The Bootlegger and the Chief: The Great Ellensburg Shoot-Out

 

Alva Tucker's Grave

   

On Saturday, July 2, 1927, Ellensburg’s veteran Police Chief Alva Tucker had received a tip that a notorious local bootlegger named Johnny Emerson had “gone gunning” for him. Enlisting the help of his night patrolman, Officer William (“Salty Bill”) Edmondson, he began combing the streets of the downtown, hoping to spot the 25-year-old Emerson.

   The production and sale of alcohol had been banned in Ellensburg since 1914—more than six years before the passage of the 18th Amendment that codified Prohibition nationally. While the city might have been one of the first to go “dry” in the state of Washington, that didn’t mean everyone abided by the new restrictions.

   Among those who ignored the law were Emerson, who had been born in the Kittitas Valley in 1902, and his best friend and associate, Jimmy Hayes. According to news accounts, the two had constructed their first still while they were still teenagers and had even given their moonshine enterprise a name, the Rattlesnake Whiskey Company. They reportedly had several stills hidden throughout the county and were producing some 1,000 gallons of the illegal elixir weekly from each still.

   According to Hayes, who was interviewed by Thomas J. Lineham in the late 1970s, the two bootleggers received plenty of support from locals, including several local grocery stores that “secretly and illegally supplied the large quantities of sugar important to moonshining.” Additionally, a local lumber company supplied a truck to ship supplies to the remote areas where the stills were located. Farmers and ranchers who allowed the stills on their property were supplied with free moonshine. A local youth who assisted the operation was Clovis Chartrand, a metal worker who fabricated the copper base, cap, coil and arm for the stills.

   As the profits from moonshine began to roll in, the entrepreneurial Emerson decided to branch out. He purchased a used Model T and established a legitimate taxi service in downtown Ellensburg, which he called the Highland Taxi Company. The business was actually an ingenuous cover for the bootlegging business; he could peddle his moonshine wares to his cab customers and use the vehicles to make deliveries. Within a short time, the Highland Taxi Company had grown to three brand-new vehicles—at least partially paid for in moonshine traded to the owner of the dealership.

   Emerson already had had several encounters with local police over the years. In May 1925, he and Hayes were arrested when authorities discovered one of their stills. The two, however, were released because of a lack of direct evidence.

   His next experience with law enforcement occurred in July 1926, when he went to town to visit local businesses. While in a restaurant, he was confronted by Officer Edmondson and another officer, Patrolman “Shy” Love, who said they only wanted to ask him a few questions. Emerson agreed to go with the officers but when they reached the jail, Love forced him to put on handcuffs.

   “For a flashy bootlegger whole only crime was outwitting the cops, a night in the Ellensburg jail didn’t seem appealing,” Lineham said. “While Love was unlocking the jail cell, Johnny tried to make a break. A free-for-all ensued. Officer Edmondson broke away, firing his gun at Emerson. The bullet hit the prisoner’s wrist and deflected into his leg, lodging there.”

   Lineham noted that after being treated at the local hospital, Emerson was released with no charges filed—but also no apology. The injury caused Emerson to walk with a limp for the rest of his life.

   It was at this point, according to Lineham, that Emerson “swore an oath against the police force, claiming he would someday get his revenge. Up until then the contest between the young bootlegger and the city police had had a sporting aspect; now it soured into stubborn bitterness and hatred.”

   The Ellensburg Daily Record also reported on the Emerson shooting but claimed Officer Edmondson had arrested Emerson for public drunkenness. “The officer was forced to shoot him when Emerson, who is a big man, fought back,” the Daily Record reported a year later, in its July 5, 1927 edition. “Since then, it is stated, Emerson has borne a keen grudge against the police and had told several persons he would ‘get’ both of them some time.”

   The story added that Emerson had been to court several times in the past but had never been convicted of any wrongdoing. It said he had not held any type of steady job in many months but previously had worked as a truck driver for a local farmer.

   Emerson had one other reported encounter with Chief Tucker. In October 1926, a few months after being shot in the leg, he stopped in at a cigar shop that doubled as a gathering place for local gamblers and betters. Inside, Chief Tucker was already holding court, talking about the upcoming World Series between the St. Louis Cardinals and the New York Yankees (the Cardinals would eventually win the series, four games to three). The chief loudly opined that the Yankees would easily win the series.

   In response, Emerson held up a $100 bill and challenged the Chief to cover his bet on the Cardinals. Chief Tucker tried to save face by saying that Emerson didn’t know anything about baseball. Citing Hayes as his source, Lineham said that Emerson spat back, “At least I know a dead man when I see him.” The encounter ended when Chief Tucker “stalked out of the cigar store without accepting Emerson’s wager.”

   In the late afternoon of July 2, Emerson walked into the Williams-Smithson Hardware store and asked to purchase some 32-caliber cartridges for his pistol. According to the Daily Record, he displayed obvious signs of being intoxicated and one of the store’s managers, Bob Thomas, signaled to the sales clerk not to sell him any bullets. The clerk, however, had already pulled out a box of shells and laid them on the counter. He attempted to keep Emerson from buying any of the ammunition, which caused the young man to become agitated.

