I first met Bill in Chico, California about 1979. I was a Veterans Service Officer and he came in to order a VA headstone for a relative. It may have been for his father. I was really thrilled to finally get to meet my idol.
I have also written about history, and I think I learned a lot from Bill. He was there several times when I needed to ask him advice regarding writing, whether in person or by phone. But I mainly learned from his great example! What a fine talent!
In my various historic websites I have attempted to carry on his tradition of reporting history in an interesting and professional manner. I know that I have big shoes to fill in my forlorn hope of someday being half as good as he was.
I hope these four stories that follow will show his great talent and also illustrate some of the wonderful history of the area in Northern California near which I still reside.
-Larry Matthews
VENGEANCE IN CHEROKEE:
THE TRAGEDY OF SUSIE MCDANIEL
Woven into the narrative is a story of unrequited love, vitriolic jealousy, stark terror and man's revenge against man.
It was on a bright, crisp night in June 1871, when Susie McDaniel took her place in the gaudy history of the Feather River Country. Into the pages of the pasts went also the names of Austrian George Sharkovich, John Bendle, Isaac Ketchum and Maria Grass. All played parts in the drama that turned the bustling gold camp of Cherokee into a torchlit center of raw violence for three days and three nights.
Susie was the daughter of Thomas McDaniel, who operated a store that catered to the needs of the hundreds of miners who were engaged in sluicing a mighty fortune of gold from the heart of the mountain that is today called "Sugarloaf". It was a rich town, complete with stores, churches, a school and even a brewery, and it threatened to become the melting pot of the world, as men of all nations flocked to the incredibly rich diggings.
The favorite of the town was Susie, a blithe, gay, beautiful lass with the promise of blooming womanhood just beginning to make itself apparent. Susie lived her days in happy, carefree ignorance of the fate that waited just a short few months away.
One of the miners who frequented the McDaniel store was Sharkovich, a great, hairy beast of a man whose strength was the talk of Cherokee. On occasion, McDaniel employed Austrian George to handle the heavy cases of supplies that came to the store by freight wagon.
Susie's life was saddened by the death of her father who was buried in Cherokee cemetery. Susie and her mother continued to live on in Cherokee where the girl had a host of friends.
By this time Susie was 18 years old and as lovely as the mountain flowers that grew atop Table Mountain. And Austrian George, illiterate, unmannered and uncouth, fell insanely in love with her.
But Susie had eyes for no man, least of all the ugly, hulking Austrian. She went her way gayly and with a smile for all, while George watched from afar with his desire and his jealousy eating the very heart and conscience from him.
On that June night Susie and Maria, whose father was the local judge, attended a wedding in Cherokee. After the wedding the crowd went to the nearby town hall for a dance and late supper.
Susie was the belle of the ball and she whirled about the dance floor in the arms of first one partner and then another. All the while, Austrian George lurked outside, peering maniacally through a window, hating with maddened ferocity every man to whom Susie smiled. Unaware, Susie danced and flirted until 3 A.M. when Maria suggested that they go home.
Susie's mother was visiting in the east and Susie was staying with Maria. As they left the hall they were accompanied by Dr. Sawyer who had offered to escort them home.
As they walked along, a shadowy figure moved away from the hall and followed them. Looking back, Susie saw the figure and said: "Maria, there's your father".
"Oh, no", said Maria, "that is not his step".
As they turned to look again, Austrian George lunged from the shadows and grasped Susie by the hair. He jerked her away from her companions and plunged a long knife into her breast. She staggered two or three steps, then fell with a sigh and died in the dusty roadway.
As Maria screamed in terror, Dr. Sawyer and another man who heard the screams, jerked out their revolvers and fired several shots after the fleeing killer; but he was soon lost in the darkness and escaped.
When the word was circulated through the mining camp, a huge posse assembled and began a search for the crazed assassin.
All that day the search continued with no results. The next day was Saturday but there was no activity at the mines. Every able bodied man, armed and angry, searched for the killer. Through the day and night, the hunt continued. Then, on Sunday morning, they took time out to bury Susie in the Cherokee Cemetery. Immediately thereafter the search began again.
The word had been passed throughout the gold country and at Bidwell Bar the bridge keeper, Isaac Ketchum, had been provided with an armed guard named McBride.
