin Gulch. Mining at Ibex Springs continued at a small scale.
1957 Major mining operations in Tecopa ended. The town shifted toward tourism and retirement. Shoshone remained a traveler’s stop on the way to Death Valley.
1960s–1970s Under the Small Tracts Act, new homes were built in Tecopa Heights. Ibex Springs was abandoned. Conservation efforts began to grow for the Kingston Range and Amargosa Basin.
1976 The area was included in the California Desert Conservation Area, giving it federal protection. Resting Springs was identified as a riparian habitat and cultural site.
1994 Death Valley became a National Park. Shoshone’s role as a gateway town increased. The Kingston Range and Nopah Range were designated as wilderness areas, preserving places like Ibex Springs.
2000s–present The Amargosa Conservancy acquired and protected lands around Tecopa, China Ranch, and the river. Shoshone established a museum and promotes its heritage. Tecopa hosts annual events such as the Tecopa Takeover and Firehouse Fling. A public water kiosk was installed in Tecopa Heights. Ibex Springs remains accessible by high-clearance vehicle, with stone ruins and old mining structures still visible.
The Hesperia Land and Water Company was established during Southern California’s great land boom of the mid-1880s. In 1885, Dr. Joseph P. Widney – a prominent Los Angeles figure and former president of USC – joined with his brother, Judge Robert M. Widney, and the Chaffey brothers (George and William Chaffey, renowned for developing Ontario, California) to form the company. That year, Joseph Widney acquired approximately 35,000 acres of Mojave Desert land (previously assembled by Max Strobel in 1869–1870) and laid out a townsite for a new colony. They named the settlement “Hesperia,” derived from a Greek term meaning “western land,” which reflected its location at the western edge of the desert.
The town plan featured broad streets – reportedly laid out in a grid with unusually wide rights-of-way, lined with shade trees – as part of an envisioned modern desert utopia. The initial tract included most of Township 4 North and parts of 5 North, Range 4 West, spanning the Mojave River’s west mesa and upper valley.
Early on, the developers sold about 2,000 acres (including a strategic dam site at the Upper Mojave Narrows) to help start the adjacent railroad town of Victor (Victorville), while reserving the mesa lands for Hesperia’s development. By late 1885 the California Southern Railroad (Santa Fe) had completed its line up through the Cajon Pass, and a small depot at Hesperia was in service, positioning the area for incoming settlers and tourists.
Development of the Hesperia Irrigation System and Water Rights Securing a reliable water supply was crucial to the colony’s agricultural ambitions. In early 1886, the company staked an ambitious claim to the flows of Deep Creek (the east fork of the Mojave River). Following frontier water law, Hesperia Land & Water placed a stone monument on the creek in 1886 to give public notice of its appropriation: an enormous 5,000 miner’s inches of water (per minute) to be diverted for use on the Hesperia lands. This volume, equivalent to around 125 cubic feet per second, was touted as enough water for tens of thousands of people, far anticipating the needs of the few settlers then present. The claim, which accounted for virtually all of Deep Creek’s flow, was intended to ensure Hesperia’s future growth and establish priority over downstream users. Indeed, the filing for 5,000 miner’s inches in 1886 would become the basis of Hesperia’s water rights for decades, and the company later asserted that it had continuously used this water each year for 20 years – thereby “proving up” its rights. The initial water works, begun in 1887, were hailed as a marvel of engineering: the so-called Hesperia Ditch and pipeline system. Engineers excavated a diversion channel in solid rock high in Deep Creek Canyon and built a diversion dam and intake above the Forks (where Deep Creek joins the West Fork Mojave). From there, water was carried about four miles in an open, concrete-lined canal along the canyon wall. At the Mojave River, the flow dropped into an inverted siphon – a 14-inch diameter riveted steel pipeline that ran 1¼ miles under the riverbed and up the opposite side to the Hesperia Mesa. The pipeline then extended several more miles across the mesa, totaling five miles of pipe, and emptied into an earthen reservoir near today’s Lime Street (this reservoir had a capacity of about 58 acre-feet). By 1888, the Hesperia irrigation system was operational, capable of delivering roughly 40 second-feet of water to the mesa. The colony used the water to plant orchards (notably apples) and other crops; at peak in the late 1880s, about 1,000 acres of farmland in Hesperia were under irrigation from this system.
Securing the water was not without conflict. Almost as soon as Hesperia’s plans became known, farmers and landowners downstream along the Mojave River (in Victorville, Oro Grande, and beyond) objected strenuously to this large upstream diversion. They feared Hesperia’s ditch would diminish the Mojave’s flow that sustained their ranches. Legal challenges and threats were raised even “before a spade was turned”, but Robert Widney and his company pressed ahead regardless. The Hesperia canal was completed and water was flowing by 1888, despite the protests. However, the dispute over Deep Creek water rights simmered and would resurface in later years. Hesperia’s appropriation was recorded with San Bernardino County and stood as a senior claim. Still, competing schemes would test it, most dramatically the Arrowhead Reservoir project in the early 1900s (discussed below) that aimed to impound the headwaters for use outside the desert.
Town Promotion, the Hesperia Hotel, and Railroad Connections
The Hesperia Land and Water Company undertook energetic promotional efforts to attract buyers and settlers to their desert colony. As a centerpiece of the development, the company constructed the grand Hesperia Hotel in 1887. This was a three-story, 36-room hotel built of adobe bricks (freighted in from Oro Grande), then painted a distinctive red. The hotel was intended to serve as both comfortable lodging for prospective land purchasers and a resort destination in its own right, capitalizing on the desert climate and scenery. Promotional literature described Hesperia as a healthful, idyllic community where irrigation would “make the desert bloom.” Wide, tree-lined streets and a planned town center were mapped out, and the availability of ample water for homes and farms was heavily advertised. Excursion trips were likely arranged, as the new railroad line made Hesperia accessible from Los Angeles and San Bernardino. Indeed, by 1885, the California Southern Railroad (part of Santa Fe) had established a station at Hesperia, which became a regular stop along the line through the Victor Valley. This rail connection was crucial in bringing in investors during the boom. The company also laid out a small business district near the station and hotel, anticipating an influx of commerce. By 1890, Hesperia boasted not only the hotel but also a general store, a post office, and a schoolhouse to serve the nascent community. All of these improvements were in place just as Southern California’s speculative land frenzy was reaching its zenith. For a brief moment, Hesperia appeared poised to become a thriving agricultural colony and tourist retreat in the high desert.
Collapse in the 1887–1888 Land Bust
Hesperia’s boom was short-lived. In 1887, the inflated real estate market across Southern California abruptly crashed, bringing land sales to a standstill. The grand plans of the Hesperia Land and Water Company began unraveling almost immediately after the costly infrastructure was built. By mid-1888 – barely six months after the hotel and other facilities were finished – the regional land boom went “bust,” and demand for Hesperia lots evaporated. Many of the investors and would-be settlers simply never arrived, leaving the new town with a handful of residents and far more lots than people. The company, having expended enormous capital on land, waterworks, and the hotel, found itself unable to generate revenue. A general economic depression particularly affected land development companies in the late 1880s, and Hesperia was no exception. The ambitious irrigation system that had been Hesperia’s pride became a financial liability, expensive to maintain with too few customers paying for water. In the 1890s, cultivated acreage shrank significantly as orchards and fields were abandoned due to a lack of farmers. The Hesperia Hotel, once a showpiece, largely stood empty; it survived into the 20th century but never fulfilled its original purpose as a luxury resort. Contemporary accounts began referring to Hesperia as a “ghost town” – a fate sealed by the collapse of the 1880s land boom. The Hesperia Land and Water Company itself slid toward insolvency. It made no further progress on expanding irrigation and could not finance crucial improvements like a storage reservoir to capture winter flows (needed to ensure summer water supply). Periodic flash floods even damaged the pipeline – the steel siphon under the Mojave River was washed out several times around the turn of the century. By 1909, the system had temporarily ceased delivering water to Hesperia. Essentially, the Grand Desert Colony project lay dormant and failed as a private venture, awaiting reorganization.
James G. Howland’s Role in Hesperia’s Early History
One name often mentioned in local reminiscences of early Hesperia is James G. Howland. Although not listed among the original incorporators, Howland appears to have been a key leader on the ground during the colony’s formative years. Contemporary reports and later historical sketches suggest that James G. Howland acted in a managerial or executive capacity for the Hesperia Land and Water Company, overseeing daily operations and promotion of the townsite. Some accounts refer to Howland as effectively leading the company’s efforts in Hesperia – for example, directing the sales campaign and perhaps supervising the construction of the infrastructure. Dr. Joseph Widney and the Chaffeys provided the vision and capital, but it was figures like Howland who carried out the practical development work. Howland’s background is less documented in published sources; he may have been an associate of the Chaffeys or an experienced land agent hired to manage the Hesperia project. By local lore, he was the “resident booster” for the town, responsible for guiding tours of the property and extolling the new colony’s potential. Archival information on Howland is sparse, but it’s known that he remained involved at least until the collapse of 1888. After the land bust, Howland fades from the record – it’s unclear whether he stayed on the desert or moved to other ventures. Nonetheless, his early leadership in Hesperia earned him a spot in the town’s historical memory. Modern historical summaries credit Howland as having “led” the Hesperia Land and Water Co.’s promotional push, even if his name did not appear in official founder lists. He is an example of the many 19th-century development promoters whose work was critical to these boomtown schemes, even if later overshadowed by the marquee investors. (Further biographical details on James G. Howland have proven elusive in available archives, suggesting that dedicated research in regional archives or newspapers might be needed to flesh out his story.)
Reorganization under the Appleton Land, Water and Power Company (1911)
After two decades of stagnation, Hesperia got a second chance in the early 20th century. In 1911, the assets of the defunct Hesperia Land and Water Co. were purchased and restructured by a new investment group under the name Appleton Land, Water and Power Company. This company was essentially the successor to the original colony enterprise, formed with an authorized capital stock of $300,000 (similar to the original). The Appleton group – reportedly led by P.D. Hatch of Los Angeles – aimed to revive Hesperia’s agricultural potential and make the faltering water system viable. Upon taking over in 1911, Appleton immediately set about rehabilitating and upgrading the infrastructure. They relined the old intake canal from Deep Creek. They replaced the unreliable siphon pipeline with a brand new, larger-capacity steel pipe in a better location under the Mojave River. Specifically, approximately four miles of new 30-inch riveted steel pipe were laid, including a redesigned inverted siphon that crosses the river – a substantial improvement over the old 14-inch line.
Portions of the original pipeline leading to Hesperia were retained, but much of the system was modernized. A concrete diversion dam (20 feet long) with proper headgates was built on Deep Creek to control and measure the flow into the conduit. Through these efforts, Appleton increased the canal’s capacity to an estimated 40 cubic feet per second and aimed to bring more land under irrigation. To separate utility operations from land sales, the Hesperia Water Company was formed in 1915 as a subsidiary public service entity. With a $40,000 capital investment, the Hesperia Water Co. took over the distribution of water to local users, leasing the water rights and facilities from Appleton, and came under the regulation of the state Railroad Commission as a public utility. This move “divorced” the water service from the colonization business, recognizing that the two required different management. By 1916, however, irrigation under the revived system was still modest – only about 310 acres (90 in orchards and 220 in alfalfa and corn) were being watered. Appleton L. W. & P. Co. controlled roughly 20,000 acres of land (the bulk of the original holdings), with approximately 18,000 acres of that accessible by the new mainline pipe; however, they had not yet succeeded in attracting large numbers of settlers to purchase and farm the land. The new company continued to supply water to the neighboring town of Victorville. Notably, the Victorville water system (serving that community by the river) was owned and operated by Appleton as of the late 1910s. Despite the improvements, Hesperia’s growth continued to be slow. The Appleton company’s strategy eventually shifted more toward long-term land holding and leasing water, rather than immediate large-scale colonization. Nonetheless, the 1911 reorganization preserved Hesperia’s water rights and infrastructure for the future, preventing the project from collapsing entirely.
