I began at once to seek out some sort of salaried position, thinking that a sure thing at the end of each month was about the only safe provision that I could make. I was firmly resolved that if I did get a good situation, nothing would tempt me to leave it. I even pictured out a happy future, when, by doing extraordinary good work for some prosperous firm, I would be invited to become a member of it, and spend my life in that ease and comfort which comes only from systematic and steady business effort. "No more experiences for Jim Wardner," I told my wife. She was awfully glad of my determination. I called upon H. Bosworth & Sons, the large wholesalers, and my services "for the road" were at once accepted. I was given a route which took me up into the Northwest, and one morning I reached the new and thriving town of Yankton, South Dakota. Almost the first man I met in Yankton was a fellow who had just returned from a hurried trip to the Black Hills. He had a bottle of placer gold nuggets. One glimpse of the precious metal was enough to eradicate from my mind any and all resolutions I had formed about settling down to a life of plodding business. Without any hesitation or consideration I returned to my hotel, ordered my sample trunks to be returned to H. Bosworth & Sons, Milwaukee, and before mid-afternoon I was a passenger on a little steamer which was making its way up the Missouri River to Fort Pierre. The rush to the Black Hills had begun, and the boat was crowded with adventurers. My mining experience in Arizona qualified me to make calculations pretty closely as to the outcome of a gold rush stampede, and I was about the only calm individual in Fort Pierre when we landed there.
A number of us started on foot for Rapid City, 160 miles distant. We soon met a returning bull train, and I succeeded in buying a bronco from one of the outfit. Then I pushed on alone. That night I camped with a bull-whacker named McCabe, and late in the evening a man came in who said his name was John Christianson. He was without money and was hungry, but was determined to make his way to the Mecca of gold.
He told me that he had been employed by Clarence Shephard & Co., of Milwaukee, and that he had left home with sufficient money to get through all right, but that at Sioux City he had run up against a brace game of faro and had dropped every cent he had. He asked me to carry his coat for him when he started out the next morning, and he left the camp as soon as it was light. I followed on later, and when I overtook him at Cheyenne Crossing he was chopping wood to pay for his dinner at Smith's Ranch. I called him off that job and gave him five dollars one-half of all I had with me. I went on, carrying Christiansen's coat, and I saw nothing more of him for the time being. I reached Deadwood all right, kept the coat with my belongings, and time passed. Nearly a year afterward 1 happened to be in "The Box" saloon when a fine-looking, well-dressed man came in. Noticing me he said : "Aren't you Jim Wardner?" I replied that I was the veritable "Jim." “I think, young fellow," said he, "that you have got a coat that belongs to me." Then I recognized Christianson. "Now, Wardner, you gave me a great lift when you carried my coat for me, and I want you to join me in a quart bottle. I am now chief engineer of the Homestake, and whenever John Christianson can do you a good turn let him know it."
It was only a short time after that before an election was about to take place. Andrew Plowman was running for district attorney; he was a decent sort of fellow, but stood no show of election unless he could carry Lead City, where, it was said, he stood no show for the miner's vote. Plowman came to me, and said he could do nothing unless I could aid him; that he was all right except at Lead City. I liked Plowman, and so I said that I would see about that particular district. Then I went to Christiansen, told him the situation, and that Plowman was a friend of mine. The result was that Plowman carried Lead City, and was elected by a large majority. But this is getting a little ahead of my consecutive story. Upon arrival at Deadwood I at once ordered a stock of goods from H. Bosworth & Sons. The firm responded to my request, but owing to a series of delays in the forwarding I found that it would be necessary for me to be doing something in the way of making money while the goods were on the way. In looking about the rapidly building city of Deadwood I discovered that there was a bit of vacant and unlocated ground, with about thirty feet fronting on Lee Street, just below the point where the Deadwood and Whitewood Creeks come together. It was the creek itself. Before daylight of the morning following my discovery of this unlocated water lot I had a pretty good store building up. I wanted the front to be of glass, and all that part was of unglazed sash. There was no glass to be had in Deadwood just then, so I covered the sash with cotton cloth. Finding out that my goods were pretty sure to be delayed for a considerable time, I had a bar built along one side of the room, bought a barrel of whiskey and a few bottles and glasses, hired a fellow who said he had been a "star mixer" at the Hoffman House sideboard in New York City, and started my first saloon.
One evening soon after the saloon was in full blast my bartender told me that he was compelled to take a night off and he left me alone about ten o'clock, taking our only revolver with him. He had no more than left the premises before a fellow looking as much like a scoundrel as I had ever seen in the Hills walked in, apparently half drunk, and called for a drink. Just then I noticed that he had the handle of a big dirk knife in his right palm, the blade of the knife being concealed by his coat sleeve. Before I had time to even grab an ice pick he made a lunge at me. I dodged the blow and then, without a moment's hesitation, I sprang headlong against the cheesecloth covering of the front sash and went through it, carrying sash and all with me. As I jumped through the sash I remembered that it was a good sixteen feet to the flowing water below, into which the force of my jump would probably carry me. The result was that I went into the river head-first, and it was with great difficulty that I finally extricated myself from the mass of cloth, debris of sash, and the water, and got out upon the street. The robber took about $100 that was in the till and escaped. Soon after this my goods arrived and I opened up the "Red Front Store," which became one of the well known establishments of Deadwood. I also opened a saloon and lunch room, which I styled the "Oyster Bay," and wherein I sold the first oysters brought into Deadwood.
I began to make enough money to enable me to think of larger operations than the store and saloon afforded, and so I sold out those establishments and went into partnership with Fred T. Evans (Big Fred) in the freighting business. We had 500 yoke of bulls employed and did the larger portion of the freighting between Deadwood and Fort Pierre. This kept me most of the time on the road between the two places. One afternoon as I was going west from Fort Pierre and was upon a ridge near Grindstone Buttes, I saw off to my left a party of Indians who had seen me and were evidently intent upon cutting off my trail before I could get to the crossing at Deadman's Creek. The Indians were just beginning to be troublesome. I knew I had an extra good bronco, and I also knew that I had to make the crossing before being overtaken or it would be all up with Jim Wardner.
On reaching Deadwood ahead of the train I at once called to see Mr. Stebbins at his hastily constructed new bank building. I had hardly washed my hands and face for a week; my clothes were worn and ragged, and I looked "tough." As I went into the bank Mr. Stebbins met me with a frown as he took in my dilapidated appearance. He did not offer to "shake," but said: "See here, Jim; I have heard that you used up that letter of credit, then overdrew your account, and have been hauling in tons of worthless frozen eggs into the camp. What in the devil do you expect to do? My letting you have that $5,000 and your over-drafts have put me in the hole in great shape. Right this minute I have got to have $11,000 and don't know where to get the currency. You are the d-dest fool I ever saw." Then I laughed. Of course, Mr. Stebbins took my light treatment of so serious a matter with quick anger. Then I said to him: "You want $11,000 in currency? Well, Mr. Stebbins, let's see what the bank of Jim Wardner can do for you. These old clothes are about the safest and best bank vault in the Hills, Stebbins, and you are welcome to the combination. "Then I began to unload loads of money from every pocket. The greenbacks piled up and piled up on a table by which we were standing, and Stebbins began to smile. Soon there was fully $11,000 withdrawn from my vaults, and the most surprised man in the Hills was the banker of Deadwood. After I had sold out all the eggs I was nearly $7,000 ahead on the deal and was ready to tackle some new enterprise.
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