About 10 P.M. four members of the search party came to the bridge and were allowed by Ketchum to cross. No sooner were they out of sight than out of the night came Sharkovich, armed with a rifle which he pointed at Ketchum. However, McBride, with revolver drawn, stepped from the shadows and disarmed the killer. He was taken into Bendle's store to be held for the posse. When Bendle and McBride stepped aside to hold a whispered conversation, Sharkovich made a break for freedom. He reached into his shirt and drew out the knife that was still stained with Susie's blood but Bendle knocked it from his hand. Then he pulled out a revolver from the same hiding place but Bendle grasped it and jerked it from his hand. At that Sharkovich fled.
Bendle fired three shots at him and the Austrian stumbled and fell. Bendle leaped astride him to hold him down but Sharkovich was already dead. Bendle's aim had been good. Two bullets struck the killer in the back and the other struck him in the head.
On Monday morning the body was taken to Cherokee where the mob was still in the mood for blood. Even though he was dead, Sharkovich was not to escape the vengeance that had been planned for him.
His lifeless form was carried to his cabin which was torn down, piece by piece. The wreckage was piled into a pile and set afire and into the flames was thrown the body of the man who had destroyed the loveliest girl in Cherokee. Then the mob left the scene, not even bothering to bury the bones of the man they had come to hate so intensely.
Cherokee is practically a ghost town now. Only few relics remain to mark the passing of one of the West's liveliest mining communities.
And in Cherokee Cemetery is the grave of Susie McDaniel, whose place in history was won at a terrible price.
(From: Lost Beneath The Feather)
ELIJAH AND THE DOWNEY DUCKS
Many years ago in the area along the Feather River where the West Branch turns away from the main stream and reaches toward the western end of a deep, craggy canyon, a lonesome miner named Elijah Spencer toiled at a claim that extended from the stream back into the rocky embankment.
It was a lonely life and 'Lige, having been raised in the East with strong family ties, wearied of his Spartan existance. He longed for the companionship of a good woman, a warm fireside and a few meals that would sharpen, rather than destroy a man's appetite.
"Lige's only failing was an addiction to strong drink but he was not in any way a slave to the "creature". However, he did own and operate a modest still that turned out a few drams of good liquor regularly and provided him with the substance of which dreams are made. Those dreams were highly valuable to a man in his position.
One day Spencer made a decision. He would build a cabin at a grassy
spot he had found toward the top of the canyon and thereby lay the foundations of the home he sought so fervently. Using the materials at hand, he cut down several trees for the walls and roof, gathered rocks from the canyon floor for his fireplace, scrounged up some boards for the doors and window frames and from the bustling community of Oroville almost 20 miles away, even procured some glass for a couple of windows.
With all that work accomplished, "Lige went East to his home town and there he found a buxom, pleasant Dutch girl who agreed, after a fast courtship, to become his wife. It was the following spring when Elijah and his bride arrived in the Feather River country to set up housekeeping in the spanking new cabin.
The new Mrs. Spencer, whose given name was Helga, was a frugal girl, given to hard work and maintaining a sharp eye on the poke in which her husband stored the gold that he was able to glean from his claim. They were a happy couple with all of the pioneer comforts of life and it appeared that Elijah had finally found his niche in life.
The husband and wife each had one personal possession that was a source of pride. Elijah's was his still that he had transferred from his claim to a small shed behind the cabin. Helga's was a flock of 20 ducklings that she had purchased on one of their infrequent trips to Oroville.
It was Elijah's custom to service his still in the morning before he left for his claim and, after running off each batch of mash, he carried it by buckets to the river where he dumped it into the stream.
The liquor that he manufactured provided him with the few small libations he induled in while dozing before the fireplace and also allowed him to extend more than ordinary hospitality to the transient prospectors who dropped in to stay the night on occasion.
Helga, on the other hand, mothered her ducklings with such individual care that they grew to be fine, strapping white birds. There were duck eggs on the table several times each week and the pillows and the comforters in the cabin were stuffed with feathers. The frugal Helga picked up each feather that dropped and carefully stored them away for use in her bedding.
There came a morning when Elijah, having entertained a couple of visitors the night before, arose to attend his daily chores, but without his usual brisk approach to the work at hand. He and his visitors had imbibed not wisely but exceedingly well and 'Lige was not at his best mentally. Thus he was in such a hurry that he forgot to take with him to the river, the buckets of mash that he had extracated from his still the night before. They sat there in the yard where Spencer had left them when the ducks were fast asleep in the pen.