Legal Disputes over Deep Creek Water (Arrowhead Reservoir Company Conflict)
Hesperia’s water rights claims soon faced a serious challenge from outside interests. In the late 1890s and early 1900s, a consortium of Los Angeles and San Bernardino investors formed the Arrowhead Reservoir Company, with the intention of damming Deep Creek (and other headwaters in the San Bernardino Mountains) to divert water southward to the growing cities of the San Bernardino Valley. This plan directly threatened the Mojave Desert communities because it would have siphoned off the source of the Mojave River. Starting around 1902, a prolonged legal and political battle unfolded between Arrowhead Reservoir Co. and virtually all Mojave River water users, prominently including the Hesperia Land and Water Co. and its successors. W.A. Field, who was president of Hesperia Land & Water around this time, led the fight on behalf of the desert interests. Hesperia’s position was that its prior appropriation and use of Deep Creek (dating back to 1886) gave it a superior right that would be harmed if Arrowhead built its dam. In formal filings and court actions, Field and the company argued that the Arrowhead project would “deplete, obstruct or eradicate” the natural flow of water into the Mojave River, thereby violating Hesperia’s vested rights and devastating the farms that depended on that water. The Hesperia company asserted control over some 33,000 acres along the river and marshaled evidence of its water claims: notably a filing for 1,000,000 miner’s inches of flood flow on both forks of the Mojave (an enormous claim made in the early 1900s to preempt Arrowhead). Hesperia pointed out that its claim predated Arrowhead’s by over two years, and furthermore, that for 20 years it had continuously taken about 5,000 miner’s inches from Deep Creek for use on the Hesperia mesa, establishing an “inviolable right” through continued beneficial use. In 1906, while Arrowhead Reservoir Co. began constructing a dam at Little Bear Valley (what would become Lake Arrowhead), Hesperia’s allies (including other ranchers and a group of midwestern investors who had bought up downstream rights) prepared to build a dam of their own in Victor Valley to capture water for local use. A flurry of lawsuits ensued. In 1909, numerous riparian landowners in the Mojave River basin – bolstered by Hesperia’s claims – filed suit to enjoin Arrowhead from diverting the mountain waters out of the basin. These cases dragged on for years. Ultimately, the desert interests prevailed: Arrowhead’s scheme to export Mojave water was halted. By the time Arrowhead’s dam (Lake Arrowhead) was completed in 1922, it was for recreational and local use only; the courts had prohibited the company from sending water south to San Bernardino. The precious Deep Creek flows continued down into the Mojave River, securing the water supply for Hesperia and its neighbors. This protracted legal victory was significant – it protected the Victor Valley’s lifeline and affirmed the priority of Hesperia’s 19th-century water appropriation. Decades later, those same rights would be recognized in comprehensive water adjudications for the Mojave Desert.
Long-Term Influence on Hesperia and the Victor Valley Though the Hesperia Land and Water Company’s original venture did not immediately blossom into the thriving colony its founders envisioned, it left a lasting imprint on the High Desert’s development. The town of Hesperia itself survived in diminished form – a “ghost that refuses to die,” as one historian later put it – thanks largely to the water infrastructure and land surveys put in place in the 1880s. The wide streets laid out by Widney and the Chaffeys became the skeleton of the Hesperia community that would finally grow many decades later. Most importantly, the company’s early establishment of water rights on Deep Creek ensured that Hesperia and surrounding areas had a secured share of water for future use. This proved crucial for the valley’s long-term viability. The successful defense against the Arrowhead Reservoir diversion preserved the Mojave River flows for local agriculture and settlement through the 20th century. Communities like Victorville and Apple Valley thus continued to have access to water, allowing them to expand. In fact, the Hesperia project indirectly spurred development elsewhere in the Victor Valley: for example, in the 1890s some of Hesperia’s unused land was planted in vineyards, producing raisins and wine that briefly gave the Hesperia name a positive reputation. The idea of desert land reclamation persisted – Appleton Land & Water Co.’s efforts in the 1910s to grow apples and alfalfa in Hesperia were an outgrowth of the original dream. While those early orchards never reached large scale, they demonstrated the desert’s agricultural potential under irrigation.
In the long run, the greatest impact of the Hesperia Land and Water Company was to anchor a settlement at the top of the Cajon Pass that could later be revived. Indeed, after World War II, the Victor Valley experienced a new land boom. In 1954, the remaining 35,000-acre Hesperia ranch (still essentially the same tract the Widneys had assembled) was sold to a development syndicate, the Hesperia Land Development Company. This mid-20th century effort, building on the old townsite and water system, finally succeeded in sparking substantial growth. By the late 1950s, Hesperia was marketing itself as an affordable residential community for Southern Californians, and population began rising. The city of Hesperia incorporated in 1988, a milestone that would have been impossible without the foundations laid by the 1885 company. The influence of that original company is also evident in the region’s infrastructure: the general route of today’s water deliveries in Hesperia traces back to the Deep Creek diversion engineered in the 1880s. The Victor Valley’s agricultural and urban development throughout the 20th century – from ranches to suburbs – was enabled by the water rights and pioneering spirit of those early entrepreneurs. In sum, the Hesperia Land and Water Company’s ambitious attempt to “make the desert bloom” did not prosper on the first try, but it set in motion the land acquisitions, legal rights, and vision of a desert community that eventually became reality. Hesperia and its neighboring High Desert towns owe a considerable debt to that 1880s boom-era venture for establishing their place on the map and securing the water that sustains them to this day.
Sources: Historical records and analyses were drawn from local history publications, engineering reports, and archival documents, including the State of California Dept. of Engineering Bulletin No. 5 (1918) on Mojave River irrigation, Edmund Jaeger’s “The Ghost that Refuses to Die” (Desert Magazine, Aug. 1954), San Bernardino County historical chronicles, and contemporary accounts and legal filings regarding water rights (e.g. Van Slyke v. Arrowhead Reservoir Co., 1909). Newspaper archives and local museum materials corroborate the roles of key figures like the Widneys, Chaffey brothers, and James G. Howland in Hesperia’s founding. The city of Hesperia’s own historical overview and marker texts were also consulted for confirmation of dates and figures.
Little Lake is a small, spring-fed lake tucked between volcanic cliffs and a red cinder cone along California’s Highway 395. To most modern travelers, it’s just a quick blur on the drive north through the high desert. But beneath its quiet surface lies a deep and layered past—one shaped by ancient peoples, rugged prospectors, and enterprising families who turned this desert watering hole into a hub of life and legend.
A Desert Legacy Thousands of Years Old
Long before roads or railroads existed, Little Lake served as a seasonal home to Native American groups that lived and moved throughout the Mojave and Great Basin deserts. Archaeological findings suggest that humans camped here as far back as 10,000 years ago, drawn to the dependable water and abundant resources.
Rock art etched into the black basalt cliffs tells part of this story. Petroglyphs depict figures with atlatls, mountain sheep, and human forms, suggesting the spiritual and practical aspects of these early people’s lives. Over the centuries, different cultural traditions passed through, but one of the most important was the Pinto Culture. This group lived in the region several thousand years ago and left behind signature dart points and evidence of circular house foundations—some of the oldest in California.
Among the most intriguing discoveries is the so-called “Pinto Man,” a human burial found in a shallow grave near the lake, buried with a stone point. Excavations also revealed beads, tools, and a vast amount of obsidian flakes—remnants from toolmaking that still litter the ground today. The presence of local obsidian sources made Little Lake a crucial location for the production and trade of stone tools throughout the Southwest.
Lagunita and the Stagecoach Years
In the 1860s, Little Lake gained new importance. Mexican prospectors called it “Lagunita”—meaning “little lagoon”—as it offered the first fresh water after a dry stretch when traveling north from Indian Wells. When the Cerro Gordo mines boomed in the Eastern Sierra, Little Lake became a natural stop along the Visalia-to-Independence stage line.
A stone station was built here to water horses and rest travelers heading to and from the silver mines. Wagons loaded with ore, mail, and supplies rolled through regularly, and the station saw steady use for over a decade. Its reputation was such that, for many years, it remained untouched by bandits. Folklore tells of the infamous outlaw Tiburcio Vasquez sparing the station out of gratitude.
However, that peace was broken in 1875 when Vasquez was captured and executed. Shortly afterward, one of his lieutenants led a group of bandits to Little Lake, robbing the station and tying up the staff. It was the only known robbery during the stop’s operation—and a sign that times were changing. Within weeks, a new stage route bypassed Little Lake, and the old stone station was left to the wind and sun.
The Railroad Arrives
At the turn of the 20th century, Little Lake stirred back to life. Homesteaders like Charles Whittock filed claims and set up adobe ranch houses on the lake’s shore. In 1910, the Southern Pacific Railroad extended its tracks through the area, laying them across the marsh on wooden trestles. A small station was established, and a community began to take shape.
With the railroad came more people—workers, ranchers, and travelers. The growing village eventually took the name “Little Lake,” and a post office opened to serve the community. A few homes, a store, and a small hotel clustered near the tracks. When automobile travel expanded, Little Lake became a convenient stop for early motorists navigating the desert roads.
Bramlette’s Desert Resort
In the early 1920s, a man named William Bramlette saw potential in the quiet lakefront. An auto racer-turned-developer, Bramlette, purchased the land and the old buildings. He dammed the lake’s outlet to deepen the water and cleared the tule reeds. To control vegetation, he released muskrats—an idea that didn’t work out as hoped—but the result was a mile-long lake that could support fishing and boating.
Bramlette built a two-story lodge from concrete and native stone. The Little Lake Hotel, completed in 1923, became the centerpiece of a desert resort. He added a café, general store, service station, and cabins for guests. The lake was stocked with bass and crappie, and Southern Californians came in droves to fish, swim, and escape the city heat. Duck hunters found Little Lake especially inviting during the fall migration, and a private duck club was soon established.
For decades, the Bramlettes ran a bustling operation. The lava rock lodge became a landmark along the highway. Highway 6, later renamed U.S. 395, brought families, fishermen, and outdoor enthusiasts. Children played under cottonwoods while travelers dined, refueled, or stayed the night before continuing north.
Volcanoes, Waterfalls, and Ancient Trails
Little Lake is situated in a dramatic geological setting. The dark cliffs along the lake are ancient basalt flows from volcanic activity that occurred long ago. Just north of the lake lies Fossil Falls—a deep, sculpted gorge carved by meltwater from ancient glaciers. Though dry today, Fossil Falls shows the powerful interaction of water and lava in prehistoric times. Red Hill, a vivid cinder cone, stands nearby, a reminder of more recent eruptions.
The obsidian found around Little Lake originates from local volcanic domes and has been traced to campsites across the western desert. This made Little Lake part of a much larger trade and migration network for Indigenous peoples who came for the toolstone, water, and seasonal game.
Decline and Quiet Legacy
By the 1950s, Little Lake began to fade. In 1958, Highway 395 was rerouted to bypass the village. Traffic and business dropped. The railroad fell out of use and was abandoned by 1981. The Little Lake Hotel remained for several more decades, but after a devastating fire in 1989, it was never rebuilt. The post office closed in 1997, marking the end of permanent settlement.
Today, Little Lake is privately owned and used primarily as a wildlife refuge and seasonal hunting preserve. The lake continues to host migratory waterfowl and serves as habitat for fish and other wildlife. Archaeological protections ensure that its ancient history will not be lost. Occasionally, researchers and rock art enthusiasts visit the area under guided conditions to study its cultural treasures.
Though few structures remain, the spirit of Little Lake endures. It’s a place where volcanic forces and human stories meet—where early desert peoples chipped tools from obsidian, where stagecoaches stopped under the stars, and where modern families once came to fish and rest.
Little Lake may be quiet now, but its story runs deep, etched into stone, whispered in the wind, and remembered by those who still seek out the desert’s hidden corners.
The Mojave River is a strange, beautiful thread of water in California’s high desert. Most of the time, you can’t see it. It hides beneath the sand, popping up only in rare places like Afton Canyon or the Narrows near Victorville. But this ghost river has a long and complicated past tied to shifting earth, ancient climates, lost lakes, and generations of people who relied on it.
It all began millions of years ago when tectonic forces pushed up the San Bernardino and San Gabriel Mountains. These rising peaks blocked older river systems that used to flow toward the Pacific. With nowhere to go, water from the mountains started pooling in the desert. Over time, a new river formed, trapped within these closed desert basins. That was the beginning of the Mojave River.
