El Real de Santa Rita

El Real de SANTA RITA A Saga of the Old West

YOU ASK ME IF I knew Greaterville. Well, I guess I do. My father took me there when I was about six years old and I was in one part or another of the Santa Ritas most of the time until I was nineteen years old. However, in those days it was not called Greaterville. In fact, all the really old timers still call the place by its right name; El Real de Santa Rita (King of Santa Rita). I don't know why or when the name of Greaterville got tacked onto it, nor who had the nerve to insin uate that the new name was beautiful, signi ficant, or appropriate. Perhaps some tender foot thought that with a more modern name El Real de Santa Rita would become a great and important Arizona community like Tucson or Solomonsville. El Real de Santa Rita, in the early eighties was a really thriving community. As I first remember it, there must have been four or five hundred men in the district. There were three stores, two small saloons one large one -where there were all kinds of gambling games. The owners of the stores were Ed Downer, J. Young and Bartold Barcilo. Juan Lopez ran the big saloon where all kinds of games did a really prosperous business. There were several small eating places and near every tree there was an adobe house or a “jacal” (hut) of one kind or another.

Most of the business of the district was done by Americans, but most of the placer digging and the washing of the gold was done by Mex ican, Yaqui and Opata people. Many of those people arrived at the camp without aid of passport or entry papers, crossing the Interna tional line in the mountains south of the Old Mowry camp which was near the present town of Patagonia.

I remember that there was plenty of money in El Real de Santa Rita for gambling and for buying drinks; but when the placer miners sold their gold, they received no money. They got only an order for goods. Most of the gold was bought by the stores. The storekeepers claimed that they had to send the gold to the mint before they could pay for it, so it came that the payment of gold was always made with such goods as the buyer had to sell. Pretty soft for the business man but all of them did the same so it was up to the miner, take it or leave it.

In those days groceries and dry-goods were cheap, even in El Real de Santa Rita. I remem ber that good meat was six or seven cents a pound, beans three to four cents, Allison's flour two cents a pound and a pair of overalls from sixty cents to a dollar.

There were a lot of curious customers in the district some that I have never known in other parts of these United States of America. It was everywhere the custom to be kindly and helpful to strangers and others who might unfortunately be without money, gold or food. If one were really hungry, it was because he was too bashful.

I remember that when father arrived in the camp with five in the family, he had food supplies for only a week or ten days. Very few jobs were available for wages. Most everybody did their own digging for pay dirt and their own rocking of the dirt to separate the gold. And that was about the only work there was in the district.

Well, when the food was about gone in our little hut, my father said to a friend; “If I don't get work pretty soon we'll have to go back to Tucson. We are about out of food and my family has the bad habit of eating every day.” “No,” said the friend, “don't go back to Tucson. It's too hot down there this time of the year. Besides there are no beotes or other nuts down there. When our food is gone we always start digging for gold. In El Real de Santa Rita the earth feeds those who work.” “But,” said my father, “I own no claim in which to dig.” “When that happens here,” replied the friend, “we go to someone who has good pay dirt and ask him for a 'garrote' (a hit), and because it is the spirit in El Real de Santa Rita or because he fears that bad luck may come to his pay dirt, he will let you go into his shaft and fill one. or two, maybe two bandana handkerchiefs of his dirt. So small an amount of dirt may give you forty or fifty cents. Sometimes, even more than a dollar when you learn how to scrape the bed-rock right.” Well, my father found some friends who had good dirt and asked them for a “garrote,” and he was never refused a chance to try his luck. It was truly the spirit of the people of the district. That was the first mining my father had ever done.

Soon after that, Ed Downer, one of the store keepers, told my father that he had some claims over in the Boston canyon and that he would sell him one of them for $15.00. But father told Ed that there was less than one dollar in his pocket-how could he buy? “Well,” Ed said, "you can pay me from the gold you take out of the ground, and more than that, I'll furnish you with tools and a rocker and food -and you can pay me for everything when you get pay-dirt."

Father accepted the offer of the storekeeper and the next day we went to making a tunnel in the Boston canyon. It was for the most part unproven ground, but it happened that before long father was one of those fortunate ones who was being asked for a "garrote." And he seemed really glad when some fellow stopped and said: "Friend, I have no eats. How about a 'garrote?" My father would comply quickly. He felt as did everyone that granting this favor to another brought him good luck and assured the continuation of the channel. If it was a man who had a family father would often say, "Take two 'garrotes,' my friend. After all this is El Real de Santa Rita. There is always more gold in the ground."

