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There’s an old road in these mountains, and it’s time for you to take
a Road Trip. This is a road which, in its heyday, hosted more daily traffic than any other road in California; than any other road on all of the west coast of the United States. Dirty, dusty, and rutted, this unpaved path through a small portion of the Sierra was cut by foot, hoof, and wagon wheel over a period of many years, and although it grew to only four miles in length by the mid-1800’s it proudly boasted far more pedestrians, wagons, and horses on its rough surface than did any of its prouder and more smoothly paved counterparts in cities such as Los Angeles and San Francisco, and in the year of 1850 it was the busiest thoroughfare to be found in perhaps all of the western states. This road is still in existence, running the four miles between the old mining towns of Nevada City and Grass Valley, although all of the bumps and furrows which helped give it character so many years ago have long been smoothed over. And you, as a devotee of California history, you have decided that you need to go up to the mountains and see it; to ride or walk it; to see if you can still get a feel for what it was like to be on this road in 1850; to see if it will whisper to you something of its past. So on a warm almost-Spring day in March you leave the city and head on up to the Sierra. It’s late when you get to Grass Valley; the numerous stops along the way to see other relics of the past have delayed you longer than anticipated, and the warmth with which your journey began has been replaced by the icy chill of thin mountain air. All the restaurants you pass have already closed for the evening, with only the lights from a convenience store still shining into the street as you reach the edge of town. You stop and, on a whim, purchase a bottle of rye whiskey from the otherwise unattractive display of food and drink. After all, rye is what was served in the mountain saloons back in the day, wasn’t it? As a concession to the tourist industry you also purchase a shot glass which is decorated with old wooden false front buildings against a mountain backdrop. Then you resume your journey out of town, carefully watching the odometer and slowing to a stop when it shows you have gone two miles from the last structure you saw. Ahead of you on that dark road – another two miles distant – lies Nevada City. You are at the halfway point, the dark and quiet median of this road from the past. You once read somewhere – you can’t remember where – that there was at one time a sign at this midway point, a sign with two swinging arms, one pointing to Nevada City, two miles away, and the other pointing to Grass Valley, two miles the other way. But that sign fell over and disappeared years ago, never replaced. Cold now, you struggle into your heavy jacket, grab an old blanket – and of course your bottle of rye – and climb a small hill next to the road. It’s quiet, with little traffic. You spread the blanket on a bare patch of dirt beneath a leafless tree and sit down, rubbing your hands together for warmth. Then you reach for the liquid warmth which you brought along and pour yourself a shot, waiting for the road to speak to you. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t. But you’re not in a hurry. You’ve come a long way; you can show patience. You finish the drink and then grab your knees, hugging them to your chest, and wrap what you can of the blanket around your back. You pour another drink and, as you sip it, you think back over what you’ve read of the history of this part of the mountains. As the night slips by what little traffic there was earlier has now completely ceased and you are all alone. You’re warmer now, though you doubt that warmth has anything to do with the blanket. You’re comfortable too, with a heat now lighting you from within. As you look upward you see the stars begin to shimmer and dance in the thin mountain air, and when you look back down you see the shadows of figures from times long past moving on the road below you. And, to your surprise, the road begins to speak. The 1850’s – both Nevada City and Grass Valley were booming towns, counting populations of about ten thousand and three thousand respectively. Each was surrounded by smaller towns, and all were surrounded by thousands of mining claims, the boundary of which was generally held to be as far as the claimant could shoot his rifle and hit a claim jumper. This road between the towns hosted fairly constant travel all day long as well as through most of the night; miners and shopkeepers, bankers and outlaws. It was about here at this midpoint that in 1858 a stage was stopped by a pair of masked robbers who had heard in town that there was gold aboard the coach. In fact there was, but it wasn’t in the usual place within a strongbox atop the coach. It was instead in the pockets of a banker who was a passenger and who had a few thousand dollars of the stuff hidden in his suit. After futilely searching atop the stage the robbers decided to