During the Ice Age, things looked very different. The Mojave River wasn’t just a trickle or an underground stream—it was a robust river that flowed year-round, fed by rain and snowmelt from the mountains. It carried water from the San Bernardino Mountains to a series of massive lakes out in the desert: Lake Manix near Barstow and Lake Mojave farther east. These were deep, wide bodies of water teeming with life. Around 18,000 years ago, Lake Manix overflowed, carving the dramatic Afton Canyon and sending a flood of water toward Soda and Silver Lakes, which became Lake Mojave. Fossils from this time show mammoths, saber-toothed cats, and even aquatic life like fish and freshwater snails around the river and lakes.
When the last Ice Age ended, the climate changed. It got warmer and drier, and the big lakes began to dry up. The river still carried water now and then, but only during the wet season, and it often disappeared underground. Over thousands of years, it became the ghost river we know today. Now, it flows mostly beneath the desert floor, surfacing briefly after storms or in spots where rock formations push it upward.
Despite its dryness, the Mojave River is the lifeblood of the western Mojave Desert. Its rare surface flows and hidden undercurrents recharge underground aquifers, feed oases, and support all kinds of desert life. You’ll find cottonwood trees, willows, and even small fish like the endangered Mojave tui chub in wetter stretches. Birds rely on it too, especially migratory species that need stopover habitat in the middle of a dry land. Some stretches, like Palisades Ranch and Afton Canyon, are rich in wildlife because of the river’s presence.
People have followed the Mojave River for thousands of years. Indigenous groups, especially the Vanyume (a branch of the Serrano), lived along its banks and used its waters to survive in the desert. It also became part of significant trade and travel routes, notably the Mojave Road. Spanish explorers like Father Garces followed it in 1776, and American mountain men like Jedediah Smith came through in the 1820s. Later, Mexican traders and Mormon pioneers used it to reach California.
In the 20th century, towns like Victorville, Barstow, and Daggett grew along the river. They pulled water from its aquifer for agriculture and homes. Over time, more groundwater was pumped out—more than was going back in. This led to water shortages and falling water tables. To fix it, water agencies began regulating pumping and importing water from Northern California to recharge the Mojave Basin. Today, the Mojave Water Agency closely monitors the river’s underground flow.
Climate change is also reshaping the river’s future. Bigger storms could cause major flooding, but longer droughts make the river even more fragile. Meanwhile, conservation groups are working to protect the remaining green places along the river—removing invasive tamarisk, planting native trees, and safeguarding habitat for birds, fish, and other wildlife.
So while the Mojave River may not look like much at first glance—just a dry wash running through the desert—it’s the thread that ties together this region’s natural and human story. From Ice Age megafauna to modern groundwater battles, the Mojave River has quietly shaped life in the desert for millennia.
Elmer’s Bottle Tree Ranch is one of those places that feels like it grew straight out of someone’s imagination—and in a way, it did. Set along Route 66 in Oro Grande, California, it started with a father and son combing the desert for old glass bottles. Elmer Long’s dad had a passion for collecting, and when he passed, Elmer inherited a garage full of dusty, colorful bottles. Not one to let them sit idle, he started welding up metal trees in his yard and placing the bottles on them like leaves catching the sunlight.
By the early 2000s, Elmer’s yard had turned into a shimmering forest of bottle trees, each topped with bits of found junk—old signs, gears, rifles, and typewriters. It wasn’t just art, it was a conversation. Travelers on Route 66 would pull over, and Elmer would greet them, eager to share stories and hear a few in return.
When Elmer died in 2019, his son Elliott took over the care of the ranch, keeping its spirit alive. Today, it still stands as a glowing patch of creativity in the desert—free to visit and impossible to forget.
Highlighting key developments and innovations from the mid-1800s to the early 20th century:
1850s – Mojave Road formalized Originally a Native American trade route, the U.S. Army used it to move supplies between Fort Mojave and San Bernardino. It became one of the earliest overland military roads in the desert.
1860s–1870s – Freight roads and mining routes expand Remi Nadeau’s mule teams haul silver from Cerro Gordo to Los Angeles via the Bullion Trail. Roads are little more than widened trails, cleared by hand.
1870s–1880s – Slip scrapers and manual grading dominate Roadwork relies on muscle, picks, shovels, and rudimentary scrapers. Washouts and deep sand are constant problems.
1883 – Fresno Scraper invented It revolutionizes earthmoving in the desert. It enables efficient grading, crowning, and ditching, which are critical for reliable desert roadbeds.
1880s–1890s – Railroads reach the Mojave Atlantic & Pacific, Southern Pacific, and later Tonopah & Tidewater spur the need for feeder roads between mines and depots. Many desert trails are upgraded to accommodate wagon traffic.
1890s – Good Roads Movement reaches the West Bicyclists and farmers are pushing for better rural roads, and awareness is growing about the need for stable year-round access in the Mojave.
1901 – Early auto travel begins in the desert Motorists begin venturing into the Mojave. Sand, rocks, and dry washes make travel difficult without well-maintained roads.
1910s – Arrowhead Trail promoted This early auto route connects Salt Lake City to Los Angeles through the Mojave. Auto clubs mark routes and sponsor improvements.
1916 – Federal Aid Road Act passed The U.S. government begins funding rural road construction. California starts formalizing and grading desert highways.
1921 – Federal Highway Act expands funding More structured planning brings state oversight. Roads like US 66 and US 395 begin taking shape across the Mojave.
1925–1926 – Eichbaum Toll Road built A privately funded road across the Panamint Range to Death Valley is constructed to support tourism. Later incorporated into CA State Route 190.
Late 1920s – Oil and bitumen used for surfacing Desert roads begin receiving treatments to reduce dust and erosion, improving durability for growing auto traffic.
Vandalism in the Mojave Desert is a sad and serious problem — one that strikes at the heart of both the land’s natural beauty and its long history. For generations, the desert has been a place where time seems to stand still, preserving ancient petroglyphs, pioneer landmarks, and fragile ecosystems. But in recent decades, careless or malicious acts have left scars that, in some cases, can never be repaired.
Here are a few examples of what has been happening:
Graffiti on Rocks and Historic Sites: Ancient petroglyph sites, such as those at Cima Cinder Cones or in the foothills around Ridgecrest, have been defaced with modern spray paint. Some of these rock carvings are thousands of years old, left by Native American cultures who passed through the desert. Once modern graffiti covers them, the original markings can be almost impossible to recover without damaging the rock itself.
Destruction of Joshua Trees: Joshua trees, iconic symbols of the Mojave, are often cut down, burned, or knocked over by vandals or irresponsible visitors. These trees take centuries to mature, and once destroyed, they are lost for generations.
Abuse of Historic Structures: Old cabins, mining equipment, and stage stops — like those scattered across places such as Panamint Valley, the Old Government Road, or Route 66 — have been broken into, stripped of artifacts, or shot up for target practice. These relics tell the story of the Westward movement, ranching, mining, and early desert survival. Without proper protection and respect, these places vanish.
Off-Road Vehicle Damage: Although not always intentional, off-trail driving can damage delicate desert crusts, crush ancient artifacts hidden just beneath the surface, and destroy habitats for rare animals, such as the desert tortoise. Some riders even create unauthorized “tagging” spots with tire tracks or leave behind trash and broken bottles.
Campfire and Trash Damage: Illegal campfires scorch desert floors, and piles of garbage left behind by careless visitors mar otherwise pristine spots. Old tires, cans, and broken furniture — all of it doesn’t just look bad; it alters soil chemistry and attracts scavengers that disrupt the natural balance.
In the past, a person’s word and respect for the land meant something — it was understood that you leave no trace. To take from or harm the desert was seen as a mark of poor character, not adventure.
Many local groups today, such as High Desert Keepers, Friends of the Mojave Road, the Mojave Desert Land Trust, and various historical societies, work diligently to restore damaged sites, educate visitors, and promote the traditional values of stewardship and personal responsibility.
It is a reminder that the desert may seem rugged and unchanging, but it is fragile, and when a piece of its story is lost to vandalism, it is lost forever.
There are those memories of the autumnal winds when seasons turn upside down and the icy drama of the silver winter threads through the hollows between trees stirring last year’s brown leaves into a low ruckus and crackle. Thin and bare sycamore branches, delicate and bony, trace low and lonely moans in their dark choir. Pink sand from the nearby riverbed salted everywhere and anywhere; grit flecked in your hair, in your shoes, in your eyes. These are the days. These were the days. These are the heartfelt and kind memories of these days.
It was crowded. It was colorful. It was riotous. It was like everybody brought their brother and his friends. When wildflowers have their wild parties everyone looks their best when they show up.
Wildflowers; pincushions, verbena, desert dandelions, little yellow flowers, smaller white flowers . . .
Rather than growing wider and emptying into the sea the Mojave River becomes smaller and smaller finding its way in the sand between the cobbles and rocks curling into crescent -shaped dark meanders and swales transitioning to dry sand and finally, collections of same sized stones.
“I was down in San Berdo the other day, and a man got me into one of them women’s afternoon fandangos; you know, one of them afternoon affairs where they all talk and don’t say nothing. And a “fly-up-the-creek” woman came up, all “a side-winding,” and said: ‘Now Mr. Scott, I’m sure in your desert travels you must have lots of opportunities to do kind deeds. What you tell the ladies the kindest deeds you ever did?”
Death Valley Scotty
“Well, lady,” I says, ” let me think a minute. One time several years ago I been traveling all day on a horse, and I came in on a dry camp way up in one of the canyons. There was an old road leading up to it; hadn’t been used for years; but I noticed fresh tracks on it. When I got to the camp, there sat an old man and an old woman. They must have been 70 years old apiece. When they saw me they both began to cry, and I said: ‘ my goodness, how in the hell did you two ever get up here?’ Well, they said, they were driving through the valley, and it was so hot they thought they were going to die, and they come up to this road and they thought it led to a higher place where it would be so hot, so they took it and got up there, and it was night, so they camped there all night in the morning they found their horse had wandered off. They had looked for him but he was gone, and they’d been there most a week and had no food. Well, I open my packet built a fire and made them a cup of coffee and fried some bacon and stirred up some saddle blankets (hot cakes) for them, and say, you ought to see them two old folks eat! It cheered them up considerable.
We sat around the fire all the evening and powwowed, and they was a nice old couple. We all slept that night on the ground. They was pretty cold, so I gave them a blanket I had. The next morning I made them some more coffee and gave them some breakfast. I had to be going, so I packed up and got astride my horse. I sort of hated to leave the old couple; they seemed kind enough sort of people; but there was nothing else to do; so I said goodbye, and they both was crying; said they’d sure die; no way for them to get out. They couldn’t walk. It was 100 miles from help, and there was no automobiles in those days. But I got on my horse and started off, and then I looked around and saw them two old people a-standing there crying, and, you know, I just couldn’t stand it to leave them old people there alone to die, so I’d just took out my rifle and shot them both. Lady, that was the kindest deed I ever did.”
“Oh, Scotty,” I said, “Why did you tell those women such a tale as that?”
“Well, you know all them bandits you meet when you go out; you got to tell them something, ain’t you?”
“I suppose so, but it seems to me you might think up something better than that to tell at a ladies club meeting.”
“Well, that’s what I told that bunch, anyway. You’ve got to send up some kind of a howl if you’re going to be heard. There are so many free schools and so much ignorance.”
And Scotty lighted another fifteen cent cigar (he always smoked the best), …
from Death Valley Scotty by Mabel – Bessie M. Johnson – Death Valley Natural History Association
— Wyatt had bought a brand new auto and was taking Josie out to visit a friend in Arizona. Somewhere south of Needles, a large bull leapt out from behind a creosote bush. The bull huffed and puffed and stomped and scrapped his hooves, lowered his head and charged the brand-new shiny-clean car. The bull came at the door on Josie’s side. She screamed. She was afraid the bull would kill her. However, she had no reason to fear death as Wyatt, drew his gun and put 3 shots into his thick skull right between its wide-set eyes. This killed the bull instantly. The bull had messed up the door pretty bad. Then all of a sudden some guy jumped out of the creosote yelling and screaming about the “prize bull” Wyatt just killed. An argument ensued. It seemed that Wyatt knew this guy’s boss and was the friend he was taking Josie to visit. It was pretty funny. Sort of. I don’t know who, if anyone, paid to get Wyatt’s door fixed. I imagine they ate the bull.
Earp, California is an unincorporated community in San Bernardino County in the Sonoran/Mojave Desert transition next to the Colorado River at the California/Arizona state line in Parker Valley.
