The Roughest, Toughest Hellhole in the Southwest

CANYON DIABLO THE ROUGHEST, TOUGHEST HELLHOLE OF THEM ALL TEXT BY CECIL CALVIN RICHARDSON

Of Arizona's early settlements, Canyon Diablo had a welldeserved reputation as the meanest collection of lowlifes and misfits in the West during its short existence. Brought into being by the westward approach of the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad in 1880, it sprang up almost overnight just east of the canyon in northern Arizona that gave it its sobriquet. By 1890 it was gone, leaving behind a fascinating mix of fact, folklore, and legend, forever entangled.

Actually, Canyon Diablo is more of a chasm than a canyon. Although only about 225-feet deep, it is more than 500-feet wide. Because the hard limestone walls resisted erosion and any attempt to make a quick road across it the westward tide of emigration had to detour to the north, across the Little Colorado River or far to the south.

Then, in 1880, came the railroad. The Atlantic & Pacific headed west from Winslow and paused at the brink of the chasm to await the construction of a steel bridge. But financial difficulties plagued the line before the structure could be completed. After more years of delay, the span finally was finished by the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad Co. But meanwhile, there on the north side of thetrack, mushroomed the settlement of Canyon Diablo, a perfect tag for the milelong collection of flimsy saloons, gambling halls, and honky-tonks hastily thrown together and vying with one another for the business of the railroad gangs and emigrants on the way west.

There were legitimate businesses, too, consisting mainly of a few supply stores and several restaurants operated by Orientals.

Then there were those shady gents who made a business of living by knife and gun, preying on the "pilgrim sheep" and the unwary. Many of these lowlifes were not too proud to roll a drunk, even in broad daylight on the main street. Anyway, who would stop them? Law and order in any organized sense was more than 100 miles to the southwest at Prescott. At Diablo, and at other such places, "the law of the gun" prevailed.

In the heat of summer, the dust of Diablo's one main street boiled up in choking clouds. And in winter, sharp blasting winds rattled the walls of the shacks with a bone-chilling fury.

In its decade of existence, this camp at the end of track had the highest turnover of population and the lowest reputation of any place like it in the entire West. And most of the people who

came there railroad construction work-ers, cowboys, prospectors, hunters,Indians, sheepherders, and just plain pilgrims either stayed permanently in"boothill" or drifted on in a few days. Onlya handful of diehards and hardcasesremained for any length of time.Because death from violence was theorder of the day and night a ceme-tery was essential. But, at first, everyonewas too busy to lay out a Boothill. So,when a man died, he usually was buriedwhere he lay, if at all convenient. As oneearly day resident remarked, "You juststuck 'em in the ground any old place!"

Not having a regular cemetery, however,was an affront to the reputation of any earlyWestern settlement, even for such a villain-ous place as Canyon Diablo. Eventually residents sought to rectify this frontier faux pasby setting aside a portion of ground thatwas used thereafter quite frequently. But theearth was so hard and rocky that gravestended to be rather shallow.During the first few years of the settle-ment's existence, none of the saloons,bawdy houses, or gambling parlors closedday or night. Men trudged the main streetevery hour of the 24. And the ladies werethere waiting for them.

The women of Canyon Diablo, whowere always referred to as the "girls," weresponsored by such "ladies" as Gotch-eyedMary, Big-foot Annie, and California Lil.Annie carried on a feud with Mary that wasvocal only until she lost her temper "complete." Entering Mary's domain with asawed-off shotgun, Annie removed not onlyMary from permanent circulation but a male"friend" and two of the girls. That samenight, someone entered Annie's privatequarters and with a razor evened the score.It was believed that an unnamed gambler friend of one of the dead girls wasresponsible for this last act, but the nextday he and "Keno Harry" killed each other over a "business arrangement." Keno Harry's distinction was that he received one of the few plain board grave markers in Boothill of good enough quality to last for several years afterward.

There were, apparently, no organized gangs in Diablo, but at times some of the vultures "threw in together for the pickin's." Holdups and robberies were nightly occurrences, and a man had to have his wits and his friends about him if he had any considerable amount of money on his person. Many a loner was waylaid just off the main street, and even groups were sometimes attacked on the outskirts of town.

Where were the local lawmen? Seems there was a rapid turnover in marshals, two in particular whose names have been lost to history. The first was said to have lasted exactly five hours; the second, how-ever, managed to cling to job and life for the unheard of time of three weeks and two days by virtue of his proficiency with a Kentucky rifle.

