TO THE EDITOR OF THE ENTERPRISE: Months ago, when Mr. Sutro incidentally
exposed mining management on the Comstock, and among others roused me to
protest against its continuance, in great kindness you warned me that
any attempt by publications, by public meetings and by legislative
action, aimed at the correction of chronic mining evils in Storey
County, must entail upon me (a) business ruin, (b) the burden of all its
costs, (c) personal violence, and if my purpose were persisted in, then
(d) assassination, and after all nothing would be effected.
YOUR PROPHECY FULFILLING. In large part at least your prophecies have
been fulfilled, for (a) assaying, which was well attended to in the Gold
Hill Assay Office (of which I am superintendent), in consequence of my
publications, has been taken elsewhere, so the President of one of the
companies assures me. With no reason assigned, other work has been taken
away. With but one or two important exceptions, our assay business now
consists simply of the gleanings of the vicinity. (b) Though my own
personal donations to the People’s Tribune Association have
already exceeded $1,500, outside of our own numbers we have received (in
money) less than $300 as contributions and subscriptions for the
journal. (c) On Thursday last, on the main street in Gold Hill, near
noon, with neither warning nor cause assigned, by a powerful blow I was
felled to the ground, and while down I was kicked by a man who it would
seem had been led to believe that I had spoken derogatorily of him. By
whom he was so induced to believe I am as yet unable to say. On Saturday
last I was again assailed and beaten by a man who first informed me why
he did so, and who persisted in making his assault even after the
erroneous impression under which he also was at first laboring had been
clearly and repeatedly pointed out. This same man, after failing through
intimidation to elicit from me the names of our editorial contributors,
against giving which he knew me to be pledged, beat himself weary upon
me with a raw hide, I not resisting, and then pantingly threatened me
with permanent disfiguring mayhem, if ever again I should introduce his
name into print, and who but a few minutes before his attack upon me
assured me that the only reason I was “permitted” to reach
home alive on Wednesday evening last (at which time the PEOPLE’S
TRIBUNE was issued) was, that he deems me only half-witted, and be it
remembered the very next morning I was knocked down and kicked by a man
who seemed to be prepared for flight. [He sees doom impending:]
WHEN WILL THE CIRCLE JOIN? How long before the whole of your prophecy
will be fulfilled I cannot say, but under the shadow of so much
fulfillment in so short a time, and with such threats from a man who is
one of the most prominent exponents of the San Francisco mining-ring
staring me and this whole community defiantly in the face and pointing
to a completion of your augury, do you blame me for feeling that this
communication is the last I shall ever write for the Press, especially
when a sense alike of personal self-respect, of duty to this
money-oppressed and fear-ridden community, and of American fealty to the
spirit of true Liberty all command me, and each more loudly than love of
life itself, to declare the name of that prominent man to be JOHN B.
WINTERS, President of the Yellow Jacket Company, a political aspirant
and a military General? The name of his partially duped accomplice and
abettor in this last marvelous assault, is no other than PHILIP LYNCH,
Editor and Proprietor of the Gold Hill News.
Despite the insult and wrong heaped upon me by John B. Winters, on
Saturday afternoon, only a glimpse of which I shall be able to afford
your readers, so much do I deplore clinching (by publicity) a serious
mistake of any one, man or woman, committed under natural and not self-
wrought passion, in view of his great apparent excitement at the time
and in view of the almost perfect privacy of the assault, I am far from
sure that I should not have given him space for repentance before
exposing him, were it not that he himself has so far exposed the matter
as to make it the common talk of the town that he has horsewhipped me.