Welcome to Earp, California
Earp post office at the eastern end of Highway 62, ZIP 92242.
In 1910 the little town was named Drennan. In 1929 Drennan was renamed Earp in 1929 in honor of the nefarious Old West lawman and entrepreneur Wyatt Earp. Wyatt and Josephine Sarah Marcus, his common-law wife, lived in the area seasonally from about 1906 staking more than 100 claims near the base of the Whipple Mountains.
Downtown Vidal, California
Wyatt Earp, the legendary law man, gunfighter, gambler, businessman and miner along with his wife, Josephine, inhabited this “dream-come-true” cottage from 1925 through 1928, winter and spring months, while he worked his “Happy Days” mines in the Whipple Mountains a few miles north of this site. This is the only permanent residence they owned in their long lives.
They bought a small cottage in nearby Vidal and lived there during the fall, winter and spring months of 1925 – 1928, while he worked his “Happy Days” mines in the Whipple Mountains a few miles north. It was the only place they owned the entire time they were married. They spent the winters of his last years working the claims but lived in Los Angeles during the summers, where Wyatt died on January 13, 1929.
Josie & Wyatt and dog at Happy Days mine west of Parker, Az.
In December of 1849 anxious gold seekers and their wagons broke away from the Mojave San Joaquin Company (Mojave Sand-walking Company) to take a shortcut to the goldfields of California. Their map was incomplete and vague not informing these wayward pioneers of the numerous ranges of mountains between them and their destination. As a result they lost their way in the rocky canyons and sandy washes leading down into what we now know as Death Valley.
It was obvious to the travelers that Indians lived in the area, but they all had fled from the wanderers with one exception. Both Julia Brier and William Manly, members of this band of Lost 49ers recorded the first known encounter with this remaining Timbisha Shoshone Indian.
The next morning the company moved on over the sand to — nobody knew where. One of the men ahead called out suddenly, “Wolf! Wolf!” and raised his rifle to shoot.
“My God, it’s a man!” his companion cried. As the company came up we found the thing to be an aged Indian lying on his back and buried in the sand — save his head. He was blind, shriveled and bald and looked like a mummy.
He must have been one hundred and fifty years old. The men dug him out and gave him water and food. The poor fellow kept saying, “God bless pickaninnies!” Wherever he had learned that. His tribe must have fled ahead of us and as he couldn’t travel he was left to die.
Excerpt from the December 25, 1898 edition of The San Francisco Call
Our Christmas Amid the Terrors of Death Valley – Julia Brier
Next morning I shouldered my gun and followed down the cañon keeping the wagon road, and when half a mile down, at the sink of the sickly stream, I killed a wild goose. This had undoubtedly been attracted here the night before by the light of our camp fire. When I got near the lower end of the cañon, there was a cliff on the north or right hand side which was perpendicular or perhaps a little overhanging, and at the base a cave which had the appearance of being continuously occupied by Indians. As I went on down I saw a very strange looking track upon the ground. There were hand and foot prints as if a human being had crawled upon all fours. As this track reached the valley where the sand had been clean swept by the wind, the tracks became more plain, and the sand had been blown into small hills not over three or four feet high. I followed the track till it led to the top of one of these small hills where a small well-like hole had been dug and in this excavation was a kind of Indian mummy curled up like a dog. He was not dead for I could see him move as he breathed, but his skin looked very much like the surface of a well dried venison ham. I should think by his looks he must be 200 or 300 years old, indeed he might be Adam’s brother and not look any older than he did. He was evidently crippled. A climate which would preserve for many days or weeks the carcass of an ox so that an eatable round stake could be cut from it, might perhaps preserve a live man for a longer period than would be believed.
from: Half a Century Chasing Rainbows By Frank "Shorty" Harris as told to Phillip Johnston Touring Topics: Magazine of the American Automobile Association of Southern California - October 1930
View of Death Valley from Keane Wonder
The best strike I ever made was in 1904 when I discovered the Rhyolite and Bullfrog district. I went into Boundary Canyon with five burros and plenty of grub, figuring to look over the country northeast from there. When I stopped atKeane Wonder Mine, Ed Cross was there waiting for his partner, Frank Howard, to bring some supplies from the inside. For some reason, Howard had been delayed, and Cross was low on grub.
“Shorty,” he said, “I’m up against it, and the Lord knows when Howard will come back. How are the chances of going with you?”
“Sure, come right along,” I told him, “I’ve got enough to keep us eating for a couple of months.”
Amargosa Desert
So we left the Keane Wonder, went through Boundary Canyon, and made camp at Buck Springs, five miles from a ranch on the Amargosa where a squaw man by the name of Monte Beatty lived. The next morning while Ed was cooking, I went after the burros. They were feeding on the side of a mountain near our camp and about half a mile from the spring. I carried my pick, as all prospectors do, even when they are looking for their jacks—a man never knows just when he is going to locate pay-ore. When I reached the burros, they were right on the spot where the Bullfrog mine was afterward located. Two hundred feet away was a ledge of rock with some copper stains on it. I walked over and broke off a piece with my pick—and gosh, I couldn’t believe my own eyes. The chunks of gold were so big that I could see them at arm’s length—regular jewelry stone! In fact, a lot of that ore was sent to jewelers in this country and England, and they set it in rings, it was that pretty! Right then, it seemed to me that the whole mountain was gold.
I let out a yell, and Ed knew something had happened; so he came running up as fast as he could. When he got close enough to hear, I yelled again: “Ed we’ve got the world by the tail, or else we’re coppered!”
We broke off several more pieces, and they were like the first—just lousy with gold. The rock was green, almost like turquoise, spotted with big chunks of yellow metal, and looked a lot like the back of a frog. This gave us an idea for naming our claim, so we called it the Bullfrog. The formation had a good dip, too. It looked like a real fissure vein; the kind that goes deep and has lots of real stuff in it. We hunted over the mountain for more outcroppings, but there were no other like that one the burros led me to. We had tumbled into the cream pitcher on the first one—so why waste time looking for skimmed milk?
That night we built a hot fire with greasewood, and melted the gold out of the specimens. We wanted to see how much was copper, and how much was the real stuff. And when the pan got red hot, and the gold ran out and formed a button, we knew that our strike was a big one, and that we were rich.
“How many claims do you figure on staking out?” Ed asked me. “One ought to be plenty,” I told him. “If there ain’t enough in one claim, there ain’t enough in the whole country. If other fellows put extensions on that claim of ours, and find good stuff, it will help us sell out for big money.” Ed saw that that was a good argument, so he agreed with me.
After the monuments were placed, we got some more rich samples and went to the county seat to record our claim. Then we marched into Goldfield, and went to an eating-house. Ed finished his meal before I did, and went out into the street where he met Bob Montgomery, a miner that both of us knew. Ed showed him a sample of our ore, and Bob couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Where did you get that?” he asked. “Shorty and I found a ledge of it southwest of Bill Beatty’s ranch,” Ed told him. Bob thought he was having some fun with him and said so. “Oh, that’s just a piece of float that you picked up somewhere. It’s damn seldom ledges like that are found!” Just then I came walking up, and Ed said, “Ask Shorty if I ain’t telling you the truth.” “Bob,” I said, “that’s the biggest strike made since Goldfield was found. If you’ve got any sense at all, you’ll go down there as fast as you can, and get in on the ground floor!”
Goldfield, Nevada
That seemed to be proof enough for him, and he went away in a hurry to get his outfit together—one horse and a cart to haul his tools and grub. He had an Indian with him by the name of Shoshone Johnny, who was a good prospector. Later on, it was this Indian who set the monuments on the claim that was to become the famous Montgomery-Shoshone Mine.
It’s a might strange thing how fast the news of a strike travels. You can go into a town after you’ve made one, meet a friend on the street, take him into your hotel room and lock the door. Then, after he has taken a nip from your bottle, you can whisper the news very softly in his ear. Before you can get out on the street, you’ll see men running around like excited ants that have had a handful of sugar poured on their nest. Ed and I didn’t try to keep our strike a secret, but we were surprised by how the news of it spread. Men swarmed around us and asked to see our specimens. They took one look at them, and then started off on the run to get their outfits together.
Bullfrog, Rhyolite, Beatty — 1908
I’ve seen some gold rushes in my time that were hummers, but nothing like that stampede. Men were leaving town in a steady stream with buckboards, buggies, wagons, and burros. It looked like the whole population of Goldfield was trying to move at once. Miners who were working for the big companies dropped their tools and got ready to leave town in a hurry. Timekeepers and clerks, waiters and cooks—they all got he fever and milled around, wild-eyed, trying to find a way to get out to the new “strike.” In a little while, there wasn’t a horse or wagon in town, outside of a few owned by the big companies, and the price of burros took a big jump. I saw one man who was about ready to cry because he couldn’t buy a jackass for $500.
A lot of fellows loaded their stuff on two-wheeled carts—grub, tools, and cooking utensils, and away they went across the desert, two or three pulling a cart and the pots and pans rattling. When all the carts were gone, men who didn’t have anything else started out on that seventy-five-mile hike with wheelbarrows; and a lot of ’em made it alright—but they had a hell of a time!
Bullfrog Hills
When Ed and I got back to our claim a week later, more than a thousand men were camped around it, and they were coming in every day. A few had tents, but most of ‘em were in open camps. One man had brought a wagon load of whiskey, pitched a tent, and made a bar by laying a plank across two barrels. He was serving the liquor in tin cups, and doing a fine business.
That was the start of Rhyolite, and from then on things moved so fast that it made even us old-timers dizzy. Men were swarming all over the mountains like ants, staking out claims, digging and blasting, and hurrying back to the county seat to record their holdings. There were extensions on all sides of our claim, and other claims covering the country in all directions.
Rhyolite, Nv. – 1907
In a few days, wagon loads of lumber began to arrive, and the first buildings were put up. These were called rag-houses because they were half boards and half-canvas. But this building material was so expensive that lots of men made dugouts, which didn’t cost much more than plenty of sweat and blisters.
When the engineers and promoters began to come out, Ed and I got offers every day for our claim. But we just sat tight and watched the camp grow. We knew the price would go up after some of the others started to ship bullion. And as time went on, we saw that we were right. Frame shacks went up in the place of rag-houses and stores, saloons, and dance halls were being opened every day.
Bids for our property got better and better. The man who wanted to buy would treat me with plenty of liquor before he talked business, and in that way, I got all I wanted to drink without spending a bean. Ed was wiser, though, and let the stuff alone—and it paid him to do it too, for when he did sell, he got much more for his half than I got for mine.
One night, when I was pretty well lit up, a man by the name of Bryan took me to his room and put me to bed. The next morning, when I woke up, I had a bad headache and wanted more liquor. Bryan had left several bottles of whiskey on a chair beside the bed and locked the door. I helped myself and went back to sleep. That was the start of the longest jag I ever went on; it lasted six days. When I came to, Bryan showed me a bill of sale for the Bullfrog, and the price was only $25,000. I got plenty sore, but it didn’t do any good. There was my signature on the paper and beside it, the signatures of seven witnesses and the notary’s seal. And I felt a lot worse when I found out that Ed had been paid a hundred and twenty-five thousand for his half, and had lit right out for Lone Pine, where he got married. Today he’s living in San Diego County, has a fine ranch, and is very well fixed.
As soon as I got the money, I went out for a good time. All the girls ate regularly while old Shorty had the dough. As long as my stake lasted I could move and keep the band playing. And friends—I never knew I had so many! They’d jam a saloon to the doors, and every round of drinks cost me thirty or forty dollars. I’d have gone clean through the pay in a few weeks if Dave Driscol hadn’t given me hell. Dave and I had been partners in Colorado and Utah, and I thought a great deal of him. Today he’s living over in Wildrose Canyon and going blind. Well, I had seven or eight thousand left when Dave talked to me. “Shorty,” he said, “If you don’t cut this out you’ll be broke in a damn short time and won’t have the price of a meal ticket!” I saw that he was right, and jumped on the water wagon then and there—and I haven’t fallen off since.
Rhyolite grew like a mushroom. Gold Center was started four miles away, and Beatty’s ranch became a town within a few months. There were 12,000 people in the three places, and two railroads were built out to Rhyolite. Shipments of gold were made every day, and some of the ore was so rich that it was sent by express with armed guards. And then a lot of cash came into Rhyolite—more than went out from the mines. It was this sucker money that put the town on the map quickly. The stock exchange was doing a big business, and I remember that the price of Montgomery-Shoshone got up to ten dollars a share.