Those were the good old days, but they were also the days of hardships that young fellows of this generation would not want to take. We lived poorly, ate what we could get of the plain foods that the mountain stores had-mostly, meat, beans and tortillas. Nearly everybody slept on the ground. The houses were at best mere sheds mostly roofed with dirt. Water was scarce and had to be carried long distances. Men and women worked hard and for very long hours and even small children did such work as was possible for them to do. The only entertainment was the saloons with their "takeaway" games and an occasional dance on dirt floors.

Father paid for the small claim (200 feet by 200 feet) and then bought five others from Ed Downer with the gold he took out of the first channel of pay dirt. The gravel was not rich, but it was rather wide and was from three to five inches deep on the bed-rock. So it was just a matter of lots of work for us to get quite a lot of gold.

When cold weather began making living in the little "jacal" bad, mother refused to stay longer. Said she did not want to get used to sleeping on the ground. But father had the claims and believed that he could continue to take lots of gold. So he took mother and the rest of the family to Nogales. When he returned to El Real de Santa Rita, father and I moved into the tunnel in Boston Canyon which was much warmer winter quarters than the little shack.

I'll never forget the years we lived in that tunnel. Lots of things happened during that period and in my memory those experiences are all woven into that tunnel that was my home. Late that winter a family from New Mexico moved onto our claims, built a shack and went to work with father. There was one seventeen year old girl in that family who had one leg shorter than the other. Father had the same kind of defect, so very soon the people of El Real de Santa Rita began calling our camp "El Campo de los Cojos" (The Camp of the Cripples).

During our second summer in the district, father and the man from New Mexico finished the last of the gravel pay-dirt that had been discovered the year before. They prospected on some of the other claims and found some dirt that barely gave them food and clothing. Father was not satisfied with so little and he felt sure there must be more really good paydirt somewhere on his claims, and he kept prospecting and figuring where the buried channels might be.

When spring came again, father found what he was looking for, a channel that was really rich. They were soon taking out gravel that gave from $1 to $4 or $5 a box. Some of the best portions ran as high as $20 to $25 a box. Anyone who has ever done any placering knows that 40c to $1 is good dirt, and that $5 to $20 dirt is fabulously rich in any placer district.

Then my father made one of his serious mistakes. He went to Nogales for his halfbrother, Juan. My Uncle Juan was born and raised in Magdalena, Sonora. When he was grown he had been conscripted into the Mexican army and sent into Eastern Sonora to help control the Indians. While engaged in that task he met several of Sonora's really bad men. One of the acquaintances formed during that period was soon turned to good account here in El Real de Santa Rita.

Drawings for Arizona Highways

One day in mid-afternoon he came running over the ridge, puffing to beat the band and into the tunnel. He had run more than two miles, but he was still scared white. "Joe," he said, "Poncho Reveros has held up and robbed the Lopez saloon and all the men were therehe saw me and he knew me he nudged me and nodded me to get out, just as he and his crew drew six guns and called good and loud(Al cielo, todas,) (Reach for the sky all of you.") Well, in about a half hour, peeking out of our tunnel and through the brush we saw 6 mounted horses on the ridge about 500 yards away. After looking over the country below them the riders dismounted, built a fire and made coffee. They kept two guards to the west and two to the east of the fire they ate in relays. It was the Poncho Reveros gang. His daughter was with him but was in the full regalia typical of important Mexican horsemen-big hat, loudly decorated buckskin jacket, big spurs, two guns, big full cartridge belts and all. Her demeanor was that of a prince. It was a sight I shall never forget.

We were all scared stiff but if the bandits ever suspected that four sets of eyes were watching them, they never mentioned the fact to any of us. When they had finished eating, they went east along the ridge, down into the Louisiana Canyon, across Fish canyon and over the ridge toward Gardener canyon.

About an hour later the deputy sheriff and about 50 men some on horses and some afoot came to the top of the ridge where the bandit gang had made coffee and then tracked them on over the Gardener ridge, but I was told that they were all again safe at home before the sun set behind the high Santa Ritas.

The Reveros gang had cleaned up all the money at the bar and all the games and had taken everything of value possessed by every man in the saloon except only my Uncle Juan who had fortunately befriended the big bad man in the wilds of Sonora.