frisk the passengers, at which point the banker quietly pulled a revolver from beneath his coat and held it on his lap, saying nothing. At the sight of the weapon the robbers cautioned the banker to ‘go easy’, and the banker responded that better pickings were to be had on the next stage coming out of town, a stage coach on which Wells Fargo would be shipping a considerable amount of gold. After looking at the weapon again and at the calm, smiling man who held it, the robbers nodded their thanks and retreated into the brush, only to reappear later that day and rob the next coach of the $21,000.00 Wells Fargo had placed on board. When later told of this robbery, the banker on the first stage just laughed and shrugged. He was a banker. And Wells Fargo, after all, was The Competition. Stage robberies were a frequent occurrence here, but the robbers had to be quick because of the volume of people using the road. One of the more persistent hold-up artists was a man by the name of Jack Williams. With his two companions he waylaid many coaches and was always successful in making his getaway. One day after stopping a stage and quickly searching the passengers, Williams climbed up and tried to open the Wells Fargo lock box near the driver. But, tired of Williams’ repeated robberies, Wells Fargo had installed a new type of box on this stage; a stout metal safe that was impervious to Jack’s bullets. Cursing profusely as time was running out, Williams finally gave up and rode off, promising that he would not be outsmarted by Wells Fargo, and the laughing stage driver resumed his journey to town. But a few days later Williams again stopped that same stage. This time he and his men had crow bars, sledge hammers, and a can of blasting powder. The tools proved useless, as did the first attempt at blowing the box open. But on the second try the powder blew the steel box into the air and opened it, scattering gold over the road. As his men retrieved the fortune, Williams passed around a bottle of brandy to the passengers and apologized for delaying them. Then he and his men disappeared down the road. One day in 1851 two men from Nevada City walked this road to the edge of town to settle a dispute. George Dibble and E.B. Lundy had gotten into an argument and Dibble called Lundy a liar. He then went on to challenge Lundy to a duel with pistols to resolve this affair of honor. Lundy accepted, but warned Dibble that he had fought duels before and that he was a crack shot. Dibble laughed. So the next morning the men met to resolve the issue. It was early, cold, and still dark, so the men met in a saloon for a drink to chase away the chill before dueling. The saloon was barely lit with just a few candles. Lundy tried one more time to caution his challenger, and as a warning he drew his pistol and took aim at a candle across the bar room, then severed the flaming wick with a single shot, leaving the candle standing untouched. It was a perfect shot in the dark that impressed every man there – every man, that is, except Dibble. Lundy insisted he could repeat that Shot In the Dark at will. Dibble again laughed. So the two men, with their Seconds by their sides and surrounded by a crowd of men, walked this road to the outskirts of town. Then they stood back to back, stepped twenty paces, turned and fired. Dibble grabbed his chest, staggered a few steps, and dropped dead in the road as Lundy walked coolly away. It was barely light, and Lundy had made good his promise of a perfect Shot In the Dark. This was also the road used by Bill Slater as he walked out of California forever, and he did so in a colorful way. Slater was a shop keeper in Downieville, another mining town not too far away. Downieville was much more isolated than most mountain communities in 1850, a rough town in a narrow canyon with no roads connecting it to the outside world, and for many months a hoard of gold had been accruing from miners who were becoming increasingly impatient to sell it. Slater had casually remarked to a customer in his store one day that there was a place in San Francisco which paid twenty-two dollars an ounce for gold, as opposed to the common value of sixteen dollars per ounce. This news spread like wildfire through town, and soon the eager miners elected Slater as just the right man to pack out their gold and sell it for them in San Francisco, generously offering him a fee of two dollars per ounce for doing so. Slater humbly agreed, and was soon leading a line of heavily packed animals down the canyon and out of town, carrying an estimated $25,000 of gold with him. He sold the gold in San Francisco then took the money and boarded a steamer going south. In Panama he stopped to speak with a gold seeker headed for California and recommended the man go to Downieville, saying he couldn’t find a more welcoming community than that town. He was careful to repeat his name and asked to be remembered to the men there, then laughingly headed east across the isthmus, never to be seen again. This road was also frequently traveled by the famous dancer, Lola Montez, who