Beatty, Nevada
Businessmen of Rhyolite were live ones, alright. They decided to make the town the finest in Nevada—and they came mighty near doing it. Overbury built a three-story office building out of cut stone—it must have cost him fifty thousand. The bank building had three stories too, and the bank was finished with marble and bronze. There were plenty of other fine business houses and a railroad station that would look mighty good in any city.
Money was easy to get and easy to spend in those days. The miners and muckers threw it right and left when they had it. Many a time I’ve seen ‘em eating bacon and beans, and drinking champagne. Wages were just a sideline with them—most of their money was made in mining stock.
Rhyolite was a great town, and no mistake—as live as the Colorado camps were thirty years before, but not so bad. We had a few gunfights, and several tough characters got their light shot out, which didn’t make the rest of us sore. We were glad enough to spare ‘em. I saw some of those fights myself, but I never took any part in the fireworks. “Shorty, the foot racer” was what they called me because I always ducked around the corner when the bullets began to fly. I knew they were not meant for me, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
They called him “Shorty” because he was short. 😉
There was plenty of gold in those mountains when I discovered the original Bullfrog, and there’s plenty there yet. A lot of it was taken out while Rhyolite was going strong—$6,000,000 or $7,000,000—but they quit before they got the best of it. Stock speculation—that’s what killed Rhyolite! The promoters got impatient. They figured that money could be made faster by getting gold from the pockets of suckers than by digging it out of the hills. And so, when the operators of the Montgomery-Shoshone had a little trouble; when they ran into the water and struck a sulfite ore which is refractory and has to be cut and roasted to be turned into money—the bottom dropped out of the stock market and the town busted wide open, She died quick, too. Most of the tin horns lit out for other parts, and that’s a sure sign a mining camp is going on the rocks.
If the right people ever got hold of Rhyolite they’ll make a killing, but they’ll have to be really hard rock miners and not the kind that does their work only on paper. Rhyolite is dead now—dead as she was before I made the big strike. Those fine buildings are standing out there on the desert, with the coyotes and jackrabbits playing hide and seek around them.
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from: Half a Century Chasing Rainbows By Frank “Shorty” Harris as told to Phillip Johnston Touring Topics: Magazine of the American Automobile Association of Southern California October 1930
In the early seventies, while the Southern Pacific Railway was building from San Francisco to San José, some twelve or fifteen bandits, carousing at a country dance in the Mexican settlement, Panamá (about six miles south of Bakersfield) planned to cross the mountains and hold up the pay-car. They were unsuccessful; whereupon, they turned their attention to the village of Tres Pinos, robbed several store-keepers and killed three or four men. They were next heard of at little Kingston, in Tulare County, where they plundered practically the whole town. Then they once more disappeared.
Presently various clues pointed to the identity of the chief bandido as one Tibúrcio Vasquez, born in Monterey in the thirties, who had taken to the life of an outlaw because, as he fantastically said, some Gringos had insolently danced off with the prettiest girls at fandangos, among them being his sweetheart whom an American had wronged. With the exception of his Lieutenant, Chavez, he trusted no one, and when he moved from place to place, Chavez alone accompanied him. In each new field he recruited a new gang, and he never slept in camp with his followers.
Although trailed by several sheriffs, Vasquez escaped to Southern California leading off the wife of one of his associates—a bit of gallantry that contributed to his undoing, as the irate husband at once gave the officers much information concerning Vasquez’s life and methods. One day in the spring of 1874, Vasquez and three of his companions appeared at the ranch of Alessandro Repetto, nine miles from town, disguised as sheep-shearers. The following morning, while the inmates of the ranch-house were at breakfast, the highwaymen entered the room and held up the defenseless household. Vasquez informed Repetto that he was organizing a revolution in Lower California and merely desired to borrow the trifling sum of eight hundred dollars. Repetto replied that he had no money in the house; but Vasquez compelled the old man to sign a check for the sum demanded, and immediately dispatched to town a boy working for Repetto, with the strict injunction that if he did not return with the money alone, and soon, his master would be shot.
When the check was presented at the Temple & Workman Bank, Temple, who happened to be there, became suspicious but could elicit from the messenger no satisfactory response to his questions. The bank was but a block from the Courthouse; and when Sheriff Rowland hurriedly came, in answer to a summons, he was inclined to detain the lad. The boy, however, pleaded so hard for Repetto’s life that the Sheriff agreed to the messenger’s returning alone with the money. Soon after, Rowland and several deputies started out along the same trail; but a lookout sighted the approaching horsemen and gave the alarm. Vasquez and his associates took to flight and were pursued as far as Tejunga Pass; but as the cut-throats were mounted on fresh horses, they escaped. Even while being pursued, Vasquez had the audacity to fleece a party of men in the employ of the Los Angeles Water Company who were doing some work near the Alhambra Tract. The well known Angeleño and engineer in charge, Charles E. Miles, was relieved of an expensive gold watch.
Greek George
In April, 1874, Sheriff Rowland heard that Vasquez had visited the home of “Greek George”—the Smyrniot camel-driver to whom I have referred—and who was living about ten miles from Los Angeles, near the present location of Hollywood. Rowland took into his confidence D. K. Smith and persuaded him to stroll that way, ostensibly as a farmer’s hand seeking employment; and within two weeks Smith reported to Rowland that the information as to Vasquez’s whereabouts was correct. Rowland then concluded to make up a posse, but inasmuch as a certain clement kept Vasquez posted regarding the Sheriff’s movements, Rowland had to use great precaution. Anticipating this emergency, City Detective Emil Harris-four years later Chief of Police-had been quietly transferred to the Sheriff’s office; in addition to whom, Rowland selected Albert Johnson, Under Sheriff; B. F. Hartley, a local policeman; J. S. Bryant, City Constable; Major Henry M. Mitchell, an attorney; D. K. Smith; Walter Rodgers, proprietor of the Palace Saloon; and G. A. Beers, a correspondent of the San Francisco Chronicle. All these were ordered to report, one by one with their horses, shortly after midnight, at Jones’s Corral on Spring Street near Seventh. Arms and ammunition, carefully packed, were likewise smuggled in. Whether true or not that Vasquez would speedily be informed of the Sheriff’s whereabouts, it is certain that, in resolving not to leave his office, Rowland sacrificed, for the public weal, such natural ambition that he cannot be too much applauded; not even the later reward of eight thousand dollars really compensating him for his disappointment.
By half-past one o’clock in the morning, the eight members of the posse were all in the saddle and silently following a circuitous route. At about daybreak, in dense fog, they camped at the mouth of Nichols’s Canyon-two miles away from the house of Greek George-where Charles Knowles, an American, was living. When the fog lifted, Johnston, Mitchell, Smith and Bryant worked their way to a point whence they could observe Greek George’s farm; and Bryant, returning to camp, reported that a couple of gray horses had been seen tied near the ranch-house. Shortly thereafter, a four horse empty wagon, driven by two Mexicans, went by the cañon and was immediately stopped and brought in. The Mexicans were put in charge of an officer, and about the same time Johnston came tearing down the ravine with the startling statement that Vasquez was undoubtedly at Greek George’s!
Greek George’s place
A quick consultation ensued and it was decided by the posse to approach their goal in the captured vehicle, leaving their own horses in charge of Knowles; and having warned the Mexicans that they would be shot if they proved treacherous, the deputies climbed into the wagon and lay down out of sight. When a hundred yards from the house, the officers stealthily scattered in various directions. Harris, Rodgers and Johnston ran to the north side, and Hartley and Beers to the west. Through an open door, Vasquez was seen at the breakfast table, and Harris, followed by the others, made a quick dash for the house. A woman waiting on Vasquez attempted to shut the officers out; but Harris injected his rifle through the half-open door and prevented her. During the excitement, Vasquez climbed through a little window, and Harris, yelling, “There he goes!” raised his Henry rifle and shot at him. By the time Harris had reached the other side of the house, Vasquez was a hundred feet away and running like a deer toward his horse. In the meantime, first Hartley and then the other officers used their shotguns and slightly wounded him again. Vasquez then threw up his hands, saying: “Boys, you’ve done well! but I’ve been a damned fool, and it’s my own fault!” The identity of the bandit thus far had not been established; and when Harris asked his name, he answered, “Alessandro Martinez.”* In the meantime, captors and prisoner entered the house; and Vasquez, who was weakened from his wounds, sat down, while the young woman implored the officers not to kill him. At closer range, a good view was obtained of the man who had so long terrorized the State. He was about five feet six or seven inches in height, sparely built, with small feet and hands-in that respect by no means suggesting the desperado-with a low forehead, black, coarse hair and mustache, and furtive, cunning eyes.
By this time, the entire posse, excepting Mitchell and Smith (who had followed a man seen to leave Greek George’s), proceeded to search the house. The first door opened revealed a young fellow holding a baby in his arms. He, the most youthful member of the organization, had been placed on guard. There were no other men in the house, although four rifles and six pistols, all loaded and ready for use, were found. Fearing no such raid, the other outlaws were afield in the neighborhood; and being warned by the firing, they escaped. One of Vasquez’s guns, by the way, has been long preserved by the family of Francisco Ybarra and now rests secure in the County Museum.
Underneath one of the beds was found Vasquez’s vest containing Charley Miles’s gold watch, which Harris at once recognized. The prisoner was asked whether he was seriously hurt and he said that he expected to die, at the same time admitting that he was Vasquez and asking Harris to write down some of his bequests. He said that he was a single man, although he had two children living at Elizabeth Lake; and he exhibited portraits of them. He protested that he had never killed a human being, and said that the murders at Tres Pinos were due to Chavez’s disobedience of orders.
The officers borrowed a wagon from Judge Thompson—who lived in the neighborhood—into which they loaded Vasquez, the boy and the weapons, and so proceeded on their way. When they arrived near town, Smith and Mitchell caught up with them. Mitchell was then sent to give advance notice of Vasquez’s capture and to have medical help on hand; and by the time the party arrived, the excitement was intense. The City Fathers, then in session, rushed out pellmell and crowds surrounded the Jail. Dr. K. D. Wise, Health Officer, and Dr. J. P. Widney, County Physician,administered treatment to the captive. Vasquez, in irons, pleaded that he was dying; but Dr. Widney, as soon as he had examined the captive, warned the Sheriff that the prisoner, if he escaped, would still be game for a 458 long day’s ride. Everybody who could, visited him and I was no exception. I was disgusted, however, when I found Vasquez’s cell filled with flowers, sent by some white women of Los Angeles who had been carried away by the picturesque career of the bandido; but Sheriff Rowland soon stopped all such foolish exuberance.
Vasquez admitted that he had frequently visited Mexicans in Los Angeles, doing this against the advice of his lieutenant, Chavez, who had warned him that Sheriff Rowland also had good friends among the Mexicans.
Among those said to have been in confidential touch with Vasquez was Mariano G. Santa Cruz, a prominent figure, in his way, in Sonora Town. He kept a grocery about three hundred feet from the old Plaza Church, on the east side of Upper Main Street, and had a curiously-assorted household. There on many occasions, it is declared, Vasquez found a safe refuge.
Robber’s Roost near Freeman Junction
Five days after the capture, Signor Repetto called upon the prisoner, who was in chains, and remarked: “I have come to say that, so far as I am concerned, you can settle that little account with God Almighty!” Vasquez, with characteristic flourishes, thanked the Italian and began to speak of repayment, when Repetto replied: “I do not expect that. But I beg of you, if ever you resume operations, never to visit me again.” Whereupon Vasquez, placing his hand dramatically upon his breast, exclaimed: “Ah, Señor, I am a cavalier, with a cavalier’s heart!”—¡Señor Repetto, yo soy un caballero, con el corazón de un caballero!
Tiburcio Vasquez
As soon as Vasquez’s wounds were healed, he was taken by Sheriff Rowland to Tres Pinos and there indicted for murder. Miller & Lux, the great cattle owners, furnished the money, it was understood, for his defense—supposedly as a matter of policy. His attorneys asked for, and obtained, a change of venue, and Vasquez was removed to San José. There he was promptly tried, found guilty and, in March, 1875, hanged.