   Thomas later testified that Emerson “seized the box and proceeded to fill his gun.” The manager said Emerson also began rambling, “They’re after me but I’ll get them first,” but did not specify whom he meant. Thomas said he tried to talk Emerson into giving the shells back but the young man waved the gun around and refused, then walked out to his car, climbed in, and drove away.

   At this point, Thomas phoned Officer Edmonson to tell him about the encounter. The patrolman saw Chief Tucker on a nearby street and flagged him down to tell him about the episode. They both jumped into a police car and began their search for Emerson. At about 5 p.m., the two lawmen spotted Emerson’s car and followed him to Third Street, near Main Street. They parked in front of the Smithson Building while Emerson stopped across the street, in front of two businesses, Mac’s Lunch and the Mint Card Room.

   “Tucker without pause jumped out of his car, crossed the street to Emerson’s machine, threw open the car door, and pointing his pistol at Emerson, told him he was under arrest,” the Daily Record said. “Emerson was sitting at the wheel with a loaded pistol in his hand and without preliminaries emptied his gun into the chief.”

   Despite getting shot five times, including in the face and head, Tucker managed to squeeze off a single shot, which pierced Emerson’s chest and struck his heart. Within seconds, both Tucker and Emerson were dead. Officer Edmondson arrived a few seconds later and, not realizing the latter was no longer alive, fired another shot that hit Emerson in the arm.

   At the time of his death, Chief Tucker had served as Ellensburg’s top cop for about a decade, interrupted only by a short stint as the county sheriff. Born in June 1874 in Salem, Oregon, Chief Tucker had resided in Ellensburg for 44 years and had been a member of the local police department for the previous 15 years. He was married to Annabelle Tucker and was the father of four children.

   Emerson, who was not married, was survived by his mother, Mrs. Frank Simonds, as well as three brothers and three sisters. In a weird twist, both Tucker and Emerson shared the same birthdate, June 5.

   Only four days after the shooting, services were held for Tucker, who had been only the fifth man to serve as Ellensburg’s police chief. To honor the fallen lawman, the city’s mayor, L. H. Walker, made a special request of the community.

   In a decree, the mayor said, “In view of the fact that Alva Tucker, our chief of police, was a faithful and staunch supporter of law and order and lost his life in the discharge of his official duty, I request that the business men of Ellensburg show their respect by closing their respective business places during the hour of 2 to 3 p.m. on Wednesday, July 6th, for the funeral.”

Thorp's Haunted Cemetery

 

   Located about two miles southwest of the Thorp Fruit and Antique Mall, the Thorp Cemetery sits on a lonely rise surrounded by green, open fields, and with a spectacular view of Thorp Cliffs and the Stuart Range. Near the center of the cemetery are two tall trees and at the entrance is a brown wooden sign that spells out the cemetery’s name and the fact it’s part of the Kittitas County Cemetery District.

   Wandering through the neatly-groomed burial grounds, you can see hundreds of headstones of various sizes and shapes. The oldest grave dates back to 1878 (Mary Agnew, who died at the age of 38), while the newest is fairly recent since the cemetery remains in active use. According to records, the land for the cemetery was donated by a farmer, Herman Page, a native New Yorker who homesteaded the area in 1875 (he is buried in the cemetery).

   Sometime in the 1880s, the three-acre cemetery became the property of the Thorp Methodist Episcopal Church and was apparently operated by the Thorp chapter of the Odd Fellows Lodge until 1940, when the chapter dissolved. In 1962, it came under the management of the Kittitas County Cemetery District No. 1.

   So, why is this picturesque but fairly typical rural cemetery considered haunted? No one is certain when the story first appeared, but apparently sometime in the past few decades websites devoted to paranormal activity and ghost stories started recounting how the Thorp Cemetery was one of the most haunted burial grounds in the state.

   In each telling, the cemetery was apparently the site of a tragic event. Sometime in 1890, a Native American woman named “Suzy” was lynched on or near the cemetery. Since that time, visitors to the cemetery have reported seeing, on moonlit nights, a ghostly Native woman riding on a big white horse through the headstones. It’s also been reported that the figure has been seen weeping or sobbing in front of the tombstones.

   “Thorp Cemetery is one of the most haunted places in Washington state,” notes the website, Washington Haunted Houses. “Located in Kittitas County, the town of Thorp has been documented for its conflicts between Native Americans and American settlers.”

   In spite of that latter characterization, it is unclear what conflicts between Native people and settlers from Thorp would still be occurring by 1890. The town of Thorp wasn’t organized and plated until 1895, although John M. Newman and Sarah Isabel Newman homesteaded the land that would become Thorp a few years earlier, in 1882.

   The Thorp region, and the rest of today’s Kittitas County, was the home of the Kittitas tribe prior to the arrival of white settlers in the 1860s. About a mile from the current town of Thorp was an ancient indigenous village called Klála that was one of the largest in the valley, which was said to be rich in wild berries, fish, and game.

   In addition to Newman, other white settlers who came to the area included the Fielden Mortimer Thorp family and Frank Martin. When the townsite was established, it was named after Mortimer Thorp, as he was called, who previously lived in Goldendale and then had homesteaded at the head of Taneum Canyon and was recognized as the first permanent non-Native American settler in the valley.