A considerable amount of money bet on the length of his life changed hands every day he lived, and most hardened and optimistic backers insisted his demise was due wholly to a sudden cloud of dust that blinded him at the crucial moment during a gunfight and not to the unsatisfactory nature of the "rotgut" he drank shortly before the fatal event.

One other marshal bears mention. A lanky tobacco-chewing ex-preacher from Texas hit Canyon Diablo broke and at a time when marshal material was at an all-time low. He had no hesitation in taking on the job but was a little slow in giving his name for the record. Finally he admitted that they might as well call him Bill Duckin, as good a cognomen as any. After all, few of those present were using their own real names, anyhow.

But in a short time, the citizenry changed his name. Due to a deep-seated distaste for physical effort of any kind, he was soon being called, "Slow-go Bill." However, his pair of horse-pistols were anything but.

A few minutes after donning the bulletscarred badge of authority, two would-be robbers ran afoul of him at the mouth of a cluttered alleyway. Undeterred by the badge or because of it they decided to shoot it out, a mistake that resulted in two new graves on Boothill.

Part of Mr. Duckin's chores was to collect his own salary and pay for any gravedigging necessary. Being a hungry man and long unfed, he proceeded to collect his monthly salary every week and to spend most of it on ham-and-eggs and steaks. In time, he also bought a black "Sunday suit." A man of some inventiveness, he cut out the pockets of his fancy long-tailed coat in order to facilitate the business arrangement with his guns. He never drew them, he just fired them.

But this rise in prosperity also was the downfall of Slow-go. He got enough money to buy two suits and neglected to cut the pockets out of the fancy new one. A hardy gent in a derby hat caught Slowgo and shot him before Duckin realized he had, mistakenly, put on his new fancy coat with the pockets still in it.

Since marshals lasted only a short time, some of the railroad construction bosses occasionally took matters into their own hands. Spiked clubs or lead-filled clubs were effective weapons in their hands. In minutes they could rout a reluctant crew from a saloon or honky-tonk and leave the place in shambles.

Grim humor relieved some of the more bloodthirsty occasions. There was the case of the two young amateur holdup men fresh from Texas. Broke after a night in Diablo, they recouped their fortunes in a robbery and then repaired to count their ill-gotten gains. But several irate gents took up their trail, killing one of the thieves after he separated from his partner; the other hid out during the day and returned to Diablo under cover of darkness, believing he would pass unnoticed in the crowd of strangers that seeped in daily.

He never fully realized his mistake. He was recognized in the first bar he entered and was shot while ordering a drink. He was hustled forthwith to Boothill.

Early next morning, there was some talk

CANYON DIABLO

about the unmannerly way in which he had been dispatched. "A man ought to be able to have a last drink at least," one said. Then and there, a group filled with remorse repaired to Boothill to right the wrong. Removing the young robber from his shallow grave, they poured a drink down his throat, and then laid him back in his final resting place.

Not long after that event, the bridge spanning the Canyon of the Devil was completed, and the railroad moved on west toward Flagstaff. As all such towns must, Canyon Diablo began to die. The gamblers, the saloonkeepers, and the girls were the first to leave.

But Canyon Diablo had one more fling at notoriety, a sort of dying twist of the Devil's tail. On March 21, 1889, "Long John" Halford, John H. Smith, D. M. Haverick, and William D. Stirin held up Santa Fe train Number 7 at Canyon Diablo. They escaped with a never-disclosed amount of gold and jewels, although an express company official admitted that it was a sum in excess of $40,000. Persistent rumor placed the amount much higher.

Sheriff Buckey O'Neill of Prescott, later to become famous as a captain of the Rough Riders in the Spanish-American War, arrived in Canyon Diablo with a posse and followed the trail of the robbers into Utah where he succeeded in capturing them after a chase of some 23 days. Less than $1,000 was found on the outlaws, who were taken to the county seat to stand trial. And to this day there are those who believe that most of the loot remains buried in the vicinity of Diablo. They surmise the robbers stashed it before making their dash for freedom.

This episode was about the last gasp of the once lusty town. The high desert soon claimed it for its own, obliterating it piece by piece until there was little left to identify the site.

A cold north wind sweeps out of the Painted Desert now and washes the rubble with an icy hand. Less than a mile to the south, eyes strained with staring into vast, empty highway distances, another tide of westbound pilgrims in wagons of glass and steel, flash unconcernedly by on Interstate 40, leaving the ghosts on Boothill little with which to console themselves.

Travel Guide: For a detailed guide to traveling in Arizona we recommend Travel Arizona: The Back Roads, a collection of 20 back-road adventures through desert, mountains, and canyons, and along historic trails. To order, call toll-free 1 (800) 5435432. In the Phoenix area, call 258-1000.