Monthly Archives: September 2012

Prescott’s Palace Saloon

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by Richard Gorby

(The following article was originally published in the Courier’s Days Past section on September 12, 1999.)

The exact age of the Palace Saloon is somewhat of a puzzle.  In the September 21, l877 Arizona Weekly Miner: “Mess’rs Shaw and Standefer have fitted up the Palace Saloon in the most superb style, and fitted it with choice liquors of every conceivable kind.”  This suggests that it was already there, but no earlier mention can be found.  Few records were kept and most of those were destroyed by Prescott’s several fires

The December 20, 1977 Courier reported, “The Palace was the first bar in Prescott, opened by Isaac Goldberg on the dirt street that was to become the downtown section of the city.”  A careful study cannot prove this statement.  Goldberg, indeed, had a saloon on Montezuma Street in l864 just after the founding of Prescott, but it was more likely the Juniper House.

A document at Sharlot Hall Museum states, “D.C. Thorne, Son of the Man who Founded the Palace…” and, according to the younger D.C., his father (also D.C.) came to Prescott in l867.  “My father had the distinction of opening in l868 the famous Palace Bar, where the present Palace now stands on Whiskey Row (Montezuma Street).”  Again, this cannot be proven.

However, in any study of the Palace, D.C. Thorne is important because Lot 19, on Block 13 on the west side of Prescott’s Plaza, (Montezuma Street), was bought by Thorne in 1867.  Lot 19 is the center lot of the three that make up today’s Palace!  Records show that D.C. Thorne owned Lot 19 until 1883.  This can be proven!

In any event, the Palace Saloon was one of the finest on Whiskey Row.  In 1883 fire destroyed most of the street, including the Palace.  The owner, Robert Brow, built the new Palace determining to make it fireproof.  The new structure was built of brick with a stone foundation, iron roof and iron shutters in the rear.  The interior featured over a 20-foot bar, a beautiful back-bar, three gaming tables and two club rooms.  Three heavy chandeliers completed the décor.

Fourteen years later, in l897, from the Prescott Miner: “The Palace is to be what its name would imply.  It is receiving a spring clean up and costly fixtures are to be added in addition to other improvements in its make-up.  Bob Brow, its energetic host, says he will maintain a first-class house in eating, drinking and sporting.”

However, in spite of its “fireproof” construction, the Palace, along with most of Whiskey Row, was destroyed in the great fire of 1900.  Patrons carried the huge oak bar across the street to the Plaza.  Most of the liquor was also salvaged and drinks were being served at the makeshift bar before the fire was over!

Burned out Whiskey Row, July 1900, with “tent city” on the Plaza grounds where merchants set up temporary businesses until rebuilding. In the mid-ground center is what was left of the Palace Saloon. It was rebuilt on the same site and is located there today This image faces westward towards Thumb Butte, which stands in the far background. (SHM Call Number: F-2103pd).

 

Prior to the fire, Bob Brow’s Palace and Ben Belcher and Barney Smith’s Cabinet Saloon next door, were considered two of the finest in Arizona.  On the Plaza in their makeshift saloons soon after the fire, they formed a pool of their interests and decided to build a single building that would be second to none.  For about $50,000 (interest rate 1%) the new Palace was born.  And it was spectacular!

From the Arizona State Inventory of Historic Places: “The Palace Hotel is a two story masonry structure 75 feet wide and 125 feet deep.  Construction materials include native grey granite, iron, and pressed ornamental bricks.  An interesting feature of the front facade is the central pediment.  It carries the great seal of the Territory of Arizona and on either side figures of a mountain lion and a bear.