   By the 1870s, the future site of Thorp was known as Pleasant Grove. In 1872, a post office was established at Pleasant Grove. By then, most of the native population had dispersed or been moved from the valley to the Yakama Reservation under the terms of the Yakama Nation Treaty of 1855. Under that agreement, the 1.3 million-acre Yakama Reservation was established, but in return the tribes were forced to cede 11.5 million acres of their traditional lands in what would become the state of Washington to the United States government.

   The impetus for creating the town of Thorp was the arrival of the Northern Pacific Railway, which in the late 1880s, built a line through the Kittitas Valley, including Thorp. The completion of the hydro-powered North Star Mill in 1883, which later became known as the Thorp Mill, had created a product (flour) that the railroad could transport to other markets.

   The three-block town of Thorp soon began to develop around the train depot and the railroad’s maintenance facilities, shipping facilities, and warehouses. According to the “Illustrated History of Klickitat, Yakima and Kittitas Counties,” published in 1904, “Thorp is a substantial and prettily situated farming town of perhaps two hundred inhabitants . . . The main line of the Northern Pacific railroad passes through the town, affording excellent transportation facilities and making it an important shipping point for the upper Kittitas Valley.”

   While there were occasional conflicts between the settlers and indigenous people in the mid-19th century, by 1890 such clashes would have been a thing of the past. Which brings us back to Suzy, the ghost of a hanged Native American woman who is said to wander through the Thorp Cemetery. A review of Ellensburg’s historic newspapers or local histories reveals no mention of any lynching ever conducted in or near Thorp at that time.

   Did it really happen or is it just a ghost story to be told around the campfire on a warm summer night? In the end, it’s difficult to know the truth. But if you head out to the Thorp Cemetery at dusk, while the shadows of the tall trees are lengthening over the surrounding gravestones, and listen hard, you just might hear something that sounds at least a little bit like moaning—or perhaps it’s just the wind.

CWU's Most Haunted Building (Allegedly): Kamola Hall

 

   If one were to pick a building on the Central Washington University campus that would be haunted, Kamola Hall would certainly be among the top candidates. For one thing, it’s old and historic, which is usually a criteria for haunted places. For another, as a residence hall throughout its existence, it’s housed thousands of students as well as faculty and visitors—so plenty of potential ghostly patrons.

   The more-or-less straight history of Kamola is that the structure was built in 1911 as the first student housing complex (prior to that, students lived in housing in the community). Its original name was simply, “The Dormitory,” which was changed in 1916 to Kamola Hall.

   The name change was suggested by Andrew Jackson Splawn, a local historian and one of the earliest residents of Ellensburg. He wrote a letter to the school requesting the dormitory be named to honor Kamola (also spelled Quo-mo-la or Quo-mallah), the favorite daughter of Chief Owhi, once the principal leader of the Kittitas band of the Yakama Nation.

   In 1858, Chief Owhi was killed while escaping from military custody. He had been a key figure during the Yakama Indian War of 1855 and a signatory of the Treaty of Walla Walla. His daughter was believed to have been born in 1843 and died in the mid-1860s.

   In an article in the March 14, 1934 Campus Crier CWU’s student newspaper, Splawn’s widow explained the origin of the name. She said the chief’s daughter did not originally have a name. One day, her father held her up to a rose and said, “Kamola.” Pleased with the sound and connection he saw between his daughter and the flower, he announced that would be her name.

   “The word has no Indian meaning so far as we can discover, but Kamola came to be a prominent figure in their history,” the article said. “Wise in council, she was consulted by both her father, Chief Owhi, and her husband, Chief Moses. She was undoubtedly a remarkable Indian woman, for when she died she was mourned by the whole valley and, tradition says, was given the largest and most impressive funeral ever accorded to any Indian woman.”

   The building named for Kamola was expanded in 1913, 1915, and 1919 to meet the growing demand for more student living and dining space. Architectural historian Lauren M. Walton described the design of the building as proto-Modernism styling with Spanish Colonial Revival influences and a touch of Gothic Revival. This design template was later also utilized in the construction of Sue Lombard Hall and Munson Hall.

   Kamola was restricted to female residents during its first three decades. Between January 1943 and June 1944, the female students previously housed in Kamola were relocated to Munson Hall so the dormitory could serve as housing for U.S. Air Force training at the college. Following the war, the building reverted to being a women’s dormitory. It did not become co-ed until 1974.

   In 2003-2004, the building underwent a $10 million renovation, to ensure it could continue to serve as a student housing facility well into the 21st century.

   Stories about Kamola Hall hosting a spectral resident or two didn’t begin appearing until the early 1980s, when the building was converted annually into a haunted house during Halloween. For years, residents dressed up the hallways and rooms with creepy cobwebs and other scary imagery to frighten their fellow students and children from the community.

   In 2003, the CWU Observer student newspaper quoted an alumnus, Evan Sylvanus, who claimed Lola was simply a ghostly character concocted in about 1982 to promote the building’s haunted house evenings.

   According to the most prevalent Lola “legends,” Kamola is said to be haunted by the ghost of a deceased Central student named “Lola.” Apparently, sometime in the 1940s, Lola (last name allegedly Wintergrund, according to some sources) is said to have died of a broken heart or hung herself while garbed in her white wedding dress.

   This tragedy, which happened either in the attic or from an upper floor of the dorm, occurred after she learned of the death of her sweetheart or husband during World War II. Interestingly, the university’s records indicate no one named Lola ever died in Kamola at any time—and, of course, women were not living in the hall during the early 1940s.