That fact having been made public, all the facts in connection need to
be also, or silence on my part would seem more than singular, and with
many would be proof either that I was conscious of some unworthy aim in
publishing the article, or else that my “non-combatant”
principles are but a convenient cloak alike of physical and moral
cowardice. I therefore shall try to present a graphic but truthful
picture of this whole affair, but shall forbear all comments, presuming
that the editors of our own journal, if others do not, will speak freely
and fittingly upon this subject in our next number, whether I shall then
be dead or living, for my death will not stop, though it may suspend,
the publication of the PEOPLE’S TRIBUNE. [The “non-combatant”
sticks to principle, but takes along a friend or two of a conveniently
different stripe:]
THE TRAP SET. On Saturday morning John B. Winters sent verbal word to
the Gold Hill Assay Office that he desired to see me at the Yellow
Jacket office. Though such a request struck me as decidedly cool in view
of his own recent discourtesies to me there alike as a publisher and as
a stockholder in the Yellow Jacket mine, and though it seemed to me more
like a summons than the courteous request by one gentleman to another
for a favor, hoping that some conference with Sharon looking to the
betterment of mining matters in Nevada might arise from it, I felt
strongly inclined to overlook what possibly was simply an oversight in
courtesy. But as then it had only been two days since I had been bruised
and beaten under a hasty and false apprehension of facts, my caution was
somewhat aroused. Moreover I remembered sensitively his contemptuousness
of manner to me at my last interview in his office. I therefore felt it
needful, if I went at all, to go accompanied by a friend whom he would
not dare to treat with incivility, and whose presence with me might
secure exemption from insult. Accordingly I asked a neighbor to
accompany me.
THE TRAP ALMOST DETECTED. Although I was not then aware of this fact, it
would seem that previous to my request this same neighbor had heard Dr.
Zabriskie state publicly in a saloon, that Mr. Winters had told him he
had decided either to kill or to horsewhip me, but had not finally
decided on which. My neighbor, therefore, felt unwilling to go down with
me until he had first called on Mr. Winters alone. He therefore paid him
a visit. From that interview he assured me that he gathered the
impression that he did not believe I would have any difficulty with Mr.
Winters, and that he (Winters) would call on me at four o’clock in
my own office.
MY OWN PRECAUTIONS. As Sheriff Cummings was in Gold Hill that afternoon,
and as I desired to converse with him about the previous assault, I
invited him to my office, and he came. Although a half hour had passed
beyond four o’clock, Mr. Winters had not called, and we both of us
began preparing to go home. Just then, Philip Lynch, Publisher of the
Gold Hill News, came in and said, blandly and cheerily, as if bringing
good news:
“Hello, John B. Winters wants to see you.”
I replied, “Indeed! Why he sent me word that he would call on me
here this afternoon at four o’clock!”
“O, well, it don’t do to be too ceremonious just now, he’s
in my office, and that will do as well—come on in, Winters wants
to consult with you alone. He’s got something to say to you.”
Though slightly uneasy at this change of programme, yet believing that
in an editor’s house I ought to be safe, and anyhow that I would
be within hail of the street, I hurriedly, and but partially whispered
my dim apprehensions to Mr. Cummings, and asked him if he would not keep
near enough to hear my voice in case I should call. He consented to do
so while waiting for some other parties, and to come in if he heard my
voice or thought I had need of protection.
On reaching the editorial part of the News office, which viewed from the
street is dark, I did not see Mr. Winters, and again my misgivings
arose. Had I paused long enough to consider the case, I should have
invited Sheriff Cummings in, but as Lynch went down stairs, he said:
“This way, Wiegand—it’s best to be private,” or
some such remark.
[I do not desire to strain the reader’s fancy, hurtfully, and yet
it would be a favor to me if he would try to fancy this lamb in battle,
or the duelling ground or at the head of a vigilance committee—M.
T.:]
I followed, and without Mr. Cummings, and without arms, which I never do
or will carry, unless as a soldier in war, or unless I should yet come
to feel I must fight a duel, or to join and aid in the ranks of a
necessary Vigilance Committee. But by following I made a fatal mistake.
Following was entering a trap, and whatever animal suffers itself to be
caught should expect the common fate of a caged rat, as I fear events to
come will prove.