The new Palace took over the front page of the June 29, l90l, Prescott Journal Miner, describing the entrance to the barroom as through massive double doors of solid oak with beautiful frosted plate glass having the words “Palace” lettered in them.  The quality of the material and workmanship employed was described as “Rich and Elegant.  The Miner continued, “The bar and fixtures are, however, the crowning features of the furnishings.  They are without doubt the most elegant in this part of the country.  The front bar is 24 feet long, made of solid oak with polished cherry top and has the finest French plate glass oval top mirrors, while the massive columns and carvings cause one to look at it with wonder and amazement.”  This, the same bar that was carried across the street to the Plaza during the fire and the same bar that is in the Palace Saloon today!

Gaming tables encouraged faro, poker, roulette, kino and craps.  A glass of beer was five cents payable even with unminted gold.  Although women didn’t frequent bars in those days, the Palace had its hostesses “who also entertained with songs,” and quite possibly in other ways.  With its fine food and congenial atmosphere, the Palace managed to weather the 1907 state law against gambling and later, prohibition during World War I which closed many other saloons.

Over the years, the Palace had its ups and downs but was able to stay afloat.  Nothing much was done to keep it clean and it deteriorated; nearly a hundred years of smoke and dirt covered ceilings, walls and floors.  All this changed in l996 when Californians Dave and Marilyn Michelson signed a lease for the premises and began restoration.  Michelson was determined to take it back to its appearance in 190l.  And he did, noting, “It’s a great building with a lot of history.”

Republished in Prescott Courier: September 30, 2012

Barry Goldwater’s one regret: “You rascal you…..”

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by Brad Courtney

Whiskey Row is arguably the most fascinating quarter of a city block in western America.  The centerpiece of this historic, jam-packed street has always been the Palace Saloon.  It is no wonder that one of Arizona’s favorite sons, Barry Goldwater (whose ties to Prescott are well-documented), once lamented, “My only regret is that I didn’t buy The Palace when I had a chance.”  His friend, Tom Sullivan, who had purchased The Palace in 1977, knew this.  So on July 26th of that same year, when writing the presidential candidate of thirteen years prior, his incentive was rather thinly veiled; his guilt-affliction quite transparent.  The bulk of his letter, however, disclosed his plans to restore the saloon to its former, early 1900s glory, to share its considerable history with its patrons in a museum-like style.  “I know of your very deep and sentimental interest in Prescott and…..any help that you may be able to give…..will be greatly appreciated.”

Interior of the Palace Bar, c. 1905, rebuilt after the fire of 1900. The “new” Palace Bar was to be built on the same location as the original and would be “the finest and best club house, saloon, café, etc. that Arizona has ever had, or in fact that can be found west of the Mississippi River.” Today’s Palace appears much as it did then when Barney and Nellie Smith ran the hotel….minus the cuspidors! (SHM Call Number: PB-008-I76-286p).

 

Goldwater’s response was a truly honest and magnanimous letter, dated August 10, 1977, which began with a good-natured, “You rascal you went and bought what had long been my desire to own.”  He went on to generously share some personal contacts to assist Sullivan in his undertaking, followed by two unforgettable tales directly involving the Palace.

The first tale, if true, occurred in 1889 and regarded the transference of the territorial capital site from Prescott to Phoenix.  Goldwater wrote, “As you know, the second floor was a house of prostitution.  I think the original brass beds are still up there as well as the bed pans, cuspidors, etc.  There is a story that Bert Fireman can elaborate on for you involving the movement of the capital to Phoenix.  The story is that the leader of the Senate, having one glass eye and who frequented the upstairs portion of the bar, had his glass eye stolen during the night.  As a result, he couldn’t take his place in the Territorial Senate and the lack of his vote sent the capital to Phoenix.”  Historians have been unable to prove, or disprove, this bit of Arizona folklore.  One longtime Prescottonian, Scott Anderson, had heard that this vainglorious scoundrel, who represented Yavapai County and therefore Prescott, had a favorite “lady of the night” working at the Palace.  She, so the legend goes, was thus hired by some Phoenician politicians to steal the fake eye if possible.  They knew this delegate’s vanity would prevent him from attending the voting session scheduled the next day, even with the issue of the territorial capital at stake.

