The Anaconda standard. [volume] (Anaconda, Mont.) 1889-1970, 1897-12-26

Why didn't 1 reach out for the 5000
dead or alive reward and go after
James when i had this good chance:
| Well for several reason that level-head-
ed men that are fond of living along
for a while will appreciate, entirely
| aside from the fact that / wasn't wear
| ing any badge in that year, and that
the presence of James in Leavenworth
| was revealed to me in confidence by a
| friend of mine. There was a maxim in
the country that / was raised in that
it was worse to betray the confidence
| of a friend. even to serve the ends of
justice, than to steal sheep, and
never drifted very far away from that
idea. even when wearing a sheriff's or
marshaFs rig-out. .s...
Another extremely bad man, probab-
| ly one of the very worst that ever
| messed up the state of Colorado, who
| had soft and superstitious streak in
him. was Phil Dixon, finally of Denver.
| Phil was combination of cow-punch-
err prospector, highwayman, short
card player and all around sport; but
| he was a whole lot more plain bad
man than any one or all of these things
The red-letter day on his list was that
on which he killed four greasers with
one gun, when they, not knowing him,
had tried to pick on him in a saloon
in La Junta. Up to the time he did
tDlS MI OI DduneSS was III
danger of becoming disliked in Col
orado, but the affair at La Junta oblit-
Grated the prejudice against him, SO
that after that he was both approved
and feared. He had plenty of room
when he located in Denver in 1879, and
no attempt was made to shove him into
the county Jail on the warrants and
acquisitions that were out against him
from other states. He behaved pretty
wei until the summer of 1880. Then he
got letter containing that announce
ment That his young sister back East
had been thrown from a buggy while
driving through a cemetery and in
stantly killed. | was running an auc-
tloneer business in Denver at this
time, and knew Phil pretty we'll. He
brought the letter to me. When /
read 1t without saying anything Dix
on remarked: That's the notice for
me to quit, too and walked away.
From that time on Dixon, unlike
James, began to hunt for his finish. but
no matter what degree of reckleSsness
he displayed to this end he seemed for
some time unable to bring it about. He
took what looked like a dead sure
chance for his own wind-up on the first
night of the Chinese riots in Denver
in the fall of 1880, soon after the publ
cation of the famous Morey letter. Six
teen Chinese were slaughtered by mobs
in Denver that night. Although Phil
Dixon had often been heard to express
his disgust for Cinnamon, he not only
kept out of the hunt for them that
night, but stood to lose his life in their
defense. He did this, as he afterward
told me, because he felt it all over
that he had played his string, and he
wanted to see the thing out while
standing up.
Anyhow, on the first night of the
riots Dixon was downtown, taking in
the wild actions of the Chinese-hunting
mobs with an apparently uninterested
eye. Along about o'clock he was
standing in the doorway of a harness
store in the next blocl. from Tabor's
Grand Opera house. There was a wild
hurrah down the street. and China
man, scared almost to death, and run
ming like q deer. looked in Phil's direc-
ton, with a couple of hundred men,
most of them infIamed with rum, at his
heels. While the galloping Chinaman
drew close to where he was standing
Dixon called out to him:
Come here. you lop-eared Chink;
I'll stand 'em off for YOU
But the Chinaman, mistrusting Dix
on. paid no attention to the call. So
Dixon grabbed him and chucked him
into the door of the harness shop. He
was a giant of feet 2, and the China
man was a lapdog in his hands
He had hardly cast the Chinaman
within the door before the advance
guard of the pursuing mob came up
Phil was taking up the whole doorway,
with his legs straddled out, and his
feet about four feet apart, his hands
behind him in a position that meant
Well said he to the winded mob
that was drawn up across the street
from curb to curb.
" He went in there, didn't he?' yelled
some of them.
Who the Chnk? Yes, he inside
now. What's he done?'
None of your damned business.
Dixon; we want him; that's all"
shouted the mob.
Well. said Dixon, both of his guns
coming out like flash, / don't see any
shaft cables chained to any of you. Get
him.
Men who saw the performance from
the windows of places across the street |
told me that the thing was a picture. !
For a solid minute Dixon stood in the !
doorway with the muzzles of his guns !
turned downward. waiting. The mob |
absolutely silent. Then some |
Of the men on the outer edge of the !
crowd set up a hi-yi.
There's another one,' they yelled, |
and the whole mob turned and broke |
after a Chinaman who had been chased I
oy another gang down a cross street. |
Dixon replaced his guns with a dis I
yusted look when the crowd had all |
gone. Then he dragged the shivering |
rhnaman from beneath one of the har-
ness store counters and led him by the
scruff Of the neck to police headquar-
ers. where he turned him over for pro-
ection.
Dixon carried the same kind of
hip on his shoulder for nearly three
months after before he met up with
lis finale, which overlook him in Lead
lille. He was in Bentley's saloon one
light when a young tenderfoot tourist
anne in, and in conversation with the
related that he had just
ost a big wad of money, one bet after
mother, at Dan Cartwright's faro
same. Now. Cartwright's layout was
race game. and no mistake. Dixon
leard the tenderfoot boys talk with the
nan behind the bar.
Wen take q walk over to Cart
vright's. son. said he to the young
han and tho lad followed him with !