settled into semi-retirement in Grass Valley with her third husband. A colorful woman who had once been the mistress of King Ludwig of Bavaria, Lola’s talents and beauty were fading by the time she arrived here. And the fact that she had never bothered to divorce either of her first two husbands before marrying her third was a cause of consternation to some law enforcement officials in Europe. Grass Valley offered a quiet place to shelter, although Lola had a difficult time living quietly. She kept two grizzly bear cubs as pets, and often strolled the streets of both towns in very low cut gowns which proudly displayed her ample bosom as she puffed on a cigar. When a local minister preached to his congregation that her famous Spider Dance was lewd and obscene, Lola took this very road to go to his home where she walked through the front door and proceeded to give him and his family a private yet flamboyant performance of that very same Spider Dance, with a little extra lewdness thrown in for good measure. Jack Williams continued to rob people along this four mile stretch of road, but the Sheriff of Nevada City was getting a little impatient with his antics. Just robbing people had been somewhat tolerable, but using blasting powder to blow up steel express boxes was garnering the town too much bad publicity. So one day the sheriff got together a posse and the six men set off down this road to find Williams’ trail. Just outside of town the sheriff led the pose off the road, following what he thought were Williams’ tracks. But one deputy – an unusually capable man by the name of Steve Venard – was sure the sheriff was wrong and continued down the road alone. With the other five men still chasing shadows, Venard came around a turn to see Williams and his men in the road before him. They had seen him coming and had weapons already leveled at him, and they immediately opened fire. Deputy Venard pulled his fifteen-shot Henry Repeating Rifle from the scabbard alongside his saddle and fired back. His first shot went through Williams’ heart, and the outlaw dropped from his horse. Venard’s second shot went right through the head of another bandit. His third shot missed, but his fourth killed the last of the bandits. Hearing the gun shots the rest of the posse finally arrived, but they were too late for the fight. All they could do was to praise Venard’s marksmanship and pick the bodies up off the road. Miss Sarah Pellett, a woman long forgotten by history but who was famous in the 1850’s for her vociferous attacks on the evils of alcohol and the joys of temperance, also rode in a carriage along this very road. Miss Pellet came to the gold camps to preach to the miners against drinking alcohol, one of the miner’s most popular pastimes, and the miners were surprisingly eager to hear her. In anticipation of her arrival men from Grass Valley, Nevada City, Downieville, and other camps joined her Temperance Society by the hundreds. When the day of her talk arrived these men flocked impatiently to hear her. They were so impatient, in fact, that they began to boo and shout at the opening speaker, a man who apparently just didn’t know when to shut up. Finally the frustrated crowd began to fire guns into the air in an attempt to quiet him. But this persistent orator refused to yield the platform and instead got into a shouting match with one of his hecklers. This led to the challenge of a duel being offered and accepted. Shotguns were chosen as weapons, and the crowd duly took up a position a discreet distance from the speaker’s platform where Miss Pellet sat to watch the duel – a duel which didn’t take very long, as the speaker, who may have been long on words but was definitely short on expertise with firearms, took a blast from the heckler’s shotgun directly to the chest and fell dead in the street. Now, at last, the men could finally hear the woman they had been so impatient to see. But Sarah Pellet, seeing the Opening Act lying dead in the dust, had wisely gotten back into her carriage and was speedily leaving town without having spoken a single word, once again traveling along this well-rutted road. Leaving temperance behind forever, the men returned to the saloons. A sudden breeze brushes across your face, gentle yet cold, and your thoughts return from their wanderings as your eyes focus on the grass and trees around you. The stars have stopped dancing. You take a deep breath and shiver. The road before you – this road which had once been the most traveled road in all of California – lies completely quiet and devoid of movement and you wonder; did the road really speak to you, or were those men and women whom you watched pass by merely the result of your own Shots In the Dark? Below you there is a soft noise which catches your attention; it sounds just like the gentle squeak of a sign swaying in the breeze. Two Miles to Nevada City; Two Miles to Grass Valley. But tonight, here in the middle of this once busiest road in the state, here in the middle of this cold and starry night, it’s somehow just a few short steps back to 1850.