The second anecdote from “Mr. Conservative” was equally amusing and survives as a testament to the celebrated wit of the five-term senator: “I always can remember old man [Barney] Smith (a pioneer and former owner of the Palace) would go to work at eight in the morning, walk behind the bar, grab any bottle at hand and start the day’s drinking.  Around four his wife (Nellie), a very large woman who taught piano, would come in and play and drink beer.  The two them would wobble out and go home about six.  I am told all he ever ate was raw hamburger and he lived to be one heck of an old age, so I am taking up raw hamburger with my bourbon.”

Barney Smith, owner of the Palace Bar from the early 1900s, shown here in his mid-80s, c. 1938 (SHM Call Number: PO-0622pb).

While it may not be wise to advocate a comparable lifestyle, perhaps this frontier story demonstrates that Benjamin Franklin’s “early to be bed, early to rise….” adage might prove a healthy one after all.  Or should there rather be a discussion regarding free-range, steroid-free beef?  Jesting aside, Barney Smith lived to be 90 years old, having died, according to his obituary, after a “brief illness.”  Indeed, a photograph of him taken a few days before his death shows him gardening in his backyard, looking a spry 90 years young.

Barry Goldwater was clearly unashamed, but indeed intimate with and proud of his beloved Prescott, which, as one early historian put it, “began with the opening of a saloon to supply the necessities, [and] later a grocery store…..to furnish the luxuries.”  Although it was not Prescott’s first saloon, the late senator believed that the Palace, without a doubt, was the grandest.

Barry Goldwater leads the Frontier Days Parade down Whiskey Row in 1960 in front of the Palace Bar he wished he had bought when he had the chance (SHM Call Number: PO-0931pc).

(Brad Courtney is a retired teacher who lives near Prescott and is currently researching for a book on the history of Whiskey Row.)

Publish in Prescott Courier:  September 23, 2012

Jacinto Cota prosecuted for perjury, 1903

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by Parker Anderson

Last week in this column appeared the story of the grisly murders of Charles Goddard and Frank Cox at a popular New River stage stop known as Goddard Station.  Two Mexicans, Hilariao Hidalgo and Francisco Renteria were tried, convicted and hanged in Prescott on July 31, 1903, even though no motive for the murder was ever concretely established.

Arizona’s beleaguered Mexican community lived in what might be compared to the conditions of bigotry and ostracism that African-Americans were enduring in the Deep South at that time.  Countless crimes were blamed on them, far too many to all be true.  In the late 19th century and early 20th century, many white murderers were getting their sentences commuted and reprieved in Arizona, while Hidalgo and Renteria were hanged within weeks of their sentence.

The attitudes of the era are probably best reflected in a long forgotten second criminal case to arise out the Goddard Station murders.  When Hidalgo and Renteria were on trial, their court-appointed attorney produced an alibi witness – another itinerant Mexican named Jacinto Cota.

Cota testified, under oath, that he had been drinking with Hidalgo and Renteria at one of Prescott’s saloons at the time Goddard and Cox were slain.  Therefore, the two men could not possibly have committed the monstrous crimes.  The jury didn’t buy the alibi and the two swung into eternity soon after.

That should have been the end of the story but Yavapai County Sheriff, Joe Roberts, outraged that anyone would try to save the murderers, swore out a warrant against Jacinto Cota, charging him with perjury or lying under oath.

The legal rationale for such a charge is this: If a defendant is found guilty of a crime by a jury, it is considered positive proof that contrary alibi witnesses the defendant used may have lied under oath or perjured themselves.  Cota was quickly arrested and lodged in the Yavapai County jail.

Looking east, the first Yavapai County Courthouse (built in 1878 and demolished in 1915) with the adjacent jail shown here as they appeared at the time of the trial for murderers Hilariao Hidalgo and Francisco Renteria and the perjury trial of Jacinto Cota (SHM Call Number: BU-G-0513pb).

