Red Piping

Virginia City has never trusted history to stay put. Here, the past refuses the glass case and the velvet rope. It wanders the boardwalks, leans against railings, and sometimes pulls up a chair as company.

For a long, good stretch of years, that history answered to the name Pierce Powell.

If you walked C Street and didn’t see Pierce outside the Union Brewery, you checked again, because clearly something was wrong with your eyes or the universe. There he’d be, settled into his chair like a man who had an appointment with the afternoon.

Confederate gray shell jacket, red piping sharp as a fresh opinion, kepi tipped just right. An artilleryman who looked ready for inspection but never too busy for a conversation.

The thing was, Pierce wore history the way some folks wear a favorite hat, proudly, comfortably, and without the need to explain it. He wasn’t performing. He was being Pierce, which happened to look like the Civil War had stopped by to borrow a banjo and stayed for a chat.

Born in 1938, Pierce arrived in Virginia City and wisely decided that leaving was unnecessary. He became one of those rare people who don’t just live in a place, they become part of its furniture, its rhythm, its weather.

He ran the Sutro Saloon back in the lively days of the 1960s, played banjo with genuine feeling. You know the kind you can’t fake, no matter how hard you squint, marched proudly with the Silver City Guard, and kept the town’s odd little traditions breathing when it would’ve been easier to let them nap.

He was sharp, too. Sharp in that quiet way that sneaks up on you.

At historical society meetings, Pierce could drop a line so quick and clean that you’d laugh first and realize five minutes later you just got educated. He had the uncommon gift of knowing things without needing to prove it.

But what people remember most wasn’t the uniform or the stories or even the banjo. It was the welcome. Pierce greeted strangers like they were simply friends he hadn’t met yet. He had time. He had patience. He had that easy smile that could sand the rough edges off a bad day.

To those who knew him personally, Pierce wasn’t a landmark—he was a constant. A friendly face. A reminder that character still counts and that kindness doesn’t go out of style, no matter the century.

Now the boardwalks feel different. Not worse, exactly—but quieter, like a room after someone beloved has stepped out. Pierce’s chair sits empty. The uniform has gone indoors. The stories still hang in the air, stubborn as Virginia City itself.

The town has lost one of its keepers. But Pierce left behind something sturdier than absence: memory. Laughter. The sense that history is best when it’s human, smiling, and willing to talk with you awhile.

Rest easy, Pierce. You were the Comstock at its best, and we’ll think of you every time we pass the Union Brewery and half-expect you to tip your hat and say hello.