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There was a time in California when an outlaw might be notorious as
the scourge of the county, stealing horses and robbing stagecoaches, but he might also earn fame for displaying style, manners, and class while professionally going through the motions of his chosen profession. There was a time when a man’s acquisitive eye for an excellent horse might lead to an eager chase by officers of the law; yet that same man’s longing eye for a lovely woman would often lead to those ladies gazing upon him just as eagerly. There was a time when a man could be a horse thief by day and be a man who was known for his elegant dancing that same evening. Such a man was John Allen, otherwise known as Sheet Iron Jack. Allen came to California in the 1860’s, migrating from his New York home after a stint in the army. He was in his twenties and showed no lust whatsoever for the yellow metal which had been bringing so many Easterners to California for the past decade and a half. Instead he opened a barber shop and entertained his customers with ‘lively and humorous speech’ as he shaved their faces and trimmed their long hair. After work he would be a favorite personality in the bar with his endless supply of stories, and if he had any faults at all it was that he sometimes drank a bit too much, and maybe talked a little too much as well. John spent his money freely, and it was sometimes remarked upon that he seemed to have pockets that were deeper than those of a mere barber should have been. But that was merely idle curiosity as Jack had never been linked to anything of an even slightly unlawful nature. If anyone did harbor suspicions about the source of his finances they were soon charmed out of it by his easy manner and quick wit. And if those weren’t enough, all such thoughts were bound to be forgotten when John picked up his guitar and began to sing. His fingers danced across the strings as his deep baritone voice sang plaintive Mexican ballads – all the more impressive as John had lost one finger while serving in the military. Cutting hair, shaving beards, playing guitar, singing soulful songs; John Allen was just a great guy to have around. Until he got caught stealing horses, that is. Then everyone knew where all that money came from, and they knew there was more to John than met the eye. Much more. John had apparently been stealing horses for quite some time and arranging for their sale far away, quietly pocketing the money and maintaining his local reputation intact. But on this day he had just made off with three beautiful mounts from a nearby ranch and was riding one of them while leading the other two into the hills when the ranchers caught up with him. Allen was quickly recognized as he looked back over his shoulder at the five rapidly approaching men, and before making his getaway he turned to shout a cloud of vociferous profanity at the rightful owners of the horses. Then he dropped the reins of the two horses he was leading, spurred his mount, and made a beeline for thick foliage. Taken aback by John’s colorful verbal outburst and also by the two horses left standing in the road, the group stopped in confusion. But two of the pursuing men maintained enough presence of mind to pull shotguns from their scabbards and fire all four barrels of shot directly at Allen, which hit their mark. John disappeared into the foliage and the men chose not to give chase, instead taking the two horses as their prize and quickly returning to town to spread the news about the musical barber turned horse thief. Over drinks in the bar one of the shotgun wielders was quite descriptive about the episode and insisted that the shotgun blasts fired had hit their mark, and was incredulous that Allen had shown no injury from their impact. He said that the shots had actually bounced off Allen with a loud metallic retort, leaving him unhurt. One of the many eager listeners in the bar promptly raised his glass and offered a toast to the tougher than nails horse thief, christening him ‘Sheet Iron Jack’ because of his bullet proof hide. And thus a nickname – and a legend – were born. Jack’s career as a horse thief now really took off since he no longer had to take the care to lead a cautious double life, and it wasn’t long before he was being chased through the hills and valleys by more than one posse at a time. Yet he not only managed to keep track of his pursuers’ whereabouts but was also able to easily elude them as well. But just simply staying ahead of them was sometimes not enough for this creatively-minded horse thief. It was too easy, and Jack found himself longing for more of a challenge. On one such occasion Jack was informed by a sympathetic friend that a posse was quickly approaching. Jack knew the sheriff leading that particular posse had never seen him, and was willing to bet that no one else in the group had either. So he boldly rode back to find them and, when he had, innocently asked the sheriff what they were all up to. The Sheriff eagerly told him that they were looking for Sheet Iron Jack, the notorious bullet-proof horse thief, and Jack promptly volunteered to join the posse, giving a false name and offering to help if he could. For the rest of