Many good anecdotes were long told of Vasquez; one of which was that he could size up a man quickly, as to whether he was a native son or not, by the direction in which he would roll a cigarette—toward or away from himself! As soon as the long-feared bandit was in captivity, local wits began to joke at his expense. A burlesque on Vasquez was staged late in May at the Merced Theater; and the day the outlaw was captured, a merchant began his advertisement: VASQUEZ says that MENDEL MEYER has the Finest and Most Complete Stock of Dry Goods and Clothing, etc.”
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from : Sixty years in Southern California, 1853-1913, containing the reminiscences of Harris Newmark. Edited by Maurice H. Newmark; Marco R. Newmark
Editor; Dan De Quille – Virginia City Territorial Enterprise – 1874
A gentleman who has just arrived from the borax fields of the desert regions surrounding the town of Columbus, in the eastern part of the state, gives us the following account of the sad fate of Mr. Jonathan Newhouse, a man of considerable inventive genius. Mr. Newhouse had constructed what he called a “solar armor,” and apparatus intended to protect the wearer from the fierce heat of the sun in crossing deserts and burning alkali plains.
The armor consisted of a long, close-fitting material; being about an inch in thickness. Before starting across a desert this armor was to be saturated with water. Under the right arm was suspended an Indian rubber sack filled with water and a small gutta-percha tube leading to the top of the hood. In order to keep the armor moist, all that was necessary to be done by the traveler, as he progressed over the burning sands, was to press the sack occasionally, when a small quantity of water would be forced up and thoroughly saturate the hood and the jacket below it. Thus, by the evaporation of the moisture in the armor, it was calculated might be produced almost any degree of cold.
Mr. Newhouse went down to Death Valley, determined to try the experiment of crossing that terrible place in this armor. He started out into the valley one morning from the camp nearest its borders, telling the man at the camp, as he laced his armor on his back, that he would return in two days.
The next day in Indian who could speak but a few words of English came up to the camp in a great state of excitement. He made the men understand that he wanted them to follow him. At the distance of about 20 miles out into the desert the Indian pointed to a human figure seated against a rock. Approaching they found it to be Newhouse still in his armor. He was dead and frozen stiff.
His beard was covered with frost and– though the noon day sun poured down its fiercest rays– and icicle over a foot in length home from his nose. There he had perished miserably, because his armor had worked but too well, and because it was laced up behind where he could not reach the fastenings.”
Devil’s Golf Course
This was Death Valley’s most widely publicized death. It was reported almost halfway around the world, and this terrible death, well, it never happened–it was simply a yarn as used as filler on a dull day in that summer of 1874.
Tempest in Silver by Stanley Demes Desert Magazine – Feb. 1967
TODAY’S TRAVELER to Panamint sees a crazy quilt of bare foundations and ramshackle walls. He marvels, too, at the old brick mill which for almost 100 years has challenged decay and oblivion. But it is not what he sees that affects the traveler; it’s what he feels. As he stands on the road looking up Surprise Canyon which nestles unpretentiously on the Western slope of the Panamint Range, about 10 miles south of Telescope Peak, the years roll back. Breezes echo gruff, untutored voices, and there is a raucous clang as the 20-stamp mill’s witchery produces precious silver ingots for shipment to “Frisco,” fabled financial capitol of the 70s. The lizard on the big granite boulder is unimpressed that a bearded miner’s pick lay on this same rock many years ago. And now, one looks vainly on the old dirt road for tracks of heavily-loaded desert burros. They’re gone just like the silver city herself.
The story of Panamint probably began in 1859 with the discovery of the Comstock lode. On this date a silver fever began which swept the United States and was especially “fatal” in the Western frontier where curiously every man was a modern day Jason tirelessly searching for his kind of fleece. But after 1859 many frontier men thought of just one thing—to trek the unknown for silver.
Indian George
William T. Henderson was such a man. Spurred on by the silver news emanating daily from the Comstock, and from legends of the enormously rich lost Gunsight mine, the bearded prospector coaxed his burro across colorful Death Valley. With him were S. P. George and Indian George. S. P. George was weaned on the old gunsight lore. Indian George had long since discarded the ways of the red man and made the hopes of the white man his own.
These three dreamers in I860 skirted the flaming cliffs on the west side of Panamint Mountain. While Henderson found nothing to satisfy his thirst for silver, there was something about the ancient granite and metamorphic rocks of Panamint escarpment that promised wealth untold. So, he returned. This time with a legendary adventurer named William Alvord, a sourdough named Jackson, and the ever faithful Indian George. Again Henderson’s dreams of wealth were stymied. He left Panamint never to return. Alvord, his partner, was more unfortunate still. In the upper reaches of Surprise Canyon he was bushwacked by Jackson and left for vultures. All these anxious probings for silver into the desolate sunscorched Panamints were futile. Silver wasn’t discovered until late in 1872 when two of the most colorful champions of the silver west, R. E. Jacobs and Bob Stewart, wandered up Surprise Canyon and found a huge fragment of rich silver ore.
The great migration to the silver diggings began. Crude buildings sprang up like mushrooms after a spring rain. The most useful Panamint edifice was, of course, the Surprise Valley Mining and Water Company’s 20-stamp mill. It was finished in a matter of weeks while miners with huge stacks of ore chaffed at the bit. Good mechanics, carpenters, and millwrights got top wages of $6 per day. Most popular, of course, were the saloons and Panamint in those days had some fine ones. Like San Francisco, Panamint had its own Palace Hotel. Its barroom was built by skilled Panamint craftsmen and had a beautiful black walnut top. On the side walls were handsome pictures of voluptuous females in varying states of dishabille. But Dave Neagle, the owner of this splendid saloon, was especially proud of his magnificent mirror. It was 8 x 6 feet with double lamps on each side.
Fred Yager early determined that his “Dexter” saloon was going to surpass Neagle’s. Fred especially wanted the finest mirror in town. So, he sent to San Diego for a beauty. The mirror installed was to be a 7 x 12 foot sparkler. Tragedy struck, however, when an inebriated miner fell on the shimmering reflector just as it was being positioned against the wall. Sheltered in the confines of his Palace, Dave must have smiled at his rival’s sore plight—perhaps murmuring encouragingly that breaking a mirror leads to seven years bad luck.
There were two outstanding architectural omissions in Panamint. There was no jail—criminals had to be taken to Independence for incarceration. Further, though it was sorely needed, Panamint never had a hospital. On several occasions Panamint News editors Carr and later Harris cried out in their columns for a community hospital. Interestingly enough, the two crusading editors were mute concerning the lack of a jail.
Although it was not bruited about as such, the building owned and tastefully decorated by Martha Camp, played a significant role in the development of the new town. In Martha’s care was a bevy of attractive, if overly painted, young ladies whose lives were dedicated to two things: to make money and keep miners content.
It cannot be doubted, however, that Panamint prosperity was due to its mines. The two richest were suitably entitled Jacobs Wonder and Stewarts Wonder. Assays of these two mines showed ore values ranging from $100 to $4,000 per ton, the average being about $400. Stewart, a well known Nevada senator, later joined with another Nevada senator, J. P. Jones, to form Surprise Valley’s biggest mining combine, The Surprise Valley Company. Stewart and Jones had other local interests. They owned the Surprise Valley Water Company and a toll road procured from grizzly Sam Tait which trailed up Surprise Canyon. Charges for ascending this road were quite nominal: $2.00 for a wagon, 4 bits for a horseman, and 2 bits for a miner and burro.
The two editors of the Panamint News, at first Carr and later Harris, were rhapsodic in their faith in Panamint’s ultimate prosperity. Late in 1874 the front page of the news throbbed with excitement. “There is reason to believe, the News stated, that a busy population of from three to four thousand souls will be in Panamint in less than a year,” and later, “When we begin to send out our bullion it will be in such abundance as will cause the outside world to wonder if our mountains are not made of silver.” Harris’ beginning enthusiasm must have haunted him later, for his paper of March 2, 1875 modestly informs us that “there were only 600 people at Panamint.”
Despite the fact that the Havilah Miner proclaimed that Panamint City’s silver yield would one day eclipse the Comstock, capital funneled slowly and sporadically into the silver city. Private persons mostly subsidized Panamints mining activities. Senator Jones’ faith in Panamint was shown by hard cash accumulations of partially developed mines. The Senator’s brother caught the silver virus and plunked down $113,000 for a number of claims in the Panamint district. Stock sales never boomed. One wonders if the wildly energetic silver sun of the Comstock lode were not out to eclipse a potential rival. After all, shares in the Con Virginia were flirting a’la Croesus with the San Francisco stock exchange at the $700 mark. More dramatic was E. P. Raine’s method of seeking money for Panamint. He carted 300 lbs. of rich ore across the Mojave to Los Angeles. He staggered into the Clarendon Hotel and dumped the ore on a billiard table. Unfortunately, hotel patrons were more interested in the fact that Raine bought drinks for all than they were in the welfare of Panamint.
Remi Nadeau
Probably the most popular method of getting freight to Panamint was sending goods via Remi Nadeau’s Cerro Gordo Freighting Company. Remi’s swaggering mule teams made daily trips from San Fernando to the Panamint mines. Remi was ever the epitome of optimism. Although untouched by such 20th Century transportation behemoths as the cross country truck and the jet cargo plane, Remi’s corporate slogan was “all goods marked C. G. F. C. will be forwarded with dispatch.”
But most characteristic of Panamint transportation in the early days was the solitary miner who arrived on foot followed by a heavily-laden burro. Within his hair-matted bosom slumbered the lion’s share of the vigor and courage of frontier America. Courage, however, wasn’t always the answer on the torrid road to Panamint. Bleached bones of unlucky prospectors sparkled all too frequently in the Mojave sun. When Panamint hearts were at their lightest and silver ore seemed to stretch like a ribbon of wealth to the center of the earth, the people of Panamint, spear headed by their grey-haired champion, Senator Jones, attempted to build a railroad from Shoo Fly (Santa Monica) to Independence. This railroad was to make Panamint the silver empire of the world. Already England was being heralded as an inexhaustible market for Panamint silver. Unfortunately, however, the railroad was to remain a dream railroad. The project clashed with the wishes of the great Southern Pacific quadrumvirate of Stanford, Crocker, Hopkins, and Huntington. The proposed Shoo Fly to Independence railroad won some initial battles—Senator Jones’ Chinese laborers soundly trounced a corps of General Huntington’s forces in the Cajon Pass, but the good Senator lost the decisive battle for his beloved railroad in the hallowed halls of Congress. The Southern Pacific, sans Winchester, had a clear blueprint for winning the West.
Panamint City,1875
Recreation for Panamint’s thrifty merchants and boisterous sourdoughs centered, of course, in the city’s saloons. Whiskey was excellent and surly Jim Bruce dealt in a neat hand of faro. Whether tired miners came into Dave Neagle’s to ogle at pictures of nude ladies, to have a few drinks, or to chat with lovely, but garishly painted young ladies, all present usually had a good time. Rarely was there serious gun play. Once a Chinese window washer served as target for the six gun of a frolicsome and intoxicated miner, but usually life in a Panamint bar did little to disturb the city’s reputation as an “orderly community.” In their more gentle moments, some men attended the Panamint Masonic Lodge.
For the respectable female, recreational possibilities were severely limited. Legendary is the dance that Miss Delia Donoghue, proprietress of the Wyoming Restaurant, threw in honor of George Washington, the father of her country. To a four piece combo led by learned Professor Martin and paced by the twangs of a soused harpist, doughty men danced with 16 lovely ladies, almost the entire female population of the city.
Panamint certainly wasn’t as wicked as Tombstone, but it had its share of crime. Crime in this petulant silver metropolis ranged from writing threatening letters and petty thievery to infamous murder. The anonymous letters were sent to editor Harris. They criticized his reporting of the murder of Ed Barstow, night watchman for the Panamint News building, by gun fighter and chief undertaker Jim Bruce. This murder took place in Martha Camp’s pleasure house on Maiden Lane. Ed learned that his pal Jim was making time with Sophie Glennon who, demimonde damsel or not, was his girl. He burst into the bedroom firing his six gun blindly. Jim, drawing from his wide experience in such emergencies, sighted his target carefully and pumped two bullets into his erstwhile friend. A sentimental wrapping was given the whole affair when on his death bed Barstow confessed that he was drunk at the time and that his friend was guiltless. More sentiment was piled on when editor Harris used the crime as an excuse for moralizing on the dangers of drink.