Now it is a well known fact that ducks are fond of corn, so fond in fact, that they will not question its origin before partaking of any that they find lying around. Thus Helga's ducks discovered a veritable bonanza bright and early that morning and they gorged themselves while Helga was in the cabin doing the family wash.
Helga's shrieks of dismay frightened the bluejays from the trees when she emerged from the cabin to find her 20 beautiful ducks lying about the yard as though dead. What Helga didn't know was that that which had happened to the ducks was the same phenomena which occurs among humans who partake too heartily of the nectar of the grain. But the horrified Helga was convined that the scythe of death had cut down her prize flock with one mighty stroke.
In spite of her agitation, Helga's frugal nature drove her by instinct
to the next step. Forgetting the washing, she began immediately to de-feather the ducks in order to save the feathers and the down for future use. She bent industriously to the task while Elijah, blissfully unaware of the happenings at the cabin, doggedly worked his claim.
It was a strange, and awe inspiringing sight that met Spencer when he arrived at the cabin that night. There in the kitchen sat Helga, so angry that she was weeping and muttering in a language completely foreign to Elijah while 20 shivering, nude ducks, huddled about the stove quacking plaintively. It was a scene to make strong men seek the solace of the bottle.
One look at the anger that sparked from Helga's eyes convinced Elijah that here was a dangerous woman. One who had suffered the final abuse. He knew that she wanted revenge and, although he was certain that he could win a stand up fight with her or practically any other woman he had been married to Helga long enough to realize that she would find a way to even the score with him. His apologies and lame explanations were ineffective. In response to his pleas for forgiveness, she said not a word but continued to measure him with a calculating stare.
There was no sleep for Elijah that night. He sat in the kitchen surrounded by crying ducks, afraid to nap for fear that Helga would creep upon him while he slept. The next day he worked his claim as usual. When he returned to the cabin, the situation was much the same except for the fact that the table contained a steaming platter of roast duck, some of the birds having succumbed during the day. Helga's mood had not changed and Elijah decided against sleep.
But the ordeal proved to be too much and in the early hours of the morning, Spencer finally gave in to morpheus and lay down on the bed for a catnap, convinced that he could easily awaken at the first sign of danger.
It didn't work out that way. In seconds, Elijah was fast asleep and it was then that Helga wreaked her vengeance. Quickly she wrapped the unconscious Elijah in the sheet and bound it securely about him. Then, while he lay helpless on the bed, Helga soaked a heavy towel in water and began to beat her husband with it. She continued to flail him until she grew arm weary and until Elijah was a quivering mass of welts and bruises. Only then did she desist and untie the sheet. Elijah was so badly used that he lacked the strength to retaliate. His moans joined with the painful quacks of the ducks to fill the cabin with the sounds of misery.
Much later in the morning Elijah arose from his bed of pain to find Helga humming happily in the kitchen. Love again reigned supreme in the cabin and even those ducks that were still alive seemed to be taking a new lease on life. Everything was as before, except for one thing. The still which had provided so much joy for Elijah was no more, having been thrown by Helga deep into the canyon.
Elijah said nary a word. Fondly he kissed Helga goodbye and trudged off to his claim. The memory of that flailing, soaked towel convinced him that the loss of his still was perhaps a blessing in disguise.
(From: Lost Beneath The Feather)
In the spring of that year, Oroville was a bustling mining camp which was desparately seeking status as a city. Since the founding fathers had laid it out 10 years before, the town had expanded into a somewhat irregular pattern of blocks, the core of which formed the commercial district consisting mainly of saloons and restaurants along with a couple of hotels, a few mercantile establishments, the county courthouse and several warehouses belonging to freighting companies which hauled supplies to the mountain mines. Every establishment had a roof except the church which set up headquarters under a spreading oak tree in the courthouse each Sunday morning.
The town had been hit by a disasterous fire three years before and as a result, a volunteer fire department had been formed. It's members practiced regularly with a shining red horsecart and many buckets but the firemen had not seen any real action since the formation of the company. The few minor alarms to which they had responded gave them little excuse to exercise their fire fighting talents. In addition, most of the residents of the community, having witnessed the destructive enthusiasm of the volunteers at other fires, preferred to extinguish their own flames rather than to trust the safety of their possessions to the eager volunteers.