Traps commonly are not set for benevolence. [His body-guard is shut
out:]
THE TRAP INSIDE. I followed Lynch down stairs. At their foot a door to
the left opened into a small room. From that room another door opened
into yet another room, and once entered I found myself inveigled into
what many will ever henceforth regard as a private subterranean Gold
Hill den, admirably adapted in proper hands to the purposes of murder,
raw or disguised, for from it, with both or even one door closed, when
too late, I saw that I could not be heard by Sheriff Cummings, and from
it, BY VIOLENCE AND BY FORCE, I was prevented from making a peaceable
exit, when I thought I saw the studious object of this “consultation”
was no other than to compass my killing, in the presence of Philip Lynch
as a witness, as soon as by insult a proverbially excitable man should
be exasperated to the point of assailing Mr. Winters, so that Mr. Lynch,
by his conscience and by his well known tenderness of heart toward the
rich and potent would be compelled to testify that he saw Gen. John B.
Winters kill Conrad Wiegand in “self-defence.” But I am
going too fast.
OUR HOST. Mr. Lynch was present during the most of the time (say a
little short of an hour), but three times he left the room. His
testimony, therefore, would be available only as to the bulk of what
transpired. On entering this carpeted den I was invited to a seat near
one corner of the room. Mr. Lynch took a seat near the window. J. B.
Winters sat (at first) near the door, and began his remarks essentially
as follows:
“I have come here to exact of you a retraction, in black and
white, of those damnably false charges which you have preferred against
me in that— —infamous lying sheet of yours, and you must
declare yourself their author, that you published them knowing them to
be false, and that your motives were malicious.”
“Hold, Mr. Winters. Your language is insulting and your demand an
enormity. I trust I was not invited here either to be insulted or
coerced. I supposed myself here by invitation of Mr. Lynch, at your
request.”
“Nor did I come here to insult you. I have already told you that I
am here for a very different purpose.”
“Yet your language has been offensive, and even now shows strong
excitement. If insult is repeated I shall either leave the room or call
in Sheriff Cummings, whom I just left standing and waiting for me
outside the door.”
“No, you won’t, sir. You may just as well understand it at
once as not. Here you are my man, and I’ll tell you why! Months
ago you put your property out of your hands, boasting that you did so to
escape losing it on prosecution for libel.”
“It is true that I did convert all my immovable property into
personal property, such as I could trust safely to others, and chiefly
to escape ruin through possible libel suits.”
“Very good, sir. Having placed yourself beyond the pale of the
law, may God help your soul if you DON’T make precisely such a
retraction as I have demanded. I’ve got you now, and by—before
you can get out of this room you’ve got to both write and sign
precisely the retraction I have demanded, and before you go, anyhow—you
— low-lived — lying —, I’ll teach you what
personal responsibility is outside of the law; and, by—, Sheriff
Cummings and all the friends you’ve got in the world besides, can’t
save you, you—, etc.! No, sir. I’m alone now, and I’m
prepared to be shot down just here and now rather than be villified by
you as I have been, and suffer you to escape me after publishing those
charges, not only here where I am known and universally respected, but
where I am not personally known and may be injured.”
I confess this speech, with its terrible and but too plainly implied
threat of killing me if I did not sign the paper he demanded, terrified
me, especially as I saw he was working himself up to the highest
possible pitch of passion, and instinct told me that any reply other
than one of seeming concession to his demands would only be fuel to a
raging fire, so I replied:
“Well, if I’ve got to sign—,” and then I paused
some time. Resuming, I said, “But, Mr. Winters, you are greatly
excited. Besides, I see you are laboring under a total misapprehension.
It is your duty not to inflame but to calm yourself. I am prepared to
show you, if you will only point out the article that you allude to,
that you regard as ‘charges’ what no calm and logical mind
has any right to regard as such. Show me the charges, and I will try, at
all events; and if it becomes plain that no charges have been preferred,
then plainly there can be nothing to retract, and no one could rightly
urge you to demand a retraction. You should beware of making so serious
a mistake, for however honest a man may be, every one is liable to
misapprehend. Besides you assume that I am the author of some certain
article which you have not pointed out. It is hasty to do so.”