Surprisingly, Jacinto Cota’s court-appointed attorney fought hard for him, arguing that Cota’s infraction of the law, even if true, had not harmed society.  He succeeded in getting Cota’s original indictment quashed on a legal technicality after the trial had started.  The jury, already sworn, was discharged from the case while the authorities decided what to do next.

Sheriff Roberts pressed the case and Cota was re-indicted almost immediately.  A new jury was sworn in and Jacinto Cota was tried and convicted of perjury in December of 1903.  He was sentenced to 4 years at the Yuma Territorial Prison.  It was an unusually harsh sentence considering the nature of the crime.

Would Cota have drawn such a stiff sentence if he had not been a Mexican?  Would he have even been indicted at all if he had been white?  Perjury, while illegal, was not prosecuted very often in those days and still isn’t.  But that is the way things were and attitudes that caused this remained the same well into the twentieth century.  Yes, it is likely that Hildalgo and Renteria were truly guilty of murder, thus making Cota guilty of perjury.  But even if this is so, Cota’s punishment did not fit the crime.

Jacinto Cota was released from Yuma Territorial Prison in 1906, three years into his sentence.  After that, he disappeared, never to be heard from again.  As he was close to the border, he probably crossed over and stayed there.  If he did lie under oath, he undoubtedly did so in a belief that he was helping his “brothers” against oppression.  And in retrospect, given the social atmosphere of the time, who could blame him for thinking that?

(The public is encouraged to submit articles for Days Past consideration.  Please contact Scott Anderson at Sharlot Hall Museum Archives at 445-3122 for information.  Previous Days Past articles may be read at sharlot.org/library-archives/days past)

Published in Prescott Courier: September 16, 2012

Racial inequality evident in 1903 murder and hanging in Yavapai County

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by Parker Anderson

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Goddard Station was a popular stagecoach stop between Phoenix and Prescott.  Operated by Charles E. Goddard and his wife, Rosa, the little ranch-cafe was located near New River.  On February 1, 1903, two men described by witnesses as heavy-set Mexicans walked in and asked to be fed.  They proceeded to draw their guns and open fire.  When the dust had settled, Goddard and his clerk, Frank Cox, lay dead.  Witnessing the deadly attack were Goddard’s wife and Milton Turnbull, a friend.

The story has been retold fairly often but never in the context of its era.  At this time in the American West, the heavy Mexican population lived under virtually the same conditions of bigotry, separation, and social servitude that African-Americans were enduring in the Deep South.  The newspapers of the day reflected the conditions, regaling the reading public with countless incidents of crimes allegedly committed by Mexicans.  Some of them were undoubtedly guilty, while others had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The Goddard Station killers got away and soon Yavapai County Sheriff, Joe Roberts, was in pursuit.  He was unsuccessful, as the two men safely crossed the Mexican border.  The case seemed to end there.

A short time later, a Maricopa County Deputy, Billy Blankenship, learned that two Mexicans matching the description of the killers were working on a railroad section just across the border.  How he acquired such unusually detailed information is unknown, but he went to the border and persuaded the section boss to aid in the capture of the men.

The boss sent one of the men across the American line on a team.  The suspect had not even known he had crossed back into America when he was captured (the border was neither fenced nor guarded in those days, and only law enforcement officials from both sides knew exactly where the line was).  The boss paid the second suspect’s wages with a check drawn on an American bank in Naco, Cochise County, and when he tried to sneak across to cash it, Blankenship was waiting for him.

This postcard, sold at Brisley’s Drug Store in Prescott, shows Hilario Hidalgo and Francisco Renteria being readied for their hanging on the east side of the Yavapai County Courthouse on July 31, 1903 (erroneously dated 1904). (SHM Call Number: H-105pb).