   Despite the dubious origins of the story, the most compelling argument for there being something supernatural about Kamola came in the early 2000s. CWU’s then-official photographer, Richard Villacres, was tasked in 2002 with taking a moody photo of a female student dressed in a 1940s white wedding gown for a story about the building’s renovations. As he later explained, he was trying to create an image that would reflect the ghost stories about Lola.

   Speaking in 2009 to the Ellensburg Daily Record, Villacres said, everything went fine with the photo shoot, but strange things began to happen when he developed the film.

   “I shot three rolls of film inside Kamola of my model and the three rolls of film that I shot inside—two of them came out black, nothing—which has never, ever happened to me,” he said. “The one roll that came out had all kinds of bizarre fogging and weird marks on it. Especially one that was taken in the hallway inside. There is this ghostly figure in the background—all this weird effect is on there. I had no explanation for that.”

   Villacres told the newspaper that he sent the film back to the manufacturer, Polaroid, to see if anything was wrong with it and the company found nothing. He said other photos he took that day came out just fine. He used the same camera on a subsequent shoot and, he said, everything worked fine.

   “She [Lola] screwed with my film and, honestly, I have no explanation for it,” he told the Daily Record. “Something weird happened.”

   There have also been reports of residents in Kamola hearing strange music in the building, of elevators opening and closing for no reason, and cold gusts of wind in places without windows. Some have claimed to have seen ghostly apparitions wandering the hallways.

   In recent years, the legend of Lola of Kamola has gained momentum, appearing on nearly a dozen haunted places websites and blogs, and on ghost-hunter videos on YouTube and TikTok. In an August 29, 2009 entry on the www.ghostandcritters.com blog, a person named “Ivy” said that a few years earlier she had stayed in a room on the fourth floor of Kamola Hall for week in the summer and it “is most definitely haunted.”

   Ivy said that during her time in Kamola several weird things occurred including hearing a knock on her door, only to open it and find no one there, and walking through a space in a hallway where she suddenly couldn’t move and was overwhelmed by feelings of dread. She also found the light in her room turned on, after she knew she had turned it off when she had left earlier that day, and her room key mysteriously moving from where she left it to other places in her room.

   Is Kamola Hall haunted? That’s difficult to determine based on the conflicting evidence. Perhaps the right question to ask is: would you spend a night there?

Memorial to When Coal was King in Roslyn

   At six-foot, three-inches tall, the Miners Memorial statue in downtown Roslyn is appropriately substantial. Its purpose is to commemorate the hundreds of hard-working, brave miners who worked and, in some cases, tragically died while hammering and blasting away at the veins of coal that were prevalent in this region.

   Large deposits of coal, in fact, were discovered by prospectors from the Northern Pacific Railway in the Roslyn area in the early 1880s. By 1886, the railroad had sent crews of men to mine the coal. Additionally, Logan M. Bullitt, vice president of the Northern Pacific Coal Co., which was owned by the railroad, was placed in charge of the operation and quickly plated a town for the workers. It was Bullitt who named it Roslyn, most likely after a New York town where a friend lived, although there are other versions of the story.

   Created as a company town, Roslyn’s residents lived in houses on land owned by the railroad, shopped at a general store established by the company, and played at the Roslyn Athletic Club built by the company. The town also grew to include the train depot, the coal company’s mining offices, boardinghouses, a hotel, a skating rink, several saloons, and a pair of churches. The railroad would begin selling off its residential property in 1913.

   Initially, the railroad company recruited workers from all over Europe, including Italy, Croatia, England, Germany, Ireland, Poland, Scotland, Serbia, Slovakia, and Wales, making Roslyn one of Washington’s most diverse communities. Within a few years, nearly 1,000 miners were pulling out an estimated $1 to $2 million in coal annually.

   Following a disastrous fire in 1888, which destroyed nearly all of the town, Roslyn was rebuilt using brick and sturdier materials. A short time later, mine workers, angry that the coal company had laid off miners who had petitioned for an eight-hour work day and higher wages, went on strike.

   In response, management began recruiting strikebreakers, including some 50 African American laborers from the East and Midwest. Eventually, the company brought in more than 300 African American workers and their families, including many from Virginia, North Carolina, and Kentucky. While initially tensions were high between the striking workers and the newcomers, relations cooled after the strike ended a few months later. By 1890, Roslyn’s African American citizens represented more than 22 percent of the overall population of the town, making it one of the highest in the state.

   In 1892, Roslyn experienced its worst-ever mining accident when an explosion and fire in Mine No. 1 killed 45 miners. Workers had been in the process of connecting an airway from the fifth level to the sixth level (the mine went down seven levels, to a depth of 2,700 feet), when blasting powder used to break the rock ignited a pocket of gas. Miners not killed immediately by the blast, quickly suffocated.

   A second equally-devastating mining disaster struck the community on October 3, 1909, when another underground explosion killed 10 workers. The following day, Portland’s Morning Oregonian reported that the loss of life could have been far worse had the blast occurred not only a Sunday but during a regular work day, when as many as 500 workers would have been in the mine. The paper said the cause of the explosion was still under investigation.