He then pointed to some numbered paragraphs in a TRIBUNE article, headed
“What’s the Matter with Yellow Jacket?” saying “That’s
what I refer to.”
To gain time for general reflection and resolution, I took up the paper
and looked it over for awhile, he remaining silent, and as I hoped,
cooling. I then resumed saying, “As I supposed. I do not admit
having written that article, nor have you any right to assume so
important a point, and then base important action upon your assumption.
You might deeply regret it afterwards. In my published Address to the
People, I notified the world that no information as to the authorship of
any article would be given without the consent of the writer. I
therefore cannot honorably tell you who wrote that article, nor can you
exact it.”
“If you are not the author, then I do demand to know who is?”
“I must decline to say.”
“Then, by—, I brand you as its author, and shall treat you
accordingly.”
“Passing that point, the most important misapprehension which I
notice is, that you regard them as ‘charges’ at all, when
their context, both at their beginning and end, show they are not. These
words introduce them: ‘Such an investigation [just before
indicated], we think MIGHT result in showing some of the following
points.’ Then follow eleven specifications, and the succeeding
paragraph shows that the suggested investigation ‘might EXONERATE
those who are generally believed guilty.’ You see, therefore, the
context proves they are not preferred as charges, and this you seem to
have overlooked.”
While making those comments, Mr. Winters frequently interrupted me in
such a way as to convince me that he was resolved not to consider
candidly the thoughts contained in my words. He insisted upon it that
they were charges, and “By—,” he would make me take
them back as charges, and he referred the question to Philip Lynch, to
whom I then appealed as a literary man, as a logician, and as an editor,
calling his attention especially to the introductory paragraph just
before quoted. He replied, “if they are not charges, they
certainly are insinuations,” whereupon Mr. Winters renewed his
demands for retraction precisely such as he had before named, except
that he would allow me to state who did write the article if I did not
myself, and this time shaking his fist in my face with more cursings and
epithets.
When he threatened me with his clenched fist, instinctively I tried to
rise from my chair, but Winters then forcibly thrust me down, as he did
every other time (at least seven or eight), when under similar imminent
danger of bruising by his fist (or for aught I could know worse than
that after the first stunning blow), which he could easily and safely to
himself have dealt me so long as he kept me down and stood over me.
This fact it was, which more than anything else, convinced me that by
plan and plot I was purposely made powerless in Mr. Winters’
hands, and that he did not mean to allow me that advantage of being
afoot, which he possessed. Moreover, I then became convinced, that
Philip Lynch (and for what reason I wondered) would do absolutely
nothing to protect me in his own house. I realized then the situation
thoroughly. I had found it equally vain to protest or argue, and I would
make no unmanly appeal for pity, still less apologize. Yet my life had
been by the plainest possible implication threatened. I was a weak man.
I was unarmed. I was helplessly down, and Winters was afoot and probably
armed. Lynch was the only “witness.” The statements
demanded, if given and not explained, would utterly sink me in my own
self-respect, in my family’s eyes, and in the eyes of the
community. On the other hand, should I give the author’s name how
could I ever expect that confidence of the People which I should no
longer deserve, and how much dearer to me and to my family was my life
than the life of the real author to his friends. Yet life seemed dear
and each minute that remained seemed precious if not solemn. I sincerely
trust that neither you nor any of your readers, and especially none with
families, may ever be placed in such seeming direct proximity to death
while obliged to decide the one question I was compelled to, viz.: What
should I do—I, a man of family, and not as Mr. Winters is, “alone.”