The two Mexicans were identified as Hilario Hidalgo and Franciso Renteria (the spelling of their names has varied considerably in different accounts), and Sheriff Roberts wasted no time in going to Naco to claim the prisoners.  Hidalgo and Renteria were securely lodged in the Yavapai County jail in Prescott, where they were identified as the killers by Turnbull and Francisco Rodriguez, a shepherd who claimed to have conversed with the men outside of Goddard Station just before the shooting.

Brought to trail in June 1903, Hidalgo and Renteria were swiftly convicted and sentenced to hang.  They were not permitted to appeal their death sentences (as legendary murderer James Parker was allowed to do six years earlier), undoubtedly because they were Mexicans.  They never admitted their guilt, which unnerved Prescott townspeople who were amazed to see anyone go to meet their Maker with a lie on their lips.

On July 31, Hilario Hidalgo and Francisco Renteria were hanged on the east side of the Yavapai County Courthouse.  As Sheriff Roberts pulled the switch, their final words were simply “Adios!”  Considering the racial atmosphere of the day, the question can be asked: Were they guilty?  Probably, considering there were eyewitnesses.  But, were they treated with the same rights and privileges as other murderers?  The answer is “no.”

A number of “after the fact” accounts of the Goddard Station murders refer to it as an example of how swift Frontier Justice really was – scarcely six months had passed between the murders and the executions.  But in reality, Hidalgo and Renteria were the first hangings in Yavapai County since James Parker five years before.  During that time, quite a number of murderers had their sentences commuted by higher courts and by the Territorial Governors.  In fact, so many killers escaped the gallows in Arizona during this time that newspapers openly complained about it.

Assuming that Hidalgo and Renteria really were guilty, their motive for the cold-blooded crime was never known.  They made no attempt to rob the Station after gunning down Goddard and Cox.  In speculation, some historians have surmised that it was some kind of grudge, or perhaps a hired hit, but no one ever really knew for sure.

Prescott’s Mexican community took up a collection for a funeral and burial of the two in unmarked graves in Citizen’s Cemetery.  Reflecting the attitudes of the day, the press seldom referred to the killers by name, preferring instead to call them simply “the Mexicans.”  In fact, the racial attitudes of the time are best reflected by the July 28, 1903 Journal Miner, which snorted: “It is said that when the guards compelled them to take a bath last night, they showed more signs of real suffering than at any previous time since they have been in jail.”

Published in Prescott Courier: September 9, 2012

Ernest A. Love: more than Prescott’s airport namesake

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by Alan Roesler and Michael Wurtz

(This article was originally published in the Prescott Courier on November 30, 2003)

Ernest Alexander Love was born on November 30, 1895 in Raton, New Mexico.  Many know his name since it graces our airfield and the local chapter of the American Legion Post #6.  There is a scholarship in his name at Stanford University and his mother donated a pipe organ to St. Luke’s Episcopal Church in his memory.  Beyond that, he may be known as a Prescott High School football star and a pilot who lost his life in World War I.

His parents, Allan and Louetta (Gregory) Love moved to Prescott when Ernest was only three years old.  Allan was a Scottish immigrant who worked with the railroad and eventually became an engineer.  Louetta came from Kansas and was very active in Prescott civic groups.  The family resided at 515 East Sheldon Street.

Ernest was an all-star football player at Prescott High School, graduating in 1914. He was a junior at Stanford University when the U. S. entered WWI. He dropped out of school to join the army (SHM Call Number: PO-1077pi).

It appears that personal tragedy may have struck the Love family when Ernest’s two infant sisters died in an epidemic that swept the town.  Neighbors and close friends, the Henrys, had two daughters, Ola and Amelia, with whom Ernest grew up.  He called them his “little sisters” in letters he wrote from Europe during WWI.