A woman figured in one Panamint murder. Sleek Ramon Montenegro resented the words Philip de Rouche used to his comely escort. Montenegro, as lithe as a rattlesnake and with all its speed, knocked down the offender. For revenge, de Rouche later used the butt of his gun to play tattoo on Montenegro’s face. However, the handsome Latin won out in the end. Panamint sreets were a sea of flame for one moment as Montenegro’s gun flashed and killed the Frenchman. Taken to Independence for trial by Deputy Sheriff Ball, Montenegro was tried by a Grand Jury and, although pleading guilty, was acquitted.
Panamint’s most celebrated crime would probably never have been committed if Panamint were a stable community and due process of law an accepted way of righting wrongs in the silver city. A. Ashim was a respected member of the Panamint community. He belonged to the local Masonic Lodge and ran the town’s largest general merchandising business. But like most town males, Ashim had a six gun and had experience using it. So, when Nick Perasich ran off to Darwin leaving behind an unpaid bill of $47.50 at his store, Ashim walked into a Darwin restaurant. There Ashim shot Perasich three times, killing him instantly. The vendetta which resulted was not inferior to Mafia revenge killings of our day. Perasich’s brothers, led by the volatile Elias, pressed to kill Ashim. They almost succeeded. Hiding behind cornstalks along the roadside, they intercepted the stage and fired into it. Ashim escaped, but his mother received a powder burn on her nose.
Panamint stagecoach
But it was those wily ex-New Yorkers, Small and McDonald, who turned Panamint criminology into something resembling a comic opera. From their infamous castle nestled in Wild Rose Canyon, these disheveled silver “knights” rode their sleek chargers into clandestine rendezvous with those jolting fortresses of the West, Wells-Fargo stagecoaches. Once, the wily knaves hunted for a silver mine—and found one. They had no intention of working it. As soon as they could, they unloaded the mine on Senator Stewart. Money received from the sale of the mine could not have come at a more fortuitous moment for the unholy pair. They had been apprehended by Jim Hume, Wells-Fargo investigator, for robbing the Eureka and Palisades stage. Wells-Fargo forgot to press charges when Small and McDonald turned over to them the money received from the Senator for the sale of the mine.
After their close brush with Wells-Fargo, a legend started by twinkle-eyed Senator Stewart says that the desperados kept their eye on Senator Stewart’s progress with his new mine. Alarmed by the undue concern of the bandits with his property, Stewart devised a clever ruse to foil the waiting thieves. He melted ore from the mine into five silver balls weighing over 400 pounds each. When the bandits thought the time was ripe, they opened their saddle bags and pounced on the mine. Imagine their amazement at the sight of the five huge balls of silver. Legend adds that Stewart was horribly vilified by the disappointed pair for his unsportsmanlike conduct. In this case, however, legend is not correct. Remi Nadeau tells us in his book on California ghost towns that Stewart’s mill fashioned five massive ingots as a precaution against theft.
Bodie
The criminal activities of Small and McDonald were destined to end soon after the robbery on Harris and Rhine’s store in the spring of 1876. Briefly, the brigands made nuisances of themselves around Bodie. A dispute over spoils, however, led to a heated dispute which led to gun play. John Small was not quite as fast on the draw as his partner.
Why did Panamint die? People nowadays think that the silver veins were surface-bound and did not extend to any great depth. This reasoning appears quite cogent; after all, the silver city’s star did rise and set in four short years. A contrary viewpoint, however, was expressed by Professor O. Loew who, late in 1875, was quoted as saying: “Never have I seen a country where there was a greater probability of true fissure veins than that of Panamint. In the Wyoming and Hemlock mines large bodies of ore will be encountered.” But even as Loew spoke, decay burdened the wind. Editor Harris left Panamint for Darwin in 1875; Doc Bicknell followed soon after. Before Harris packed his wagon for Darwin he advanced his notion why Panamint died—the lack of road and rail transportation. Harris genuinely felt that a railroad could have saved the city.
Darwin, Ca.
There was another reason why Panamint became an untimely ghost town. Two hard-bitten prospectors, Baldwin and Wilson, discovered two rich mines in the nearby Coso mountains. The two miners told the people of Panamint that they had the two richest mines in the world. Panamint accepted their words and their enthusiasm as gospel. Immediately a great exodus of wagons trailed down Surprise Canyon headed for the promising capital of the Cosos, Darwin. Unquestionably the discovery of these silver mines in the Cosos provided the coup de grace for the already stricken city as Coso mines were “argentiferous” and did not require milling.
The deluge that swept down Surprise Canyon in 1876 was perhaps the final curtain in this historic drama of the old West. Its rushing waters played around empty shacks and deposited layers of heavy silt on little more than dreams. But there was one person enslaved by the charm of the silver city, Jim Bruce. Long after the mines were closed this formidable faro dealer and gunfighter lived a tranquil if uncertain existence in the city he loved.
Panamint flexed feeble muscles of silver again in 1947. On this date Nathan Elliott, movie press agent, established the American Silver Corporation in a last ditch attempt to wrest silver from long dormant Panamint mines. Elliott spun a sumptuous verbal web that entrapped many of the film Capitol’s finest. Aided by Vice President and Comedian Ben Blue, the silver-tongued promoter succeeded in raising $1,000,000. With this money Panamint mines were deepened. But Elliott’s hopes for a bonanza never materialized. To the wonder and rage of the movie world, the great developer vanished into protective oblivion.
Today Panamint is deserted except for the Thompson sisters who live up Surprise Canyon a few miles north of the old mill. They are old-time residents of the area and their residence, Thompson camp, is a soothing backdrop of green poised against bitter desolation. The Thompson home is encircled by tall trees; a fenced yard secures a well-watered lawn which always has the appearance of being freshly mowed.’ This is due to the wonderful “automatic mower” owned by these ladies, a dusky well-fed burro.
These soft-spoken daughters of the Mojave own a number of mining claims in the area. From time to time they hire miners to sample ores from neighboring hills or to repair rickety scaffolding. Although, the Thompson sisters run a relaxed operation now, their mining activities would be greatly accelerated by an increase in the price of silver. You can be assured of this not only from what they say, but also from the silvery sparkle that sometimes dances in their eyes.
from: Tempest in Silver by Stanley Demes – Desert Magazine – February 1967
Transportation to and from Goldfield improved greatly with the arrival of the railroad. On September 12, 1905, at 12:30 p.m. the first passenger train arrived in Goldfield, greeted by 300 people. It was operated by the Goldfield Railroad Company. The arrival of the Railroad kicked off three days of celebrations, but mourning for some stage lines. In all there would be four railroads serving Goldfield, and one local line operated by the Goldfield Consolidated Milling & Transportation Company.
The Tonopah and Goldfield Railroad built railroad shops and a terminal near Aluminum and Fourth Streets, in May of 1910. The T & G operated until October of 1947, and had a life span of 44 years.The Las Vegas & Tonopah Railroad was built in 1906 & 1907, from Las Vegas to Tonopah, and had stops in Beatty, Bullfrog, Rhyolite, and Goldfield. The LV & T ran for 14 years, until October 31. 1918, when the Nevada Department of Highways purchased the railroad right-of-way for Highway 95.
The Tonopah & Tidewater Railroad was built starting in November 1905, and completed October 30. 1907. It ran from Ludlow, California northward via Death Valley Junction to Gold Center, just two miles south of Beatty, and then northward on the Bullfrog Goldfield Railroad. The T & T Railroad ran until June 14, 1940, a span of 33 years.
The Bullfrog Goldfield Railroad was constructed starting in May 1906, probably starting at Milltown in the Goldfield Mining District, at the terminal of the T & G tracks, and was completed southward to Beatty by April, 1907. The Bullfrog Goldfield freight depot and maintenance building was situated at Fifth Avenue and Pearl Street across from the Santa Fe Saloon and is under reconstruction today. The Bullfrog Goldfield Railroad operated until January, 1928. During various stages of its existence, the BGRR leased its tracks to either the T&T or LV&T. Management changed hands five times during its 21 year life span.
Railroad Day September 12, 1905. The arrival of the Railroad marked the end of the stage coach to and from Goldfield and Tonopah.
from: Goldfield Historic Walking Tour Booklet The Goldfield Historical Society
Lucerne Valley post office – Photo courtesy Charles Rader
In 1930, Lucerne Valley boasted having this post office building on the Box “S” Ranch in this widely homesteaded area. Famed for its pure Mojave dry air, World War I veterans who suffer being gassed in France found breathing here are easy. One section of the valley is called “Little Inglewood.” This stems from many homesteaders, originally from Inglewood, California, moving there in the 1920s and 1930s.
from – Images of America – Mojave Desert by John Swisher
by Betty J. Tucker – Desert Magazine April, 1971
(photos – Walter Feller)
The road and scenery through Titus Canyon in Death Valley produces all the ups and downs of a young love, then steadies out into the young matronly area. Further on, it matures and gains
the stature of sedate old age.
Titus Canyon Road
That’s a pretty good life span for a mere 25 miles. The only problem is that occasionally heavy rains rip out the road, so be sure and check with the rangers. Trailers cannot be taken on this road and I wouldn’t recommend trucks and campers, although we saw one go through. At times the high center of the road forces you into some creative driving.We did it in a dune buggy.
The road into Titus Canyon leaves the Beatty Road and crosses the desert between the Bullfrog Hills and the Grapevine Mountains. Then it begins to climb. This road is one way and it is easy to see why. The steep uphill grades and sharp hairpin curves are not conducive to meeting oncoming traffic. There was that thrill of a first young love—the frightening steepness and sheer drop-offs, but still so breathtakingly beautiful that I wasn’t even afraid. The dune buggy has such a short wheelbase it takes the sharpest corners with ease.
After cresting at Red Pass, elevation 5,250, we dropped down into a beautiful green valley. Here, nestled comfortably in the yellow flowered brittle bush was the ruins of Leadfield.
He blasted some tunnels and liberally salted them …
This child was the brainchild of C. C. Julian who would’ve sold ice to an Eskimo. He wandered into Titus Canyon with money in mind. He blasted some tunnels and liberally salted them with lead ore he had brought from Tonopah. Then he sat down and drew up some enticing maps of the area. He moved to usually dry and never deep Amargosa River miles from its normal bed.
Leadfield ghost town
He drew pictures of ships steaming up the river hauling out the bountiful ore from his mines. Then he distributed handbills and lowered Eastern promoters into investing money. Miners flocked in at the scent of a big strike and dug their hopeful holes. They built a few shacks. Julian was such a promoter he even conned the US government into building a post office here.
Leadfield post office
So for six months, August, 1926 to February, 1927, over 300 people lived here and tried to strike it rich. They dug and lost.
What remains of this fiasco is rather amazing to behold. It most certainly looks like the ghost of a prosperous mine. The false front, cream-colored, corrugated tin post office is still in good shape. There is a built-in wooden desk in some small shelves on the walls. Of the narrow trail there are two more lime green corrugated tin buildings.
Blacksmith’s shop – the wooden block for his anvil and coke bin
Near it is the blacksmith’s building. The wooden block that held his anvil is there as is the bin full of coke. Both of these buildings are lined with asbestos. There are several small holes where the miners tried to find the promised ore, plus a couple of rather large shafts.
2 1/2 miles below Leadfield is Klare Spring, the major water supply for the town. Miners stood there in frequent baths here and hold water back to camp. Beside this spring you will find Indian petroglyphs.
Klare Springs
We sat on a couple of sun warmed rocks and had a snack. The water trickled by any couple of ravens performed a spectacular air ballet for us. It was an easy to remember that Titus Canyon got its name through a tragedy.
Titus took half of the stock and went to look for more water.
In 1907, Morris Titus, a young mining engineer, and two of his friends, Mullan and Weller, left Rhyolite intending to cross Death Valley and do some prospecting in the Panamints. They found the waterhole dry that they had hoped to use. They had only 20 gallons of water for themselves, 19 burros and two horses. Eventually they found a hole where they could get a cup bowl every four hours. While Mullan and Weller waited, Titus took half of the stock and went to look for more water. He never came back. Next day Weller took the remaining stock and set out to look for Titus. He, too, disappeared. Mullan was found a month later and taken to Rhyolite, more dead than alive. As Titus was known to carry large quantities of gold with him, his family instigated an extensive search. No sign was ever found of him. Some thought he might have broken through a salt crust and gone into the mire below. Whatever happened, he has a most beautiful monument in having this particular canyon named after him.