[The reader is requested not to skip the following.—M. T.:]
STRATEGY AND MESMERISM. To gain time for further reflection, and hoping
that by a seeming acquiescence I might regain my personal liberty, at
least till I could give an alarm, or take advantage of some momentary
inadvertence of Winters, and then without a cowardly flight escape, I
resolved to write a certain kind of retraction, but previously had
inwardly decided:
First.—That I would studiously avoid every action which might be
construed into the drawing of a weapon, even by a self-infuriated man,
no matter what amount of insult might be heaped upon me, for it seemed
to me that this great excess of compound profanity, foulness and epithet
must be more than a mere indulgence, and therefore must have some
object. “Surely in vain the net is spread in the sight of any
bird.” Therefore, as before without thought, I thereafter by
intent kept my hands away from my pockets, and generally in sight and
spread upon my knees.
Second.—I resolved to make no motion with my arms or hands which
could possibly be construed into aggression.
Third.—I resolved completely to govern my outward manner and
suppress indignation. To do this, I must govern my spirit. To do that,
by force of imagination I was obliged like actors on the boards to
resolve myself into an unnatural mental state and see all things through
the eyes of an assumed character.
Fourth.—I resolved to try on Winters, silently, and unconsciously
to himself a mesmeric power which I possess over certain kinds of
people, and which at times I have found to work even in the dark over
the lower animals.
Does any one smile at these last counts? God save you from ever being
obliged to beat in a game of chess, whose stake is your life, you having
but four poor pawns and pieces and your adversary with his full force
unshorn. But if you are, provided you have any strength with breadth of
will, do not despair. Though mesmeric power may not save you, it may
help you; try it at all events. In this instance I was conscious of
power coming into me, and by a law of nature, I know Winters was
correspondingly weakened. If I could have gained more time I am sure he
would not even have struck me.
It takes time both to form such resolutions and to recite them. That
time, however, I gained while thinking of my retraction, which I first
wrote in pencil, altering it from time to time till I got it to suit me,
my aim being to make it look like a concession to demands, while in fact
it should tersely speak the truth into Mr. Winters’ mind. When it
was finished, I copied it in ink, and if correctly copied from my first
draft it should read as follows. In copying I do not think I made any
material change.
COPY. To Philip Lynch, Editor of the Gold Hill News: I learn that Gen.
John B. Winters believes the following (pasted on) clipping from the
PEOPLE’S TRIBUNE of January to contain distinct charges of mine
against him personally, and that as such he desires me to retract them
unqualifiedly.
In compliance with his request, permit me to say that, although Mr.
Winters and I see this matter differently, in view of his strong
feelings in the premises, I hereby declare that I do not know those
“charges” (if such they are) to be true, and I hope that a
critical examination would altogether disprove them. CONRAD WIEGAND.
Gold Hill, January 15, 1870.
I then read what I had written and handed it to Mr. Lynch, whereupon Mr.
Winters said:
“That’s not satisfactory, and it won’t do;” and
then addressing himself to Mr. Lynch, he further said: “How does
it strike you?”
“Well, I confess I don’t see that it retracts anything.”
“Nor do I,” said Winters; “in fact, I regard it as
adding insult to injury. Mr. Wiegand you’ve got to do better than
that. You are not the man who can pull wool over my eyes.”
“That, sir, is the only retraction I can write.”
“No it isn’t, sir, and if you so much as say so again you do
it at your peril, for I’ll thrash you to within an inch of your
life, and, by—, sir, I don’t pledge myself to spare you even
that inch either. I want you to understand I have asked you for a very
different paper, and that paper you’ve got to sign.”
“Mr. Winters, I assure you that I do not wish to irritate you,
but, at the same time, it is utterly impossible for me to write any
other paper than that which I have written. If you are resolved to
compel me to sign something, Philip Lynch’s hand must write at
your dictation, and if, when written, I can sign it I will do so, but
such a document as you say you must have from me, I never can sign. I
mean what I say.”
“Well, sir, what’s to be done must be done quickly, for I’ve
been here long enough already. I’ll put the thing in another shape
(and then pointing to the paper); don’t you know those charges to
be false?”
“I do not.”
“Do you know them to be true?”
“Of my own personal knowledge I do not.”
“Why then did you print them?”