that day he road alongside the sheriff and charmed him with his engaging stories. That evening, when the posse stopped to rent rooms for the night, the sheriff was so impressed with Jack that he didn’t want to part company, even for the night, so he asked Jack to be his bunkmate in one room, a request to which Jack charmingly agreed. Late that night, as the sheriff snored loudly in deep sleep, Jack picked up his boots and silently stole out of the room. After closing the door he jammed it shut with the blade of a knife, effectively imprisoning the gullible sheriff inside, then made his way to the stable where he stole the sheriff’s horse as well as two others from the posse, fine horses which he’d had his eye on all day. Just before sunrise he stopped at a farmer’s house and, sitting by candlelight, wrote a note to the sheriff thanking him for his hospitality and complimenting him on his taste in horseflesh. Then he rode off and disappeared, leaving the sheriff and the posse seething in angry frustration as they read the note. Months passed, the theft of horses went on, and Sheet Iron Jack appeared free to roam the country unhindered. On another occasion – even though he knew that a posse was close behind – Jack stopped when he saw a Saturday night barn dance taking place. Tying his horse out front he allowed himself to be lured in by the sound of the lively music. He looked over the crowd, spotted the prettiest girl, and promptly went up to her, laying a hand on her partner’s shoulder. He announced himself as Sheet Iron Jack and stated that he wished to have the honor of dancing with the lady. The man backed off, not knowing what to think, and Jack took the lady in his arms and led her around the floor. When the musicians stopped Jack asked that they keep playing, and selected another young lady as his next partner, separating her from her man and leading her around the floor. And again with another lady. And again; and again; always with the prettiest young ladies, and always with the men backing away without offering any trace of challenge to the man identifying himself as the bullet proof Sheet Iron Jack. After a half dozen such dances Jack pulled his pocket watch out, looked at it thoughtfully, and thanked the ladies as he made his way to the door, saying to the crowd as he passed that a posse was close on his heels and that they would soon be there. As he didn’t want this evening - what had really been a lovely evening for him - to be disrupted, he was taking his leave. With that he got on his horse and rode off. Not ten minutes passed before the posse rode hurriedly into the farm yard, dismounting and asking questions. The half dozen besotted young ladies said that Jack was indeed a gentleman and that his manners were impeccable. The men, embarrassed and humiliated, refused to speak. Then, as the sheriff and his posse were ready to resume the chase, one woman observed wistfully that Jack had danced like an angel. Yes, the other half dozen young pretty ladies chorused sadly, longingly; he danced like an angel. The man who danced like an angel had danced off into the darkness without a trace. The bands of lawmen continued to look, and Jack continued to effortlessly elude them. One day while Jack was riding casually along a mountain road, knowing that no pursuit was close at hand and taking the reprieve to look about for untended horses, he came across a lone man sitting dejectedly in the dirt alongside the road. Asking the stranger what had happened to leave him all alone without any kind of transport, the man explained that he had started out his journey riding a fine horse but that his mount had begun to limp so he had stopped to rest. While he was resting a mountain man had come along, looked over the horse, and sadly but confidently declared that the cause of the lameness was serious and would take at least a year to heal, during which time the horse should not be ridden. Then, as the mountain man walked off, he looked back thoughtfully at the traveler and kindly offered to take the lame horse off his hands for thirty dollars and see to the year-long cure for the poor animal. The traveler had agreed, and accepted thirty dollars for the horse. Now he had to walk to the nearest town and see if he could buy another horse for that thirty dollars. Jack just shook his head and smiled at the naivety of this man who gave new meaning to the word ‘Greenhorn’. But Jack also felt sorry for him. Telling the man to sit down and wait for his return, Jack rode off on the trail of the mountain man. When he found the shifty fellow Jack identified himself, pulled his gun, and told him that he was going to take the horse back to the greenhorn who had been so easily fleeced and that the mountain man should shut up and not offer any objection; that losing thirty dollars was an inexpensive lesson for learning manners. But the mountain man did indeed object, so Jack leveled his revolver and told him to empty his pockets; that the man’s mouth had now cost him whatever other money he had in his possession as well. To Jack’s surprise and delight, the mountain man had over six hundred dollars in his pockets, all of which Jack now gratefully took possession. Jack warned the man that if anybody was