If there’s one thing history teaches us, Nevada has never been short on mischief, calamity, and the occasional bit of justice—though not always in that order. From stagecoach robberies and suspicious deaths to prison riots and masked men reclaiming their legend, the past proves that some things never change, except maybe the price of bail.
One hundred fifty-five years ago, Mr. Delevan decided to capture the noble image of a group of Washoe Indians on the Plaza. Fortunately for him, the locals seemed to enjoy the attention and, more importantly, understood that his camera wasn’t some newfangled shooting iron. If only all frontier encounters went so smoothly.
Fifteen years later, in a different part of the state, a man named Gilson found himself in legal trouble for selling liquor to Indians. His defense was a peculiar one—he claimed that, while tending to nature’s call in an outhouse, a group of squaws helped themselves to his basket of spirits. Whether the judge believed him is unclear, but his bail was set at $200, proving that, in those days, being careless with one’s whiskey was nearly as bad as selling it.
One hundred twenty years ago, Dr. Newman, a European eye specialist, arrived in Carson City for a single day, ready to cure poor vision, headaches, and the nervous afflictions of aging. One wonders whether the good doctor could have done anything about the short-sightedness of the state’s politicians, but alas, his talents were limited to spectacles, not miracles.
By sixty years ago, entertainment had replaced scandal for a moment as the Carson City High School concert band prepared for its annual midwinter concert. Director Albert Saliman promised a program of light, bright music, and even drum majorettes—perhaps to distract from the growing troubles elsewhere in the state.
For just forty years ago, Nevada’s prison system was bursting at the seams, strained to the breaking point by sentencing laws and tight parole restrictions. Officials warned that riots—like the one at Indian Springs that weekend—were becoming more common. When you squeeze a system too tight, something is bound to burst.
In 1869, a Wells Fargo & Co. stagecoach robbery had the town in an uproar, even though loot got recovered. Unfortunately for the driver, suspicions lingered that he had been in on the crime. There’s no record of whether he protested his innocence, but history suggests that when a man gets suspected of robbing a stagecoach, he tends to find himself in a hurry to leave town.
By 1884, Nevada had its royal scandal brewing. Princess Sarah Winnemucca, long a vocal critic of the Paiute Indian Agent William Gibson, found herself accused of a rather un-princess-like crime—gambling with and then robbing a Bannock Indian, leaving him beaten and penniless.
Gibson, likely eager for revenge, wired Washington looking for help in arresting her and her accomplices. The feud between the two was far from over, but whether Sarah was guilty or merely framed is a question history will likely never settle.
Meanwhile, in 1904, the town was shocked to hear that Frank Craven had been found dead in a well east of Carson. Witnesses had last seen him in a drunken state, and suspicions of foul play swirled until the coroner declared it was nothing more than death by alcoholism and exposure. Whether that ruling brought any comfort to his widow and son is another matter entirely.
Sixty years ago, Nevada Supreme Court Chief Justice Frank McNamee was also in bad shape, though not like Craven, McNamee had a fighting chance. After a brutal beating left him in a coma for a week, he began to show signs of consciousness. His attacker, a 21-year-old named Phillip A. Denning, was sitting in a St. Louis jail, awaiting extradition on charges of attempted murder and robbery.
Meanwhile, justice proved elusive in the case of Elia Joan Williams, accused in the Harvey’s Wagon Wheel bombing. A hopelessly deadlocked jury resulted in a mistrial, and the foreman expressed doubt about trying the case again. Justice, it seemed, had wandered off for a drink.
Three days after the initial reports, the truth behind the 1869 Pine Grove stagecoach robbery was beginning to take shape. A Pine Grove constable had unearthed the stolen money, buried near Wellington’s Station. Whether the driver’s involvement was a case of unlucky proximity remained unclear, but there’s no doubt that if someone accused you of stealing, you’d best have an alibi—or a fast horse.
In 1884, the feud between Sarah Winnemucca and William Gibson continued. While Gibson insisted she was a criminal, her supporters countered that no amount of accusations could tarnish his “honorable record.” It seems unlikely that Sarah agreed with that assessment.
Meanwhile, in 1904, the final word on Frank Craven’s fate came in—no foul play, just the unfortunate effects of drink and a cold night. The coroner’s jury ruled it an accident, but accidents of that nature seemed to happen often.
In recent times, Nevada’s lawmakers were busy debating the need for a constitutional convention. The state’s century-old governing document was full of outdated provisions, and some legislators felt it was time for a fresh start. Whether they succeeded in bringing Nevada into the modern age is debatable, given that politicians are often more interested in arguing about laws than fixing them.
But perhaps the most satisfying news came from Hollywood—or at least from an old cowboy’s heart. After a legal battle, Clayton Moore, better known as the Lone Ranger, finally reclaimed his famous mask. Five years earlier, a court order had forbidden him from wearing it, but justice had prevailed, and with a hearty cry of “Hi-Ho, Silver, away,” he rode into legend.
One cannot help but wonder if Nevada might still need a masked man to set things right.
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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