“Because rightly considered in their connection they are not
charges, but pertinent and useful suggestions in answer to the queries
of a correspondent who stated facts which are inexplicable.”
“Don’t you know that I know they are false?”
“If you do, the proper course is simply to deny them and court an
investigation.”
“And do YOU claim the right to make ME come out and deny anything
you may choose to write and print?”
To that question I think I made no reply, and he then further said:
“Come, now, we’ve talked about the matter long enough. I
want your final answer—did you write that article or not?”
“I cannot in honor tell you who wrote it.”
“Did you not see it before it was printed?”
“Most certainly, sir.”
“And did you deem it a fit thing to publish?”
“Most assuredly, sir, or I would never have consented to its
appearance. Of its authorship I can say nothing whatever, but for its
publication I assume full, sole and personal responsibility.”
“And do you then retract it or not?”
“Mr. Winters, if my refusal to sign such a paper as you have
demanded must entail upon me all that your language in this room fairly
implies, then I ask a few minutes for prayer.”
“Prayer!—you, this is not your hour for prayer—your
time to pray was when you were writing those—lying charges. Will
you sign or not?”
“You already have my answer.”
“What! do you still refuse?”
“I do, sir.”
“Take that, then,” and to my amazement and inexpressible
relief he drew only a rawhide instead of what I expected—a
bludgeon or pistol. With it, as he spoke, he struck at my left ear
downwards, as if to tear it off, and afterwards on the side of the head.
As he moved away to get a better chance for a more effective shot, for
the first time I gained a chance under peril to rise, and I did so
pitying him from the very bottom of my soul, to think that one so
naturally capable of true dignity, power and nobility could, by the
temptations of this State, and by unfortunate associations and
aspirations, be so deeply debased as to find in such brutality anything
which he could call satisfaction—but the great hope for us all is
in progress and growth, and John B. Winters, I trust, will yet be able
to comprehend my feelings.
He continued to beat me with all his great force, until absolutely
weary, exhausted and panting for breath. I still adhered to my purpose
of non-aggressive defence, and made no other use of my arms than to
defend my head and face from further disfigurement. The mere pain
arising from the blows he inflicted upon my person was of course
transient, and my clothing to some extent deadened its severity, as it
now hides all remaining traces.
When I supposed he was through, taking the butt end of his weapon and
shaking it in my face, he warned me, if I correctly understood him, of
more yet to come, and furthermore said, if ever I again dared introduce
his name to print, in either my own or any other public journal, he
would cut off my left ear (and I do not think he was jesting) and send
me home to my family a visibly mutilated man, to be a standing warning
to all low-lived puppies who seek to blackmail gentlemen and to injure
their good names. And when he did so operate, he informed me that his
implement would not be a whip but a knife.
When he had said this, unaccompanied by Mr. Lynch, as I remember it, he
left the room, for I sat down by Mr. Lynch, exclaiming: “The man
is mad—he is utterly mad—this step is his ruin—it is a
mistake—it would be ungenerous in me, despite of all the ill usage
I have here received, to expose him, at least until he has had an
opportunity to reflect upon the matter. I shall be in no haste.”
“Winters is very mad just now,” replied Mr. Lynch, “but
when he is himself he is one of the finest men I ever met. In fact, he
told me the reason he did not meet you upstairs was to spare you the
humiliation of a beating in the sight of others.”
I submit that that unguarded remark of Philip Lynch convicts him of
having been privy in advance to Mr. Winters’ intentions whatever
they may have been, or at least to his meaning to make an assault upon
me, but I leave to others to determine how much censure an editor
deserves for inveigling a weak, non-combatant man, also a publisher, to
a pen of his own to be horsewhipped, if no worse, for the simple
printing of what is verbally in the mouth of nine out of ten men, and
women too, upon the street.
While writing this account two theories have occurred to me as possibly
true respecting this most remarkable assault: First—The aim may
have been simply to extort from me such admissions as in the hands of
money and influence would have sent me to the Penitentiary for libel.