   The following year, 1910, was the peak in terms of the community’s size, when it boasted a population of 3,126. With a decline in the use of coal because of the increasing popularity of other fuels, such as diesel oil, Roslyn began a gradual decline. The last coal mine in operation closed in 1963, marking the end of an era.

   But the town’s deep and abiding connection to its mining roots served as the impetus for the creation of the Miner Memorial in the mid-1990s. In 1995, the Roslyn/Ronald Heritage Club proposed erecting a permanent monument to the region’s mining past. By June of the following year, work had begun to erect a life-size bronze statue of a miner and a black-tile memorial wall that would display the names of all local miners and their families.

   Funding for the $20,000 statue, which was sculpted by Pacific Northwest artist (and Central Washington University graduate) Michael Maiden and entitled “The End of the Day,” came from donations and the sale of 6 x 9 commemorative tiles.

   Statue committee chair Tony Alquist, who grew up in Roslyn and died in 2006 at the age of 95, told the Ellensburg Daily Record on July 5, 1996, “We want this memorial to honor the local miners—not as tired, beaten men—but as warm-hearted, family men who appreciated having a good day in the mines.” He added that was the reason the miner was smiling.

   On Sunday, September 1, 1996, in front of what the Daily Record described as a “crushing crowd of people,” the Roslyn Coal Miners’ Memorial was officially unveiled. Standing in front of the historic former Company Store (formally known as the Northwest Improvement Company building) on Pennsylvania Avenue, the monument is a celebration of the town’s rich mining history and culture.

   “They came to honor Roslyn’s heritage, a colorful microcosm of this country’s origin,” Pat Woodell wrote in the Daily Record on the dedication day. “They came to honor the miners who arrived ‘from the old country’ to work the coal mines and make a new life for themselves.”

   Among the speakers that day were sculptor Maiden, along with representatives of the Washington State Heritage Society, the Roslyn/Ronald Heritage Club, and the city of Roslyn. Of special note was the inclusion of a time capsule in the statue’s pedestal, not to be opened for 60 years, which was prepared by Roslyn High students. It was no doubt fitting that the next generation helped to honor its predecessors.

Vigilante Justice in Ellensburg

 

   Today, there’s a grocery store on the spot where Samuel and Charles Vinson were hanged on the night of August 14, 1895. The two, father and son, were strung up in a large cottonwood tree on the northwest corner of East Seventh Avenue and North Pine Street in Ellensburg. It is believed to have been the only vigilante-style lynching to ever occur in Kittitas County.

   The two Vinsons were well-known in the city as troublemakers. Sam was generally considered a hard-working carpenter—when not drinking. However, his son was a ne’er-do-well, who had served two years in the territorial penitentiary for armed robbery and burglary, and had been jailed several other times. Both regularly panhandled for money and drinks in the downtown saloons.

   Sam Vinson had been born in 1841 in Kings County, New Brunswick, Canada. Sometime in his early 20s, he married a local woman, Martha, with whom he would have six children (two stillborn). Of the surviving four children, the second youngest was Charles.

   Sam and his family immigrated to Minnesota in 1866 (Charles was born there) and, in about 1884, traveled to the Washington Territory. After unsuccessfully homesteading near Tacoma and near Gig Harbor, the Vinsons settled in Allyn in about 1889. The family moved one more time, in 1894, to Ellensburg.

   A Deadly Night

   On a hot evening on August 11, Sam was hassling patrons for drinks in the Teutonia Saloon on West Third Street, located where a Pita Pit restaurant sits today. One of those Sam hit up was John Buerglin, known as “Dutch John.”

   According to the late Howard D. Baumgart, who wrote a book about the incident, “The Ellensburg Tree of Justice,” Sam overheard Buerglin invite several of his friends to join him for beer. “The elder Vinson walked up and said, ‘Am I in it?’” Baumgart wrote. “Buerglin replied in his German accent, ‘No, you ain’t in it; I lend you two dollars, and you not pay it.’”

   The remark incensed Sam, who grabbed a knife off the “free lunch table” (something most bars offered in those days), and violently stabbed Buerglin in his right side, just below his ribs. Meanwhile, Buerglin pounded Sam on the head with a whiskey bottle until his assailant slumped to the floor.

   Buerglin’s wounds were severe, Baumgart wrote, with the injured man having to hold his intestines in place as he walked to the office of Dr. Thomas Newland, which was located around the corner on Pearl Street.

   Just prior to this happening, Charles Vinson, who was usually armed with a pistol in his belt, was in a nearby restaurant, Maison Doree, where he argued with the owner for refusing to serve him. The disgruntled Charles headed to the Teutonia just as his father and Buerglin began to quarrel.

   One of the bar’s owners, Frank Uebelacker, who was tending that night, saw the confrontation escalating and grabbed a “bung starter,” a wooden mallet used to pound a bung or wooden stopper into a beer keg, in the hope of stopping the fight before it got worse.

   Seeing Uebelacker with the wooden hammer, Charles Vinson pulled his gun and pointed it at the barkeeper, who backed away. Uebelacker’s partner, Michael Kohlhepp, who was in a back office came out to see what all the commotion was about and saw Charles menacing his colleague. He snatched a pool cue from the wall and used it to try to force Charles out of the bar.

   Witnesses later said that Charles first headed for the door, then turned suddenly and fired at Kohlhepp, hitting him in his right lung. Despite being shot, Kohlhepp wrestled with Charles and managed to disarm him, while several bar patrons held him until the authorities could arrive. Others in the bar held Sam, so he couldn’t get away.

