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About the author
Linda Wommack
Visit Linda's Website
Linda Wommack is a Colorado native, and has enjoyed Colorado History since childhood. A distant relative to Bob Womack, of Cripple Creek gold fame, Linda has written of early Colorado history across the state in publications for the past ten years, and spends much of her time giving speeches and tours throughout Colorado, and also reviews books of historical nature for local and national publications.
Her most recent project, completing three years of research, is her fourth book, Published in the Fall of 1998, with an astonishing reprint in March of 1999, by Caxton Press.
Other books
by Linda Wommack
Colorado History
For Kids
it's 5th printing.
Cripple Creek Tailings
A Centennial Reading, 1891-1991
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By 1903, the Western Federation of Miners had become a powerful political force in Colorado. Their goal was to run Colorado's rich mining industry by any means, including over-throwing owner entitlement if necessary. Their forced strike of 1903-1904 would undercut union solidarity and drive the WFM out of Colorado mining.
The following is the eye-witness account of one of the miners during the shoot-out and bloody after-math:
This strike was called in behalf of the men working in the smelters, who were poorly paid for their long hours. Both miners and smelter men were union organizations, so for the benefit of the smelter men we miners felt we should protect them by refusing to produce and ship to the smelter plants who were employed by non-union men. The sad condition then was that union smelter men came to the mines and took jobs rightfully belonging to miners, as the pay was better. Many lawless deeds were committed and blamed on union men, which, in my estimation, were not done by the strikers at all.
Before the close of every union meeting a short pledge was given the men by the officer that all strikers would be law-abiding citizens and refrain from any violence. In some cases it appeared to me as though the militia was at the bottom of our troubles and seemed to incite disturbances. We tried peaceable methods, trying to play a neutral part with both sides, but discovered when one rode the fence, he becomes a target for both sides. We were able to keep out of serious trouble until June of 1904.
At Anaconda, in the Cripple Creek Mining District, we arose one morning to find the town in turmoil. In fact, the whole district was in an uproar over trouble that had happened early in the morning. A bomb had been placed under the platform of the railroad station at Independence, where strike-breaking miners were accustomed to board the train at two o'clock in the morning after finishing the night shift. It exploded with a terrific din, blowing platform and men to bits. Thirteen men were killed and many more horribly wounded. What had been a peaceful early morning scene with a group of tired men became a tangled, gory mass of wreckage. Bodies were horribly mangled and the early morning air filled with cries and moans of the wounded.
Knowing that no help could be expected from the militia, these men turned to the sheriff, a man named Robertson. He felt as we did, neutral and attempting to help both sides. The governor, as yet had not had time to declare martial law, even though the militia was still stationed near Goldfield.
The larger part of the crowd had gone to Victor, about three miles from the scene of the explosion. I had to pass through Victor on my way home, but filled with curiosity, stopped there to see what was happening. My last thought was that I would get into trouble of any kind. On Fourth Street was the Union Hall, a brick building with plastered interior, offices, and tall windows on the second floor. About fifty of the men, including myself, had climbed the stairs and gone into the front offices, posting ourselves at the front windows where we could look down over the crowd assembled below. Hamlin, secretary of the Citizen's Alliance, was speaking in such a manner as to incite the crowd's anger against the union men. "Run 'em all out, all their lice and nits too."
The crowd seethed with excitement. Alf Miller, a striker over six feet and weighing about two hundred pounds, had taken on a bit too much liquor and struck a man with a blow, which precipitated a free-for-all fist fight. A man directly in back of Alf picked up a rock the size of a dinner plate, raised it ready to bring it down on his head, when a shot rang out and the man with the rock slumped to the ground with a bullet through his heart. This was followed by a flurry of shots and the crowd dispersed as rapidly as possible. It seemed to us, watching from the windows above, a miracle more weren't killed or wounded from the number of guns firing.
Sitting in the front window as I was, I had a clear vision of the entire proceedings and I can truthfully say that never a shot was fired from the windows of the hall. The militia, from where it was quartered, heard the shooting and rushed to the scene of the riot. The soldiers immediately stationed themselves on the adjacent buildings which were on a higher level, thus affording an excellent opportunity to shoot down into the windows of our building. By then I realized I had blundered into a most unfortunate predicament from which there was no escape.
It seemed to me the plaster of the walls moved in on us from the hail of bullets of the soldiers. Every window in the building was smashed and the front wall riddled with bullets. We all rushed to the center of the building, for shots from the militia stationed on the higher buildings were ranging downwards, with bullets from the men in the streets ranging upwards. Thus we were cut in a crossfire, but strangely enough, only four of our men were wounded or killed.
McManus, one of our men, quick of thought and with iron nerve, rushed to a side window facing the soldiers and waved his handkerchief shouting: "Stop, stop shooting. We surrender." Another of our men had been hit by a bullet from a Craig-Jorgenson rifle used by the militia. The bullet had passed through the wall, hitting him. He fell to the floor and screamed: "I'm shot, I'm shot, I'm killed."
By this time the mob on the street was rushing into the building and up the stairs. We were ordered to hold up our hands, but that order wasn't necessary in my case, as my hands were already high above my head. We were searched three or four times, shoved around, kicked, beaten, and cursed and threatened with our lives if we so much as batted an eye. Some of our men were badly mauled during this melee and one almost scalped with a bayonet.
Outside on the street we were lined up in single file, I being the first in line, then marched with our hands up in the air, guns pointing at our heads from every angle. The captain of the company walked backwards with his gun nudged against my stomach, cursing and saying: "If you make a crooked move, I'll blow your guts out."
I was scared within an inch of my life. More than fifty years have passed since that experience, but I can truthfully say that it was the most terrifying one for me.
Leslie Doyle Spell
1958
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Copyright © 2003 Linda Wommack. All rights reserved
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