This, however, seems unlikely, because any statements elicited by fear
or force could not be evidence in law or could be so explained as to
have no force. The statements wanted so badly must have been desired for
some other purpose. Second—The other theory has so dark and
wilfully murderous a look that I shrink from writing it, yet as in all
probability my death at the earliest practicable moment has already been
decreed, I feel I should do all I can before my hour arrives, at least
to show others how to break up that aristocratic rule and combination
which has robbed all Nevada of true freedom, if not of manhood itself.
Although I do not prefer this hypothesis as a “charge,” I
feel that as an American citizen I still have a right both to think and
to speak my thoughts even in the land of Sharon and Winters, and as much
so respecting the theory of a brutal assault (especially when I have
been its subject) as respecting any other apparent enormity. I give the
matter simply as a suggestion which may explain to the proper
authorities and to the people whom they should represent, a well
ascertained but notwithstanding a darkly mysterious fact. The scheme of
the assault may have been:
First—To terrify me by making me conscious of my own helplessness
after making actual though not legal threats against my life.
Second—To imply that I could save my life only by writing or
signing certain specific statements which if not subsequently explained
would eternally have branded me as infamous and would have consigned my
family to shame and want, and to the dreadful compassion and patronage
of the rich.
Third—To blow my brains out the moment I had signed, thereby
preventing me from making any subsequent explanation such as could
remove the infamy.
Fourth—Philip Lynch to be compelled to testify that I was killed
by John B. Winters in self-defence, for the conviction of Winters would
bring him in as an accomplice. If that was the programme in John B.
Winters’ mind nothing saved my life but my persistent refusal to
sign, when that refusal seemed clearly to me to be the choice of death.
The remarkable assertion made to me by Mr. Winters, that pity only
spared my life on Wednesday evening last, almost compels me to believe
that at first he could not have intended me to leave that room alive;
and why I was allowed to, unless through mesmeric or some other
invisible influence, I cannot divine. The more I reflect upon this
matter, the more probable as true does this horrible interpretation
become.
The narration of these things I might have spared both to Mr. Winters
and to the public had he himself observed silence, but as he has both
verbally spoken and suffered a thoroughly garbled statement of facts to
appear in the Gold Hill News I feel it due to myself no less than to
this community, and to the entire independent press of America and Great
Britain, to give a true account of what even the Gold Hill News has
pronounced a disgraceful affair, and which it deeply regrets because of
some alleged telegraphic mistake in the account of it. [Who received the
erroneous telegrams?]
Though he may not deem it prudent to take my life just now, the
publication of this article I feel sure must compel Gen. Winters (with
his peculiar views about his right to exemption from criticism by me) to
resolve on my violent death, though it may take years to compass it.
Notwithstanding I bear him no ill will; and if W. C. Ralston and William
Sharon, and other members of the San Francisco mining and milling Ring
feel that he above all other men in this State and California is the
most fitting man to supervise and control Yellow Jacket matters, until I
am able to vote more than half their stock I presume he will be retained
to grace his present post.
Meantime, I cordially invite all who know of any sort of important
villainy which only can be cured by exposure (and who would expose it if
they felt sure they would not be betrayed under bullying threats), to
communicate with the PEOPLE’S TRIBUNE; for until I am murdered, so
long as I can raise the means to publish, I propose to continue my
efforts at least to revive the liberties of the State, to curb
oppression, and to benefit man’s world and God’s earth.
CONRAD WIEGAND.
CONRAD WIEGAND.
[It does seem a pity that the Sheriff was shut out, since the good
sense of a general of militia and of a prominent editor failed to
teach them that the merited castigation of this weak, half-witted
child was a thing that ought to have been done in the street, where
the poor thing could have a chance to run. When a journalist maligns a
citizen, or attacks his good name on hearsay evidence, he deserves to
be thrashed for it, even if he is a “non-combatant”
weakling; but a generous adversary would at least allow such a lamb
the use of his legs at such a time.—M. T.]