The firemen met each week, choosing Saturday nights as the appropriate time. They had a solid reason for choosing that night. First, it was the one night when the town came to life and at the same time it was the toughest night of the week for a fellow to get out of the house unaccompanied by his wife and family. Secondly, the firemen had become a bit bored by this time with sitting in the shed where the hose cart was kept and talking about how they'd handle fires that had not yet broke out. So it was only natural that the boys adjourn the meetings early and repair to the saloon next door for a bit of a tussle with the creature. The scheduled meeting gave the firemen the excuse they needed to get out of the house and the flowing cups and congenial company made the meeting worth while attending. There was always 100 per cent attendance at the sessions.
As was the case with all of the Gold Rush towns, most of the buildings in Oroville were built of clapboard and the hot winds of the Sacramento Valley had, over a period of years, made them tinder dry. Too, most of the business establishments sat close together, making ideal conditions for a fire to spread if one occurred.
Thus it was on a Saturday night in May, when a gentle wind blew from the south and the scents and sounds of spring were in the air, that the volunteers gathered for their weekly meeting. After listening to the chief, Edward Taylor, review again the oft-debated plan of attack against any fire which they might be called upon to fight, the firemen decided to continue the discussion in the Ophir saloon. Within a matter of minutes they were lined up along the bar in their bright red shirts, quaffing the vial of fellowship and ogling the buxom hurdy gurdy girls. They were still there several hours later when a breathless townsman burst through the door to shout that the Orleans Restaurant was in flames. At the same time another citizens began to ring the alarm bell.
The firemen hardly took time to finish their last drinks before rushing to the barn for the hose cart and the buckets. There were some who overran the barn a bit in their eagerness to grab a place on the pull rope and there were a few who had difficulty locating the barn after leaving the saloon.
However, it was only a few minutes after the alarm was sounded that the fire laddies had rushed to the scene and prepared to put into practice the grand plan which they had studied so diligently.
By this time many of the residents of the town had gathered to watch the blaze. Such an event was a social occasion as well as an emergency and the citizenry took full advantage of it. The ladies gathered in small groups to discuss dress patterns and recipes for jams and jellies while the men shouted encouragement to the volunteers in between trips to the nearby saloons for neighborly libations. The hose line was extended to the nearby river and the volunteers made ready to fight the fire which had been rapidly gaining headway while preparations to combat it were under way.
A couple of firemen, seeing that there was a chance that the flames would spread, decided that an adjacent warehouse owned by the firm of Hedley and Knight, was in danger of being engulfed. They quickly decided that the goods stored therein should be moved to safety and they battered the lock from the door. They were joined by several of their comrades and all rushed into the building and began to move boxes and barrels to the street.
By chance, the first article to be removed was a barrel of whiskey which, again by chance, came in the way of a swinging axe and sustained a sizeable hole in the top.
As if unable to believe that such merchandise had actually fallen into their hands, the firemen gathered around and sloshed handsful of the nectar into their mouths. Other firemen, seeing the activity near the warehouse joined the group around the barrel while still others attempted to fight the fire which was making ashes of the Orleans Restaurant. To add to the confusion, a spark from the flames had drifted onto the roof of the store owned by William Coffey and that building, too, began to burn.
The angry Edwards tried to summon his men back to the work at hand but the lure of the whiskey held them close to their source of supply. They may not have been the most efficient fire fighters in the valley but there was little doubt that they were the happiest.
One of them broke into an impromptu jig while two others waltzed to the tune of the cracking flames. Wolfe Caro, who owned the restaurant, shouted ugly words at Edwards as he frantically tried to establish a one man bucket brigade. The chief, seeing his carefully designed plan drowning in an unexpected flood of whiskey, strode to the barrel and routhly attempted to pull his volunteers away. One of them turned and planted a fist in the eye of his superior and the fight was on.
Where moments before there had been comradship and maudlin toasts to eternal friendship, there now was a series of individual fights which swirled up and down the dusty street. The fire was forgotten as the volunteers concentrated on attempts to beat their erstwhile comrades to the punch.
One of the more sober citizens standing on the sidelines, hastily organized a bucket brigade from among the other onlookers. They concentrated on saving the Coffey establishment, now that the restaurant was all but destroyed.
While the spectators fought the flames, the volunteers fought each other. Occasionally one or two of the fighting firemen would leave the battle momentarily to refuel at the open barrel and then quickly return to the brawl. The citizens, meanwhile, managed to control the flames at the store and also managed to keep other nearby buildings damp enough to prevent new fires from starting. As the flames died down at the spot where the restaurant had stood, a few struggling shadows could be seen flailing away at each other and inflicting a minimum of physical damage.