   Deputy city marshals Emil Becker and Charles Frazier soon arrived and handcuffed the Vinsons, who were taken to the nearby county jail. The wounded Kohlhepp was carried to an upstairs room, where Dr. Paschal P. Gray, who was summoned, found that a .44 caliber bullet had entered Kohlhepp’s chest about two inches above and to the left of his right nipple before exiting near his shoulder blade. About two hours after being shot, Kohlhepp died from his injuries.

   As for Buerglin, Dr. Newland found that the knife had not cut any of his vital organs. He dressed the wound and believed the man would fully recover. The next day, August 12, following a coroner’s jury, Charles Vinson was charged with first degree murder for killing Kohlhepp. However, on August 13, Buerglin took a turn for the worse and died from infection that afternoon.

   Both Kohlhepp and Buerglin were well liked and active in Ellensburg’s German community. Buerglin, in addition to being a teamster for a local freight company, was a popular bandleader. Their deaths sparked rumblings among many local citizens about doing something about the murders, including possibly hanging the Vinsons.

   Concerned about his prisoners’ safety, Sheriff William M. Stinson, took certain precautions. He deputized six armed men, who joined him in keeping watch over the prisoners. Additionally, he gave the keys to the jail cell containing the Vinsons to his office deputy, Frederick D. Schnebly, and sent him to another location.

   According to Baumgart, Sheriff Stinson had received information that led him to believe that while the townspeople were angry, they wouldn’t attempt any type of mob action. He also was convinced the jailhouse would be impossible to breach, especially the case-hardened steel cell door lock. He would be proven wrong.

   Vigilante Justice

   At just after midnight, a mob estimated to number between 50 and 100 men, some wearing masks, gathered at the jail. City marshals attempted to get the crowd to disperse. Failing that, they ran to city hall to ring the fire bell. Despite the clamor, the mob pressed forward.

   Meanwhile inside the jail, Sheriff Stinson and his guards had stowed their rifles on a bed in the sheriff’s bedroom. They were standing in the hallway, unarmed, when the mob rushed the building. Seeing a rifle barrel pocking through the door, the sheriff and his men tried to grab their guns in the bedroom, but, according to the later recollections of an eye witness, “the night latch on the bedroom door had snapped on, locking them out so they could not get the rifles.”

   The mob quickly gained control and access to the jail building. But upon reaching the cells, they found they were unable to break the lock or batter down the doors with a railroad rail. Defiantly, the younger Vinson was said to have taunted the mob, spat tobacco juice at them, and, several times, blew out their candles by fanning his hat. At one point, one of the vigilantes fired twice at Charles, But the latter was able to hide in a darkened corner of his cell and escape being shot.

   Not everyone was on board with the mob violence. A couple of times during the night, several prominent local citizens, including Superior Court Judge Carrol B. Graves, attempted to calm the crowd, but those efforts proved fruitless. Finally, a blacksmith in the mob started chiseling at the wall where the cell door hinges were embedded. About an hour and a half after the mob had broken inside the jailhouse, the cell doors gave way. The mob quickly grabbed the two Vinsons and, following a brief struggle, placed ropes around their necks.

   The mob dragged the two first to a livery stable at Sixth and Main, but found a telephone pole there was inadequate for hanging the two men. They continued on Main Street to in front of Dr. Gray’s house, but, again none of the poles or trees there were usable.

   At Seventh and Pearl streets, the mob stopped to hang the Vinsons from the cross-arm of an electric light pole in front of the home of George “Ed” Dickson. The home owner, however, came out to plead with the crowd not to hang the men there because his wife was sick and upset about the hanging. The mob leaders agreed to bypass the Dickson house, especially after being unable to climb the light pole.

   On the northeast corner of Seventh and Pine streets, however, the mob found a cottonwood (some accounts say it was a silver poplar) tree that was thick and sturdy enough to be useful. “Rope were thrown over the first limb and father and son hauled up by many willing hands,” noted the Associated Press wire service on August 14. “Their feet were not even a foot from the ground and her two men were choked to death with their faces within six inches of each other.”

   The news account said Sam Vinson was stoic prior to and during the hanging, but Charles struggled beforehand and said, “I hate it on my mother’s account. You’ll be sorry for this.” The elder Vinson was strung up first and just before Charles joined him, a man in the crowd said, “Your pa is up there; go up and see him.”

   The men remained hanging in the tree until about 7 a.m., when authorities took them down and laid them beneath the tree. At about 8 a.m., the bodies were placed in a wagon and taken to an undertaker parlor.

   The two were later buried in unmarked pauper graves in the Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery. The hanging tree was chopped down a few years later by a new property owner who didn’t want the stigma.

   The Aftermath

   In the days following the hanging, legal authorities said they would immediately take steps to identify the leaders of the lynching party and have them arrested and punished. On August 19, eight Ellensburg men, including bar owner Frank Uebelacker, were arrested and charged with participating in the hanging.

   During the preliminary hearing, three of the eight men were dismissed due to a lack of evidence. Several other men were later arrested, bringing the total back to eight defendants, who would be tried in two separate trials (one for those accused of hanging Sam and one for those accused of killing Charles). Following a lengthy jury selection process—impartial witnesses were difficult to find—the first trial involving five of the men began on September 19.