going to steal horses in these mountains it was going to be him – Sheet Iron Jack – and that he didn’t appreciate any competition from a local con artist. Then he led the lame horse back to its rightful owner and explained that the horse’s limp was caused by a shoe which wasn’t fitting properly, and that a blacksmith could easily fix it. He related what had happened with the mountain man and told the traveler to keep the thirty dollars, but cautioned him that, if he ever saw the man in this part of the mountains again, he would be fair game for Sheet Iron Jack. The traveler had his horse, thirty dollars, and a story to tell, and Jack had an enhanced reputation. But Jack was getting tired of life on the road; of life on the run. He was a social person who craved company; who liked to sing and dance and drink. So one evening in search of companionship he road into town and went into a bar for a drink. One drink led to another, and all those drinks led to Jack’s being a little too loquacious and he got into an argument with another man. Words led to shouts and weapons were drawn. The shot aimed at Jack may have simply missed its mark, but legend has it that it bounced off the chest of Sheet Iron Jack and fell to the bar room floor. Jack’s shot hit the target, wounding his opponent. Jack was thrown in jail, put on trial, and sentenced to two years in San Quentin. Ironically, on the way out of town to prison, while escorted by two guards on board a stage, the coach was waylaid by two armed bandits seeking to hold it up. After the first shotgun blast from the outlaws Jack stuck his head out the stage window and let go with a loud and colorful burst of profanity aimed at the would-be robbers, saying that he was on his way to get some sea air and he would appreciate a little peace and quiet. Astounded, the two robbers retreated into the brush without completing the robbery. Jack stayed in San Quentin for less than six months of his two year sentence, as his lawyer’s appeal for a new trial was successful. Back in county jail, Jack escaped in less than a week. But the escapade on the stage while riding to San Quentin had stuck in his mind, so he recruited two fellows down on their luck and the three of them robbed a stagecoach. Jack found it surprisingly easy, so he and his companions promptly robbed two more. Jack had always been successful while working alone, and having two new companions proved to be his downfall. After the third robbery those two were easily apprehended, and they told the sheriff where Jack could be found. Within days he was back in San Quentin, this time serving a sentence of twenty-four years for armed robbery. But Jack’s luck still held, and six years later the governor of California commuted his sentence and set him free – with the provision that Jack leave California and stay out. Jack should have heeded that advice, but he didn’t. Less than a year later Jack stumbled out of a bar and began shouting profanity at passersby. When the sheriff came along and suggested that Jack might want to tone things down, Jack pulled his gun and pointed it at the sheriff. The sheriff, with cool deliberation, grabbed the barrel of the gun and twisted it around to point at Jack, then told Jack to go ahead and pull the trigger. Jack wasn’t that intoxicated. He allowed himself to be led to jail to sleep it off in the drunk tank. But while Jack was sleeping a detective from the San Francisco police force arrived in town looking for him. He had evidence that Jack had been involved in the theft and resale of a very expensive horse. And the evidence was pretty persuasive – when he’d resold the stolen horse, Jack had signed the bill of sale with his real name, John Allen. This time Jack was sent to Folsom Prison. He served his sentence in full, and when he was released, he disappeared forever. Some said that he belatedly took the governor’s advice and left California for good. Others said that he went to live with the Modoc in Northern California, a native tribe amongst whom he had many friends. And still others said that he immediately returned to his old profession of horse thievery; a career at which he was actually quite good as long worked on his own, didn’t take on any assistants to betray him, and didn’t drink or talk too much. Playing the guitar beautifully with only nine fingers; singing haunting Mexican ballads in his deep baritone voice; stealing horses with ease; Sheet Iron Jack was an outlaw with style; the outlaw who was a legend because he was impervious to bullets. And he danced like an angel. |
AuthorWith a degree in Anthropology and an avid interest in history, Tim Christensen has lived in the Sierra Nevada Mountains for many years. He has no cell phone or television, but manages, when not chopping firewood or shoveling snow, to keep himself entertained with a library of several thousand books. Archives
July 2017
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Sequoia Parks Conservancy, the official 501(c)(3) nonprofit partner of Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks (National Park Service) and Lake Kaweah (U.S. Army Corps of Engineers), uses tax-deductible contributions to support these parks.
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