Spring 1892Parzival Hartwig
Saloon Keeper
Denver, Colorado
People tell lots of bad stories about Bob Ford, but I don’t believe them. They say he ran the gangs in Creede, but all he ever run was a saloon, far as I know. He had some pimps, but pimps are as common as dogs in boomtowns.
I come to Creede in March of ninety-two because the mines were rich and there was money all over. The trains going there were packed full, but the town wasn’t much. It sprawled out along a little valley between two big cliffs—one long street of saloons, gambling halls, and cribs.
The citizens had put in electric arc lamps along the sidewalks which made the night seemed like day, a thing I found amusing. But prices were sky high and a cot to sleep on for a night cost two dollars.
Bat Masterson had a saloon
