Dedication and The Amethyst Crew "1947"

Dedication

I hailed a bus named Memory Lane. The driver said, "Hop in.
I'm going to pick up all your pards and take you for a spin.

We'll start along old Amethyst Way then South to Commodore
and pick up friends you haven't seen since 1944."

Reuben Wesander, Clarence Martin, I was sure those two were dead.
That's George Logue and Whitey Miller by the sidewalk just ahead

and there stands Tommy Phillips, why, I'll never forget him
hey, this is great, I can't believe, they all look fit and trim

I see Art and Frankie Davis, old Lee is over there
With Lane and Ernie Egan, a real fine mining pair

easy there, you nearly hit, Hank Slaght and Raymond Ball
and left a little yellow paint along the canyon wall

Gene Tankersley, you ornery cuss, you almost broke my neck
now move along and find a seat before you make us wreck

let's pick up Freddie Seyfried, Floyd Dooley's by his side
I can't remember who it was that told me they had died

but here they are and laughing hard, they got Bill Horning's goat
they taped a sign "Please Kick me" on the backside of his coat

and who should take them at their word but prankster Lee Moore
who placed a boot in poor Bill's rear that raised him off the floor

slow up, I see Pat Patten and the Johnsons, Tom and Red
LeRoy Brown and Scooter Jackson, that crew looks darned well fed

There's Bud Miles and Barney Fairchild, Donald Powell will get on, too
They've stuck together all through life, good friends, tried and true

We've reached the end of Amethyst Way, Al Wintz is with Jiggs Moore
Gene Wardell and Norman Birdsey will be waiting on Commodore

I worked with Billy Weaver here, and blacksmith, Johnny Slater
they're helping Bernie Soward now and said to come back later

would you look at these McClure men, Harry, John and Gene
they drilled a million holes or more, hard work has kept them lean

Charles Johnson will be waiting at the ore bin he designed
a high old thousand tonner from the plans stored in his mind

migawd, this bus is filling up, there's hardly room for me
but Gordon Hosselkus just got on and said he'd pay our fee

do you think there's time to swing around by Corsair Avenue
where Fred Baker and Paul Mitchell just holed a tunnel through

well, I'll be damned, that's Woody Wintz, beneath the driver's hat
and sitting right beside him is my old friend, Charlie Slaght

The Amethyst Crew "1947"

Erick W. Nelson: General Manager, miner, leader, mentor and one of the very finest individuals I have known. Self-taught geologist who inspired every person around him. His knowledge and dedication shaped a successful mining operation.

Isaac D. Crawford: Superintendent, top miner and inventive. I.D., as he was known to all of us, noticed that on rainy or snowy days his pickup had more power in climbing to the mine. He thought the added humidity was the key to it and welded a small water tank to clamp to the manifold for heat with a tube to the air filter on the carburetor to mix steam with air. It worked. I.D. failed to patent his device but others seized on the idea and produced a like model.

Glenn Archer: Foreman, one of the most helpful leaders, underground, I worked under. Several times, when I was short of time to get my round cycled, Glenn would jump in, drill as I made up primers, then help me tear down the drill and column. He retired, moved to Idaho Springs with his wife, but couldn't adjust to leisure. He took a job at a local mine sinking a winze. On a visit to Creede, we met as I came off shift and I asked him about his new job. "Aw hell, Johnny," he confided in me, "they fired me the second week. I just couldn't keep up with those young bucks." We laughed about it and I congratulated him.

John Nelson: Blacksmith, miner, leaser who worked in nearly every mine in the area of Creede. John contracted silicosis at a young age and learned blacksmithing so he could continue being productive in the mining industry. He was, without doubt, the finest blacksmith around during my early years in mining. There wasn't a tool used in mining John couldn't fashion or improve and he could repair any of the many types of machinery used in mining, including the compressors.

Gus Prince and Gus Swanson: Ore sorters and two of the finest senior gentlemen at the Amethyst Mine. They performed one of the most important jobs in the ore circuit in sorting pay ore from waste rock using square point shovels on a metal platform over the bin. It took years of experience in underground mining and a good eye plus a strong back to stay ahead of the muck trains.

Shorty Dunkel and Red Johnson: Miners. Here was as unlikely a pairing of miners as one would ever see. Red was an alcoholic, Shorty never touched alcohol. Red was a go getter never wasting a minute so he could get the shift in and find his favorite stool at the bar while Shorty had the patience of Job and always kept his temper in check. I never saw him without a smile. They were the best stope miners of that period, running clean walls with very little waste which made it easy on the ore sorters when their muck was pulled. Red had worked at Summitville before coming to Creede and was a very capable miner in all jobs.

James "Zero" Ott and George Hatfield—Miners: Zero and George worked mainly in stopes and could get more done with the least effort, it seemed, than the other miners. I believe Zero was originally from Arkansas and George was from Kentucky and was one of the original feuding "Hatfields and McCoys." He was a powerful man with a no nonsense approach. I worked with both Zero and George and learned much about life in our conversations as well as how to break ore. George was hired by Erick Nelson who took a liking to the big Kentuckian and checked on him often when he was tramming ore cars in the upper Amethyst. One day Erick asked him how he was getting along and if he liked working underground. "Yes sir, Mr. Nelson, I like that $4.00 coming in every day and after two weeks of tramming I can eat hay and shit a'walking." Erick laughed and elevated him to miner's helper.