Once I asked Shorty Harris how he obtained his grubstakes. “Grubstakes,” he answered, “like gold, are where you find them. Once I was broke in Pioche, Nev., and couldn’t find a grubstake anywhere. Somebody told me that a woman on a ranch a few miles out wanted a man for a few days’ work. I hoofed it out under a broiling sun, but when I got there, the lady said she had no job. I reckon she saw my disappointment and when her cat came up and began to mew, she told me the cat had an even dozen kittens and she would give me a dollar if I would take ’em down the road and kill ’em.
“‘It’s a deal,’ I said. She got ’em in a sack and I started back to town. I intended to lug ’em a few miles away and turn ’em loose because I haven’t got the heart to kill anything.
“A dozen kittens makes quite a load and I had to sit down pretty often to rest. A fellow in a two-horse wagon came along and offered me a ride. I picked up the sack and climbed in.
“‘Cats, eh?’ the fellow said. ‘They ought to bring a good price. I was in Colorado once. Rats and mice were taking the town. I had a cat. She would have a litter every three months. I had no trouble selling them cats for ten dollars apiece. Beat a gold mine.’
Prospector with grubstake essentials
“There were plenty rats in Pioche and that sack of kittens went like hotcakes. One fellow didn’t have any money and offered me a goat. I knew a fellow who wanted a goat. He lived on the same lot as I did. His name was Pete Swain.
“Pete was all lit up when I offered him the goat for fifty dollars. He peeled the money off his roll and took the goat into his shack. A few days later Pete came to his door and called me over and shoved a fifty-dollar note into my hands. ‘I just wanted you to see what that goat’s doing,’ he said.
“I looked inside. The goat was pulling the cork out of a bottle of liquor with his teeth.
“‘That goat’s drunk as a boiled owl,’ Pete said. ‘If I ever needed any proof that there’s something in this idea of the transmigration of souls, that goat gives it. He’s Jimmy, my old sidekick, who, I figgered was dead and buried.’
“‘Now listen,’ I said. ‘Do you mean to tell me you actually believe that goat is your old pal, whom you drank with and played with and saw buried with your own eyes, right up there on the hill?’
“‘Exactly,’ Pete shouted, and he peeled off another fifty and gave it to me. So, you see, a grubstake, like gold, is where you find it.”
from: Loafing Along Death Valley Trails A Personal Narrative of People and Places Author: William Caruthers
Fortifications along the western extension of the Santa Fe trail, route of the Whipple survey, were built initially because of Indian attacks on covered wagon trains of settlers. The Mojave War followed the massacre of one train by Indians at the Colorado River crossing a few miles above the present Needles.
Paiute Creek
The Army was not slow in punishing the Mojave tribes, and entire regiment being collected at Fort Yuma and going upstream. This was in the winter of 1858-59. The initial fort, Ft. Mojave, was established at the time. Supplying of this river outpost was both expensive and difficult.
Soldiers attacked
Lt. Col. William Hoffman
The road over the desert San Bernardino had been given a bad name by Lt. Col. William Hoffman would take in the company of mounted infantry in a small dragoon escort from the Cajon Pass to the river. Hoffman’s command had been attacked by Indians in route. The Col. was under orders to find a site for a desert fort. He saw nothing between Summit Valley in the river he considered a likely site. In fact, Hoffman condemned the entire route as unsuited for travel.
It is probable the Hoffman report influenced the Army in initially supplying Fort Mojave by steamer from Yuma. When the river was slow and supplies could not be taken at far upstream the fort garrison was desperate. At this juncture In Winfred Scott Hancock, the same officer who appeared in a recent issue of the series, called on the Banning stage and freight lines to take supplies through. Banning’s experience Teamsters had no trouble They drove again heavy freight wagons, each drawn by eight mule teams to the river in 16 days. The Fort Mojave garrison again had both food and ammunition.
Cady Old Site
Hancock at the time an assistant quartermaster, prove that not only the Mojave Valley road was practical. He also reduce the Army’s transport expense to Fort Mojave by two thirds. The hall from drum barracks at Wilmington to the Colorado River via Cajon Pass cost only a third as much per pound as the long water haul around Baja California and transfer shipment to river steamer.
Ives Expedition steamboat and crew heading up the Colorado River, 1857.
The site of Camp Cady was used as an Indian “fort” even before California became a part of the United States. Indians engaged in stealing horses from the Mexican ranchos built a crude sort of stronghold on the rocky hillsides of the Mojave River near that spot. It was a few miles East of the old Spanish Trail and also guarded the entrance to narrow Afton Canyon which could serve as an escape route if pursuit became too hot.
Afton Canyon
There is documentary evidence of the Indian use of their crude stronghold in 1845 point Benjamin Wilson, the Don Benito of Mexican rule, meeting Indians there in battle in 1845 a few days after the historic discovery of Bear Valley.
Governor Pio Pico
Wilson’s account of the pursuit of the horse thieves attributed depredations to renegade Indians from Mission San Gabriel but it is probable Sun desert tribes had Braves in the raiding parties. Wilson was alcalde at Jurupa and was called upon by Gov. Pico to punish the Indians. The acalde gathered a large posse including 22 young Californians mounted on fleet horses. The larger party in fact train went up Cajon Pass. Wilson in the young ranchers took the route up to Santa Ana Canyon, enjoyed hunting bear in what Wilson named Bear Valley, and joined the pack train somewhere near Rancho Verde in the present Apple Valley.
Wilson, wounded by a poisoned arrow, had his life saved by Lorenzo Trujillo. Trujillo, a New Mexican, was leader in the little colony of Agua Mansa and its twin town, Trujillo. In the Apple Valley fight the Indians were defeated in three of them killed. Wilson shot the notorious Joaquin, the ex-mission Indian, who was a ringleader among the horse thieves.
Don Benito Wilson
Several of Wilson’s Horseman pursued the remnant of the Indians down the Mojave though the wounded Wilson was forced to turn back. Nothing Indians halted in their crude fort near the site of Camp Cady. There, though the entrenched behind rocks, they were again defeated and dispersed.
In addition to the soldiers at the Mojave Desert forts there were a few civilians quartered at some of the posts. For instance, the returns of Camp Cady for December 1866 indicate an assistant wagon master was stationed there. He was paid $75 a month. Teamsters, their number not specified, received hundred and $75 a month, and herders $35 a month. Other notations would indicate the herders, at least some of them, were Indians. The Teamsters, whose work was the most skilled, where the aristocrats of the road whether they drove Concord stages and six horses or whipped along multiple freight teams. The Army officers themselves received far less pay.
There were also, at least at Cady and Mojave, sutler stores. The Army had no canteen or post exchange in that. And contractors, called settlers, were granted the privilege of establishing stores on military reservations and also, for that matter, with armies in the field. Suites that supplemented the monotonous menu, tobacco and whiskey as well as such notions as red, writing paper and ink were for sale at the sutler stores.
He (Hoffman) saw nothing between Summit Valley in the river he considered a likely site. In fact, Hoffman condemned the entire route as unsuited for travel.
Soldiers receiving $7.50 a month did not have much money to spend but there was no place to go and as a result the software store almost invariably raked in the Army man’s wages. Passing travelers also helps well the sutler income.
The system was a poor one, and the cause of continuous complaint. The soldier, at times was victimized both by high prices in shoddy material. At one juncture soldier resentment in Camp Cady passed the usual grumbling stage and the garrison simply looted the store.
Looting did not satisfy the enraged soldiery. They set fire to the store and literally drove the hated sutler from the camp. The sutler came to San Bernardino and swore out complaints. That was in August 1867 after Camp Cady was manned by regulars.
First Lieut. Manual Eyre Jr. in command at Cady, reported the affair to first Lieut. C. H. Shepherd, assistant adjutant general at Fort Mojave. He said:
“Yesterday the sheriff was here and took with him five of my men for preliminary examination under charges of arson and robbery. The case is stated in my letter addressed to a AAAG at your headquarters, dated August 8, 1867. I should, I think, be in San Bernardino during the trial of these men, if they are held for trial. I also desire to present before the grand jury’s citizens who have harbored deserters.
“The posted by you till will be established under superintendence of an officer from Mojave. Could not an officer be spared temporarily to relieved Lieut. Drum and allow him to relieve me for 10 days or two weeks? If the Rock Springs garrison is withdrawn, I can leave Lieut. Drum here in command until my return?
“The intention of this man Dead (the sutler) is evident to me. He will try to obtain money from these men to let them off. If so, I would like to be present to prosecute him for attempting to compound a felony. I am of the opinion that, as much as I dislike it, I should be in San Bernardino as soon as possible, even if the men are released after preliminary examination when, of course they would be turned loose 100 miles from camp to find their way as they see fit.”
Both because it served as a headquarters post, and because it was maintained long after the little way stations along the Old Government Road were abandoned, Fort Mojave is far better known than such points as Fort Piute, Rock Springs, Marl Spring, Fort Soda, Bitter Spring, Resting Springs or even Cady.
Fort Pah-ute ruins
Until recent years Fort Mojave was maintained as an Indian school. When it ceased to be an army post, however, it is records were moved. Some were taken to Whipple barracks in Prescott, others to the Presidio at San Francisco. For Mojave, however had a wealth of old records that escaped attention of the detail entrusted to their moving. Within the past few years the grounds of the old fort were converted to agricultural use. The remains of an old adobe building were bulldozed flat. In the process the bulldozer broke through an old wooden floor long covered with several inches of earth. The accident disclosed a long forgotten cellar. In it were scores of packing boxes containing more records. These were assembled and shipped to Washington. Stacked in a line these rediscovered records stretch 29 feet.
As yet this latest ” mine” of Pioneer Army records has not been made available to historical researchers. Presumably in a few years, however, they will have been cleaned, indexed and deposited in the national archives and will furnish a far more detailed commentary on conditions in the Southwest during the pre-railroad decades,, and on Army activities at a dozen or more all but forgotten published such as Las Vegas, Resting Springs, El Dorado Canyon, and numerous early Arizona camps. Frequent transfers of headquarters seem to have made Fort Mojave a convenient depository for numerous papers no one wanted to which, under regulations, could not be destroyed. Paperwork in the military was almost as involved in the mid-19th century as it is today. Doubtless the company clerk of the Battalion Sgt. major of 1867 rebelled inwardly at the detail required of his job and doubtless to adjutants were hard put to find storage space for the growing mountains of paper but to their credit it must be noted they observed the rules and did not indulge in the periodic bonfires that mark some of the other branches of the federal service. For instance, research on Colorado River steamers is difficult because the customs offices of registry made it a practice to destroy old records.
The Walters family is an important part of Hesperia history. Starting with George Francis Walters, who moved his family from Illinois to California because his wife, Harriet C Finigan Walters had asthma.
Hesperia Hotel
The family first settled in the Riverside area where he went to work for the Santa Fe Railroad. According to Bolton Minister, son of George O Walters Minister, George was offered a transfer to Hesperia to manage the Hesperia Hotel.
The Walters family consisted of George and his wife Harriet, and their children, in birth order, Georgia Henry had to Walters Minister-Henry, Verial W. Walters Ormond and Roy Edward Walters.
According to Mr. Minister, both the daughters went to work in the hotel. They were later joined by Laura McClanahan who in 1921 transferred from the Goodsprings Hotel, in Goodsprings, Nevada.
Roy & Laura Walters
Verial was postmistress, until she moved away when she got married, and then her position was given to her brother Roy.
Roy ended up marrying Laura McClanahan and having a daughter, Geraldine Henrietta Walters. Geraldine married first, Yeager and second Schwartz.
According to Mr. Minister, George Francis Walters built the Walters house in the Walters general store according to Geraldine, her grandmother Harriet was the midwife in the delivery of 32 Hesperia babies.
When George passed away the store was handled over to Roy, who operated it for many years.
I do not know where George and area Walters or Barry. However, I do know that Roy and Laura are buried at the cemetery in Victorville.
With the passing of time, their store had deteriorated and will eventually disappear from Hesperia. As eventually, the Walters name will.