But Uncle also had a $500 scare that lasted him for days.

I think it was about a year later that the sheriff was leaning against the end of the bar in the Lopez saloon. He was intent on looking at a picture and a notice that had been tacked on the wall several weeks before. In big letters at the top of the notice was: $5,000 REWARD FOR THE CAPTURE, DEAD OR ALIVE. As the officer turned toward the gambling games a smallish young fellow stuck out his hand and said, "Officer, I want to shake hands with you. Right there it says, $5,000, dead or alive. Do you want that money? I'm Billy the Kid."

The officer had already taken the proffered hand, but he quickly let it go as "Billy the Kid" finished his invitation: "No-no-no I don't want that money, no, no," and then went outside of the saloon and away to his house. I did not see this myself, but my uncle and others have told me, and I guess it is about correct. Also, I am sure that at that time there were a lot of lone sheriffs that did not want to take "Billy the Kid." Leastwise, he was not captured at the Lopez saloon in El Real de Santa Rita and neither did he harm anyone, not even the officer.

Before the end of our fourth year in El Real de Santa Rita, my father, the man from New Mexico, and my uncle Juan had worked out the rich channel. I don't know just how it happened. Perhaps it was because father did not have enough "down to the last cent" friends who asked him for a "good luck garrote," or whether it was my Uncle Juan's exceptional ability as a placer miner. Father did learn that on uncle's monthly visits to Nogales he always sold several ounces of gold. That was something. After a while father remarked to me, "Your Uncle Juan has a very big mouth. It can hold lots of nuggets."

When the rich pay-dirt was gone, Uncle Juan went to Nogales and never returned. Soon after that the family from New Mexico went to Tucson to live, but the man stayed with father and they prospected all over Boston Canyon trying to find another channel. Surely, where there had lately been so much gold there must be more.

They sank prospect hole after prospect hole but always it was the same. Just a little fine gold at bed-rock-not enough to pay. It got to where father owed quite a large bill at the Ed Downer store and he could not expect more credit. Finally we were down to just beans, calite, no palitas and tunas, yet father and his faithful companion dug on and on.

Finally came a breakfast when we ate our last beans. But father and the other man went back to work. We ate no dinner that day. That night father killed a rabbit and borrowed some flour to make a batch of tortillas. The next morning we had among the three of us just two tortillas and some weak coffee. I took only some of the coffee.

The two men went to work. They thought they could reach bed-rock within a few hoursand there was a chance of a pay channel. I stayed at camp alone. I expected that the men would return before noon to report good dirt, but meanwhile I was saving my energy and doing some mighty definite thinking.

When the two men did not return at noon I went for my burro, put my pack-saddle on him, and, without saying a word to my father, went to the store. We had lots of friends over there and I knew I could get something to eat-a meal or two at least and I had some hopes that in one way or another I'd be able to bring back some grub for the hungry miners.

Cutting across the hills through the brush, I came to a small ravine that I had crossed many times before, each time thinking I would sometime give the bed-rock a little panning for gold. It had rained the day before. I could see water in several of the little basins. I felt like I was hearing someone say to me, "Now is the time to make the test." I sent old Leather Hide up toward the head of the ravine. Away up there, I found a place where the little ditch made a sharp turn in the sand. Right at the turn was a rather flat rock, tipped up a little and making a little pocket against the rock wall of the ditch, I knew at once that if there was any gold above that point there was sure to be some in so likely a pocket. I took my gold pan and a short shovel from the pack-saddle and lifted the rock away. I soon filled the pan with the sand from the most likely part of the bed-rock.

I left my burro feeding there and went down stream to a charco of water and went to washing. By this time two thirds of the dirt had been washed over the side of the pan. I heard a familiar grating sound, a riding of something heavy on the bottom of he pan. I was sure I was not mistaken, so I began feeling in the muddy water for a good sized particle that was heavy, and sure enough I soon brought out a good-sized nugget.

I had to just force myself to finish panning the dirt. For my work I got only two small pieces of gold, but very soon I was on my way to the store trying to guess the value of my gold.

It took me only a short time to get to the Ed Downer store. He weighed the gold and told me it was worth $18.76. Was I tickled? You never did see a happier ten-year old boy than I was.