The barrel had by this time been moved back into the warehouse and two sturdy townsmen, armed with clubs guarded the door.
The firemen, with their source of energy cut off, soon lost their antagonistic ferver and most of them sank to the street for a bit of rest. The townsmen, now that they had extinguished the fire and dampened the ashes of the Orleans, left the scene with a few disdainful looks at the supine volunteers. Edwards, vowing that there would be new faces at the next meeting, stomped angrily toward his home. There was peace, of a sort, on Montgomery Street at last.
One by one the weary and woebegone battlers rose to their feet. With nothing else to do and with the full knowledge that their wives, having witnessed their antics would be waiting for them at home, they looked to each other for suggestions as to the next move. One man wandered unsteadily toward the beckoning lights of the Ophir. Like sheep following a judas goat, the others strung out in an unsteady single file after him. Into the bar room they trudged, badly in need of succor and at the same time fearful that the angry Wolfe Caro would surely seek revenge.
Sure enough, there was Caro at the bar, moodily sipping a drink and staring into the mirror. As the erstwhile volunteers filed into the room he turned and glowered at them. Then, reaching into a pocket he flung a couple of gold pieces on the bar and ordered a drink for the house. With that done, he strode from the building without a word.
The firemen were amazed. They had been so certain that Wolfe would challenge them all that they could barely grasp their glasses.
They didn't know that Wolfe had sold the restaurant that very day to a Chinese miner who had struck it rich.
(From: Days of Old, Days of Gold)
THE ASCENSION OF MALAY PETE
History reserved one of its most unusual Christmas stories for the Feather River country when an overpowering homesickness nudged a little man called "Malay Pete" way back to the home of his boyhood.
It was on Christmas Day, 1893, when Charles Topping, an Oroville undertaker, was on his way by horseback up the Feather River Canyon to visit friends.
Suddenly, Topping's eyes were drawn to the sky where he saw a great balloon, with smoke curling from its top drifting high to the east over the range of great hills that edged the canyon. From the balloon dangled a sling in which a man was sitting. And as Topping watched, the balloon burst into flame and the strange craft plunged from sight behind the hills.
Topping raced back to town and told his story. It was the beginning of the legend of Malay Pete, as strange as any that ever came out of the fabulous northern California gold country.
Pete was a little guy, wisened and bent from more than 40 years of searching for gold in the mountains and valleys and along the streams of the Mother Lode.
Pete had come to California around 1850 after a ship had stopped at his village in Malaya where he was a sailmaker. While the ship was in port the sailors told exciting tales of the great quantities of gold that flowed from the Gold Country. Their stories of untold riches that had been found were enough to make the young sailmaker decide then and there to seek his fortune in the strange land in California. When the ship left port, Pete had signed on as a member of the crew.
Several months later when the ship reached San Francisco Bay, Pete left the crew and set out for the Mother Lode, eager to find his fortune and return to the sunny shores of his homeland with the wealth of kings in his pockets.
But fortune frowned upon Pete and after 40 years of grubbing and scratching he arrived in Oroville with only a few dollars in his pockets. He found his way into the Feather River Canyon and built a small cabin along the river, hoping that at last he would find the fortune that so far passed him by.
One day in the summer of 1893 Pete traveled to Oroville to purchase supplies. It was on that day that a touring balloonist arrived in town to give an exhibition. With eye-popping wonder, Pete watched as
the man filled a great bag with gas, then climbed into a basket and released the rope that held the balloon to the ground. The great canvas ball sailed grandly up into the sky until it was merely a speck to Pete's faded vision. Then, softly as a quail's feather, it settled again to the ground and the aeronaut stepped from his basket to the cheers of the crowd.
The idea crashed into Pete's mind like a bomb. Here was the way he would use to go home. The all but vanished vision of the waving palms, sunny skies and turquoise seas of his homeland flared brightly again. More than ever he was determined to see Malaya again.
Before he left Oroville that day, Pete purchased a huge roll of canvas, the stoutest thread he could find and several strong needles.
Then he trudged back to his cabin in the canyon and set to work.
For days he sewed steadily until he had fashioned a great balloon from the canvas. Then he constructed a rude stove with a long pipe extending from it into the opening at the bottom of the canvas bag. He stoked the fire in the stove and the smoke was forced into the bag, slowly inflating it. Pete fashioned a rope sling that was draped over the canvas. A chair was fastened securely to the rope and, as the balloon rose from the ground the chair dangled from it.