   Over the next day and a half, the prosecution called 13 witnesses, most of whom were deputies, while the defense presented 26 witnesses, most being character witnesses. Closing arguments lasted until about 11 p.m. on September 20.

   On the morning of Saturday, September 21, jurors returned a verdict—not guilty. Prosecutors decided that taking the remaining three defendants to trial would be a “useless” exercise, so those charges were soon dismissed. Ultimately, no one was punished for the hanging.

   In the end, the Ellensburg Dawn newspaper probably said it best in a story that appeared following the lynching, when it simply noted: “Thus ends a week of sorrow and horror in the history of Ellensburg.”

The Great Cle Elum Naming War

 

   The first non-Native Americans to reside in Cle Elum were Thomas L. Gamble and Walter J. Reed, who, in 1883, established adjacent homesteads on land where downtown Cle Elum is located today. Each built a cabin on their respective 60-acre properties, making them, in essence, the founding fathers of the future town.

   Less than a year later, coal deposits were discovered in the hills around what is now the community of Roslyn. The discovery came at an opportune time because the Northern Pacific Railroad was just building a line to Puget Sound through the region.

   The enterprising Gamble and Reed immediately recognized their land holdings were ideally located near Roslyn and the rail line that was being built. Additionally, the coal discovery and the presence of extensive forest land could provide the railroad with coal for its locomotives and timber for ties, trestles, and tunnels.

   In 1884, Gamble reached out to the railroad and successfully persuaded it to construct a depot on his land. To sweeten the pot further, Gamble and a partner, Tom Johnson, erected that many considered to be the largest saw mill in the central or eastern Nevada region to supply timber to the railroad.

   The plan worked when, in October 1886, the railroad line reached Cle Elum and the first train arrived at the new depot. That year, Gamble plated his land as a townsite. According to some accounts, his wife insisted the town have unusually wide streets because she felt they would be necessary when the settlement became “another Pittsburgh.”

   Reed and his wife, Gamble, and Johnson also agreed this new settlement needed a name. They chose Cle Elum (sometimes spelled Cle-Elum), which was derived from the Native American name for the river that ran through the area. The Kittitas tribal name was, Tle-el-Lum, which translated as “swift water.”

   According to “The History of Klickitat, Yakima, and Kittitas Counties, Washington,” published in 1904, shortly after Cle Elum successfully incorporated as a community in 1902, the Northern Pacific Railroad arbitrarily changed the town’s name to Cle-Alum because the letter substitution would make it an easier name for telegraph operators to type (apparently tapping two “e’s” in a row on a telegraph key was thought to be challenging).

   The railroad also attached the revised name on its depot in the community and even used the name “Clealum Railroad Company” on shares of its stock.

   Apparently, local employees of the U.S. Postal Service liked the new name and took it a step further. In 1903, they changed the name of the post office to Clealum. “This action aroused a storm of indignation among the town’s residents and friends, for by the change the old name was destroyed and its significance entirely lost,” noted the Kittitas County history book. “Besides, the new spelling was not in accord with the city’s corporate name. Moreover, considerable Cle-Elum mail found its way to Clallam, across the range.”

   In December 1904, citizens formally demanded the post office return the name of the community to its original spelling and appealed the name change to the postal authorities and the U.S. Geographic Board. “Is it Cle-Elum or Clealum? This is a question that has been before the post office department and the before the board of geographic names, and a final determination is yet to be reached,” said the Tacoma News-Tribune in 1904. “In the state of Washington it is and always has been ‘Cle-Elum,’ but of late minor employees in the postal service, on authority yet to be disclosed, have assumed to make one word of it and change the spelling.”

   The News-Tribune added that residents had complained to their Congressman, Representative Wesley L. Jones of North Yakima, who took up their case to postal officials. He was assured that the name change had not been authorized by them and suggested the matter be resolved by the U.S. Geographic Board, who, they thought had made the change.

   In 1907, the matter had still not been completely resolved, perhaps because the railroad continued to use the name. The Cle Elum Echo newspaper editorialized: “The name ‘Clealum’ decorates the new depot. There is no such place as ‘Clealum,’ and no such word, so far as we can learn. This city is incorporated under the name CLE ELUM (two words and two ‘Es’ coming together).”

   The Echo went on to say, “The post office is Cle Elum; the Indian word or name is Cle Elum, the river just west of the city is Cle Elum, the mining district is Cle Elum, one of the most beautiful lakes in the United States was named by the Indians and is Cle Elum, yet a sign on a little dinky building that the railroad company calls a depot informs the traveling public that the train has arrived at ‘Clealum,’ and as there is no such place it would be just as sensible to have the sign read ‘Nowhere.’”

   Another local paper, the Cle Elum Record, also joined the fight, editorializing in September of that year that “Ever since the Northern Pacific hung up the word ‘Clealum’ on the new depot, we have been besieged with inquiries as to the meaning of the word.”

   With tongue clearly in cheek, the Record said it had consulted with a Tacoma News lexicographer “and a number of walking encyclopaedias” who determined Cle was derived from the Egyptian name, Cleopatra, meaning “not clear or dirty.” Alum is the name of a mineral salt that is a principal ingredient in baking soda. Thus, according to the paper, the word Clealum means “dirty baking powder.”