I had the storekeeper write down a list of the things I wanted to take back to "Campo de Los Cojos," and then I hit for a nearby, small eating place where I had intended giving a good woman a chance to feed a very hungry boy on a promise to ask God to pay her.

"Hello, Joe," she said in Spanish; "What do you want now?" "Twelve bits worth of breakfast and at once," I replied. At that she threw up her hands and said: "Breakfast, are you crazy, boy? It's after three o'clock and you asking for breakfast-have you had no breakfast?"

"Yes," I replied, "I had breakfast yesterday morning, but now I'm hungry again. Do you hear me, good mother? I'm hungry! I want twelve bits worth of breakfast and hurry, woman."

But the good woman still insisted in knowing my end of the business and said; "But so much, what will you do with so much; you are yourself only a little bigger than a chorizo."

"Now, my dear friend," I said, "Do I have to get polite with you? Didn't I tell you I'm hungry? That I want breakfast? Now I'm telling you again, I want plenty of it-twelve bits worth of ham and eggs, coffee, tortillas, beans and whatever else you happen to have. I'll bring you an order from the store to pay and don't say any more about what I'll do with the breakfast or that it's nearly time for supper, for I'm telling you it's time for my breakfast."

Well, I got what I ordered and you know what a really hungry ten-year-old boy can do with a lot of food. After breakfast I went back to the store and got the balance of my gold credit made into two orders, one for $1.50 for the biggest breakfast I had ever eaten and another to take to my father. When I came across the ridge above our camp, father and the other man noting the wellloaded burro, thought it was some prospector starting out with a pack of grub. But they also noticed that it was my burro and then as we came a little nearer, they saw that it was their own little Joe. I explained how I had gotten the big load of supplies, but they were not convinced until I showed them the store order for the balance.

We used up that grub stake and some more, but father never did strike another pay channel in the Boston. That fall he got a job working for Mr. McCleary at a prospect that later was sold to Mr. Rose and became the Rosemont. There my sister Adrianna and I both went to school.

While at the McCleary camp I used to make trips across the mountains to the Hughes canyon, where William Hughes was hammering away at hard rock and was telling his friends that he was sure to strike good ore before long. He had been hammering away at those hills of solid rock for years. He was getting old. He was tired and often hungry. But month after month he kept hammering away.

I used to take things from the store for him and often I took wild honey, milk, beeves and dried meat. One day I rode my horse to the rock hut where he lived and as usual he greeted me kindly with; "Get down, my boy, get down. What good things do you bring me today?"

"Some milk and honey," I replied.

A tear came to his eye as he said, "Joe, you're my very best friend. Some of these times, I'm going to sell this mine and when I do. I'm going to buy you the best suit in Tucson. So help me God, I will, Joe."

We ate beans, "dutch oven bread" and coffee for dinner and then I went back to the McCleary camp. And those days that followed I thought a lot about the poor lonely man hammering away over in that canyon and I found myself praying that God would reward his labor and his determination.

A few months later father's friend Garcia took his son, Adolfo, and me to Tucson to school and I got a taste of real school.

One day I was playing around the little plaza in front of the old San Augustine Church, when my friend Adolfo came to me and said; "Alli esta El William-muy cocido." (There is William-and very drunk.) "Where is he?" I asked. "In the little cantina on the corner of Church and Fort," he replied.

I went to the dilapidated old shack of a saloon and sure enough, my old friend of the mountains was there, and was he drunk! When he saw me, he threw his arms around me and said; "Here is the best friend I had when I was broke. I promised him I'd pay him some time and now is the time. Come on, Joe." And he stumbled out of the saloon and took me to Zipps store on East Congress Street. He pulled from his pocket a roll of bills the like of which I had never seen, and ordered for me the best suit of clothes in the store. Then he filled my arms with shirts, sox, underclothes and other things bought me a fine hat and the best pair of shoes I had ever seen.

Then, William asked me if I had any books. When I told him I had borrowed ones, he said; "No, no. No more borrowed books for my friend Joe. Here, will this buy your books?" and he gave me six dollars. And then he gave me a twenty dollar bill and told me that was for me to spend as I wanted to do. Gosh, was I rich and happy. For days I was often remembering the milk and wild honey of the mountains.

Editor's note: These recollections of Joe Rothenhausler, Jr., Arizona pioneer, were recorded as told to W. E. McEuen for the Arizona Writers' Project.