Early on Christmas Day the balloon was fully inflated and Pete was ready. He bundled up the few possessions he had accumulated through almost a half century of toil, took one last look around the clearing, locked his cabin door and climbed into the chair. Then he reached down and cut the rope that held his craft to the ground and the great balloon soared upward.
Pete was on his way home!
To him the journey would be but a short one. So often he had gazed across the hills toward his native land that the little miner had come to believe that the magic land of home was only a short distance into the setting sun. There was no doubt in his mind but that he would sail grandly over his native village in just a few hours. Already he could hear the greetings of the friends of his youth and see the happy smiles on the faces of his beloved family. His was a heart full of joy and anticipation greater than any he had ever experienced before.
But fate had one more cruel jest left on the list that had been allotted Pete when he left his homeland in search of gold. She saved that final thrust until the last and it was the cruelest of all.
Unknown to Pete, a spark had found its way into the balloon while it was inflating and the tiny bit of fire had remained alive in the smoke-filled bag. It worked its way into contact with the canvas and it grew and grew until its heat caused the bag to burst into flame. That was the sight that Topping saw as he rode through the canyon - a sight as awe inspiring as the star of Bethleham, more that 2,000 years ago.
When Topping told his story in town, there were few who would believe him. Finally, however, a group of miners agreed to search the canyon and they soon came upon Pete's cabin. The evidence was there for all to see - a few scraps of canvas, the stove with its long pipe and the fragment of rope that had held the balloon secured. Everyone was agreed that Pete had attempted the impossible and had died in the process. The search party went back to town for another round of Christmas drinks and to talk about the crazy miner who had tried to fly.
But the next day the end of the story unfolded when the doctor at the county infirmary came to town. Pete was in the hospital, he said, badly bruised, a little scorched but on the way to recovery.
The doctor reported that two prospectors, working their way through the canyon late on Christmas day, had found some smoldering canvas and a rope sling dangling from a tree on the banks of the Feather River. Lying on the rocks, with the lower half of his body in the river, lay Malay Pete. The tree had broken the balloon's fall and the fate that had perpetrated a heartless joke on Pete a few moments before, had relented at the last minute and allowed his life to be spared.
The miners fashioned a litter and carried Pete to the infirmary
where his bruises were dressed and he was placed in bed.
In a few days Pete was up and around again. He went back to his cabin and resumed his search for gold. For several years he remained there, making an occasional trip to town for supplies. He never spoke of his strange journey nor did anyone ask for details.
Then came a period when Pete failed to appear in town. When he hadn't been seen for several days, miners working the stream nearby went to his cabin to investigate.
The found Pete on his bunk, lying as quietly in death as he had moved about in life.
(From: Lost Beneath the Feather)
EPILOGUE
He also worked many years for California Senator Ray Johnson.
My favorite story collections that he produced are:
LOST BENEATH THE FEATHER (1963) (Those historic sites covered by Lake Oroville)
DAYS OF OLD, DAYS OF GOLD (1973) (Stories from the Gold Miner Days in the Northern Sacramento Valley)
THE GANDYDANCERS (1973) (Building of the Western Pacific Railroad through the Feather River Canyon)
ECHOES OF THE GOLD RUSH (1985) (Stories of Miners in the Northern Mines of California near La Porte)
One great complete book he wrote was:
TOO MUCH BLOOD (1978) (About Juan Corona, mass murderer of 25 farm workers in the Yuba City, CA area)
I want to thank William (Butch) and Pat Talbitzer, Bill's son and daugher-in-law, for graciously allowing me to include four of his great stories in this Tribute Page.
Most of the above listed titles are still available and I highly recommend them to you. They are all a joy to read.
THANKS!
Thanks goes out to two special people who have e-mailed me in March 2004. First I want to thank Sheila Talbitzer Diaz, Bill's granddaughter, for the very nice comments about this web site. Her statements about Bill simply serve to reinforce the "nice-guy" image that I already had of Bill.
I also want to really thank Tom Troffey from Modesto, California. He and his family thought very highly of the Talbitzers. He read about my need to obtain a copy of the hard-to-find ECHOES OF THE GOLDRUSH that I had been unable to obtain for many years. Tom sent it to me and I am very grateful!. Thanks Tom!
I hope the above four stories will allow you to love Bill's stories as much as I still do today, 45 years later!
Bill Talbitzer circa 1973.
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