Ernest was a hometown football hero, being selected as an All-State guard in his junior year at Prescott High School.  After graduating in 1914, he attended Stanford University to study mechanical engineering.  After completing his junior year at Stanford and, upon America’s entry in WWI in April 1917, Ernest enlisted in the U. S. Army, entering the officers’ training camp in San Francisco.  He successfully applied for pilot training and was sent to ground school with fourteen others at the University of California (Berkeley) for six weeks of training.  Flight training in San Diego followed and Ernest was the only one to qualify for completion.  Powered flight was still quite new and Ernest felt that he should soothe the fears of his parents.  He wrote home, “it is not the least bit scary, I felt just as safe up in the air 1500 to 2000 ft. as if I was walking on the ground and a great deal safer than I have often felt in crossing some city streets.”

Ernest A. Love shown here in one of the airplanes he flew during his military service in WWI. He was shot down during a mission on his way to Verdun, France in September of 1918 at age 23 (SHM Call Number: PO-1077pb).

Ernest then traveled by train to New York City awaiting embarkation to France with the 141st Training Squadron.  It appears that he met with his family on his way east and may have even returned to Prescott while on leave.  His time in New York was longer than expected, so he set up a code with his folks that he would tell them he was “sending his watch” when he was shipped off to Europe.

He and his fellow aviators were treated like royalty in the big city.  “Some rich club spent $3500 on the twenty of us (aviators).  The owner of the store, Mr. Fitch (of Abercrombie & Fitch) had us stay to lunch in the log cabin on the top of the store.”  Also, while in New York, the military doctors continued to examine the aviators.  The fifth exam he had taken within six months….“was a corker.  If there is anything the matter with me they should know it by now.”  Ernest “sent his watch” in January 1918.

His first stop was England and he wrote to his father that railroad cars in Europe are “dinky” and the locomotives would “make a fair sized meal for any of the Santa Fe Engines.”  On to France where he received advanced flight training at Issoudun and wrote home apologizing for the “awfully silly” letters, since he was not allowed to give details of his location.  From France, he was sent to Italy where he spent a great deal of time on the beach, but anxious to get to the front.  One afternoon, he and his buddies met a princess and were invited to stay two nights at the castle.  He decided that after the war he would “settle down and be a prince.”

On July 24, 1918 1st Lieutenant Love was assigned to ‘A’ Flight of the 147th Aero Squadron, 1st Pursuit Group, which was still flying Nieuport 28 fighters from an airfield at Saints, France.  He confessed that “war sure is Hell.”  Love came under fire for the first time in early August 1918.

Ernest’s first gravesite was in Tronville, northeastern France close to where his plane was shot down in September of 1918. His body was later moved to the American Cemetery at St. Mihiel, France and finally to Arlington National Cemetery in 1921 shown in this photo (SHM Call Number: PO-1077pu).

On September 14th, Love was scrambled from his airfield at Rembercourt to support American troops involved in the St. Mihiel, France offensive.  Over the attacking ground troops, he and his squadron commander, James Meissner, found a couple of German Rumpler airplanes and destroyed one of them.  The following day, he was delayed in taking off with the rest of his squadron.  When he finally took off in a SPAD fighter biplane, he headed for Verdun, an agreed rendezvous.  He never arrived.  He apparently was shot down and badly wounded near Tronville and was transported to a German field dressing station set up in a church where he died on September 16th.

Ernest was buried in a local cemetery in Tronville until after the war when he was removed to the St. Mihiel American Cemetery.  In 1921, he was moved again to Arlington National Cemetery.

About ten years ago, Sharlot Hall Museum archives received a large collection of Love’s certificates, photographs, letters, etc. from the American Legion Post.  His mother apparently had donated them to the Post just before her death.  In them, Ernest described his training as one of the few early military aviators, his travels through New York City and three different countries in Europe, and his last few weeks as a fighter pilot over the battle lines as the Americans were on the offensive during the closing months of the war.  The collection reveals a young man who was bright, charming and fearless.  A hometown hero, proud to serve his country.

Republished in Prescott Courier: September 2, 2012