Neil Walker and Bob Oates—Miners: Neil was not long out of the Marine Corps where he had served his country well in the Pacific war and Bob had served equally well in the Navy having survived bombings of his ship by Kamikaze fighters of the Japanese Air Force off Okinawa. Neil had mined before the war but at this time was one of the mule skinners in the Amethyst Mine, a very dependable worker. My first shifts after the war were with Bob Oates whose father had been a miner and died of a heart attack the day Bob returned from war duty. Bob and I drove a cross-cut to explore two hanging wall veins and teamed up after work for drinking and skirt chasing. A good worker who had survived another ocean voyage when the ship he, his Mother and Dad were on, returning from Australia sank in the early 1930s.

Paul Weaver and Ed McCargish—Miners: Paul was a member of an old-time mining family and Ed was a transplant from the coal mines near Trinidad. Both were capable miners but chose the less strenuous work of running hoists. For those of us who depended on the various services of a hoist, it was a relief to know that either Paul or Ed would be at the controls. Gavin Skinner and I had taken an uncontrolled and extremely fast ride on the lip of a sump bucket at the hands of a novice hoistman. One such ride was more than enough for both of us.

Tommy Phillips and Dick Lehman—leasers: Two very able miners who stepped up a notch to lease high grade silver areas where it wouldn't be profitable for the company to assign miners. Tommy ran the first diesel bulldozer in Mineral County in 1936, then turned to the mines where he found his niche. He was a shrewd leaser, a top miner and, in later years, was a very able foreman. Dick had served in the Sea Bees of the Navy in the war and returned to the mines he loved. He also rose in rank to foreman, then spent his last productive years with an exploration company.

Frankie Davis and Paul Murray: In 1947 they were leasing a block of ground on 900' level of the Last Chance and New York lodes. Both had many years of mining experience in several states. Frankie had served in the Army in the war with the engineers who blasted holes in underwater defenses of Okinawa Island.

Lee Skinner and Gavin Skinner: Father and son miners stoping ore from what was known as "42" vein and chute. Gavin had been in the Air Force in the war with duty in Italy. Wylie Skinner, the grandfather, was an early day miner in Creede and drove a tunnel in East Willow Creek to his claims higher on the East Side.

George Kershner and Bill Mathews: Not actually "mule skinners" as we used horses at the Amethyst Mine but that was the accepted moniker. George migrated from Oklahoma after the war and Army service and adapted readily to underground work. He was fond of horses and could coax the best from them. He was a top skinner and motorman when the conversion to electric motors was made. Bill had been in the Civilian Conservation Corps stationed in Creede and returned from Army service in the war to marry Phyllis Alspaugh, daughter of a prominent Creede mining family. Bill never really liked to be underground and after two close calls in the tunnels he returned to his roots in Texas with his new bride.

John Dabney and George Logue: John was an old timer who had a resort near the Continental Reservoir and worked winters in the mines of Creede. George Logue was an Army veteran of the Pacific war and retaking of Attu and Kiska Islands. They made a good working team and were driving an exploratory raise in 1947.

Reuben Wesander and Tommy Thompson: Reuben and Tommy were typical of the ex-servicemen who landed in Creede after the war as if fated to share that atmosphere and heal, within, from the hell and rigors of war. Tommy had been in the Marine Corps and Reuben had been in the Navy. Unfortunately, the hell returned in the form of a premature explosion that claimed Reuben's life and injured Tommy. I had a good, friendly relationship with both men and was with Tommy later that night. He remembered nothing of the explosion, just a flash and then he was struggling to stay alive as rocks from other blasts rolled onto him from the incline they were driving.

During the latter half of the 1940s, there were enough liquor establishments in and around Creede to ruin the livers of every inhabitant and a good share of those from nearby valley towns. One bar favored the loggers and service workers, one bar catered to the miners and construction workers, and another drew a somewhat higher clientele which pretty well covered every class in Creede's caste system. Two beer parlors took care of the forces termed non-combatants. Such distinctions assured rivalry among the owners and bartenders leading to bare knuckle confrontations on occasion. A memorable one came to a head when Willie, the miners bar owner, told us the bar owner up the street was so prissy he probably wore pink bloomers. We laughed but his assessment of Harris filtered back to his ears provoking a howl of outrage that could be heard town wide and propelled him on a fast walk to Willie's where he jerked open the door and ordered Willie outside to talk about the slur on his character. Harris looked like a fighter, stocky build, wide shoulders and thick neck whereas Willie, with his sloping shoulders and long neck looked like a choir boy. We feared Harris was going to put lumps all over him. When out on the turf, Harris crossed his arms over his chest, thrust his chin out and told Willie, "I will give you just one minute to apologize to me." Willie didn't even remove his glasses. He thought about it for less than a second and flattened Harris with a right cross. Never challenge an Irishman with your chin out and your arms folded.

Another battle of a little longer duration was between our barber and a bar owner. Van was not only a barber, he was a miner and owned a claim he offered to share with me if I would clean up the cave-ins and re-timber the tunnel. We were in the Rainbow Bar & Grill having a drink and a pleasant conversation when the owner who was bartending at the time butted in to make comments about my "old man" raising his taxes and he was going to complain about him to the state tax commission. I told him as gently as possible that my dad wasn't the assessor and he should do his bitching to him. He wouldn't give up. He was from Denver which was supposed to impress us, and we were both getting pretty loud when I decided it would be best to leave and avoid any more bickering, but Van cocked a finger and told him if he wanted to go to fist city to step outside. Bob wasn't a fighter, that was very evident, so I laughed and told Van "he's all yours." We gathered outside where it was snow covered and still snowing. Van went into a fighting stance, flicked a left at Bob and slipped in the fresh snow to fall heavily on his rear. Bob rushed in to clobber him as he got up, missed with a wild right haymaker and fell into the bumper of a car, knocking himself out. Van did a little shuffle, raised his right arm as he looked down at Bob and said, "How's that for a one punch knockout." The small crowd roared its approval.