   “Nice name, isn’t it, to force upon a self-respecting community?” the Record concluded.

   In 1909, the Geographic Board ruled on the matter, agreeing with the citizens of Cle Elum. Yet, despite the victory—and the fact the railroad finally backed down after 1908—some mistakes take time to correct. In fact, the misspelled name, Clealum, continued to appear in some newspapers as late as 1920.

Ellensburg's Not-Quite One-Hit Wonders: The Scotsmen

   The music industry can be a peculiar one in that no one can ever know what song will turn out to be a hit. After all, who would have thought that a novelty song about a giant green man who is spurned by his girl would rise to the number four position on the U.S. pop charts in 1965 (and reach number one in Canada)?

   In fact, it was the success of that particular song, “The Jolly Green Giant,” based on a popular food brand’s mascot, that inspired a group of Central Washington State College (CWSC) students from the Seattle area to write and record a song based on a popular canned tuna television ad slogan that same year.

   The group, The Scotsmen, had formed several years earlier under the name, The Avengers (probably should have kept that name in light of the success of a recent movie franchise). Two years later, the band decided they needed a better gimmick to draw attention to themselves, so they changed their name to The Scotsmen and began wearing kilts on stage.

   Soon, the band was appearing in venues throughout the state of Pacific Northwest. The Scotsmen’s line up included Mike DeChenne and Tom Yook on keyboards, Richard Lawson on drums, David Lucas on bass guitar, Gary Reynolds and Bruce Robertson on vocals, and Robert Shomer on guitar.

   In 1965, the group agreed to cut a 45-record for Seattle-based Panorama Records, which had been launched by recording impresario Jerry Dennon, who also founded the more well-known Jerden Records (famous for releasing the Kingsmen’s hit songs, “Louie Louie” and “The Jolly Green Giant”) and about a half-dozen other smaller labels.

   Side A of The Scotsmen’s record was “Sorry Charlie,” a Jolly Green Giant-style novelty song based on the then-popular TV ads for Star-Kist canned tuna. The song told the story of a tuna named Charlie who was feeling “down and neglected” because he was always being thrown back by the fishermen for not tasting good (similar to his story lines in the TV ads).

   The flip side was a song titled, “Tuff Enough,” a catchy but slightly misogynistic song about a troublesome girlfriend. The song is typical of its era, with the heavy use of an electronic keyboard coupled with fast-paced drumming and clashing cymbals. The 7-inch single was released to record stores and radio stations in August and September of 1965 and achieved some airplay but not enough attention to merit a follow up record.

   Despite being from the Seattle area, band members affected British-style accents in “Sorry Charlie,” perhaps to take advantage of the popularity of the Beatles and other British Invasion bands that were appearing on the music scene in the U.S. at that time.

   A scan of mid-1960s Washington newspapers shows the band appearing several times at the Chehalis Civic Auditorium and the Masonic Temple in Spokane. A September 1965 advertisement in the Tacoma News Tribune for a Back-to-School Extravaganza listed several bands performing including the Dynamics and Busy Boy Jimmy Hanna (“the band that backed Sonny and Cher”) as well as Sir Raleigh and the Coupons, and the Scotsmen, in what was described as their “First Tacoma Appearance in Their Bright Kilts.”

   In April 1965, the band performed at Central Washington State College for the annual World University Service Week. They returned to Central in February 1966 for a Battle of the Bands competition in the Student Union Building.

   “The Young Republicans Club has teamed up with Seattle disk-jockey Dick Curtis of Pat O’Day and Associates to bring to Central two of the region’s top rock and roll bands, The Scotsmen, Thee Unusuals, and Thee Unusual’s singer, Kathy McDonald, will be on hand for a full evening’s entertainment,” the CWSC student newspaper, The Campus Crier, reported.

   “The Scotsmen bring with them an international flavor. Their most recent tour was with the Vegetables, and other tours have taken them to all parts of Pacific Northwest and Canada,” the paper continued. “The Scotsmen also have a recent record release, ‘Sorry Charlie.’”

   There was no follow up story on which band won the battle, but the Crier did note that during their performances, Thee Unusuals were accompanied by an eight-foot-long Boa Constrictor named “Herky.”

   According to the website, www.pnwbands.com, the Scotsmen continued to perform in the region until disbanding in 1968. Some of the members would go on to play in other Pacific Northwest bands. For example, vocalist Bruce Robertson performed with several groups including The Statics, the Accents, and International Brick. Keyboardist Mike DeChenne became a member of the Hustlers during its short time in existence in the mid-60s.

   The Scotmen’s small discography (two songs) was rediscovered in 2001 with the release of The Northwest Battle of the Bands, Vol. 2, Knock You Flat!, which featured a number of largely forgotten 1960s era PNW rock ‘n roll bands. The CD included both “Sorry Charlie” and “Tuff Enough,” and introduced a new generation to the guitar and organ-driven sound of what has been described as “fuzz-punk” rock, considered a precursor to later so-called garage bands.

   In attempt to appeal to modern-day hipster audiophiles, the songs were also reissued by Sundazed Records in 2018 on a bright green-colored vinyl record version. Here is a link to the Scotmen’s two recordings: www.youtube.com/watch?v=9XcfInqIq5I.

   Rock on.