SCOTTIE CREEK’S JACK ROWLANDS HAD KING MIDAS TOUCH

Here’s a great story that I didn’t use in my newest book, Treasure Lost & Found in British Columbia… http://T.W. Paterson’s latest: Treasure Lost & Found In British Columbia

The Rowlands saga began about 1880, when Jack, also known as Sam, decided to seek his fortune in booming British Columbia. He crossed the border, according to one account, just ahead of an angry American posse.

Why his presence was so urgently desired by a sheriff on the other side isn’t given, although spunky old Rowlands’ later exploits might provide a clue.

Whatever, once over the line, Jack seems to have settled down to the less demanding trade of prospecting. He followed this pursuit, with little apparent success, for the next 12 years. If he didn’t make his fortune, he did not earn a reputation for being industrious, unassuming and honest.

Until July 19, 1892, that is, when Jack’s halo slipped. Maybe he was getting hungry after all those years of chasing rainbows; perhaps it was the old call of adventure beckoning from the past. Whatever the reason, he returned to his early, evil ways – with a mask and a Winchester.

It was hot, that summer afternoon of almost 140 years ago, as Billy Parker urged his weary team along the dusty road near Post 98. Inside the jostling coach the single passenger, a hide buyer, watched the arid countryside in listless detachment.

The famous B.X. Company gave little thought to the dangers of road agents in those days. In isolated Cariboo country a bandit had little chance of escape. Sometimes the heavy iron box under Billy’s seat was empty, but on this trip it held $13,000 in gold dust and nuggets, and two gold bars valued at $2,000.

Billy gave his precious cargo hardly a thought as the bumping miles crept slowly by; he’d carried this much and considerably more many times without incident. A fact which probably contributed to his state of shock when, at the foot of Bridge Creek Hill, a masked man stepped from the jack-pine at the side of the trail and curtly ordered the lumbering stage to a halt.

From his perch, Billy looked down in awe at the short grey-haired man standing in the roadway – and right into the menacing muzzle of his rifle.

“Throw down that box!” the slight road agent thundered, motioning evilly with his Winchester. When Parker numbly obeyed, the highwayman ordered him to proceed. Lashing his six horses, Parker charged on, leaving the robber and strongbox in his dusty wake.

A posse reached the scene hours later but there was no trace of the robber or of the treasure chest. Rain had obliterated all tracks; he’d vanished into thin air.

Word of the holdup and the outlaw’s description was flashed eastward to Kamloops and to all southern points along the Cariboo trail, down through the Fraser Canyon. If the wanted man tried leaving the country by this route, the main road, he was sure to be noticed, leading police to believe he was still in the region, probably lying low in the woods. Posses doggedly scoured the wilderness without success.

“Gold! They’ve stuck gold on Scottie Creek!”

The hoarse cry shook Clinton like an earthquake. Men and boys frenziedly charged to the scene, 20 miles north of Ashcroft, as oldtimers scratched their heads in bewilderment. “Cain’t figger it,” said one. “Why, the creek’s bin gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Even the Chinese gave up years ago.”

But gold there was. Old Jack Rowlands, with a crew of two Chinese and two Indians, had struck paydirt after all those years of chasing the will-o’-wisp. Jack had established camp on Scottie Creek, a tributary of Bonaparte River, a month before, despite the knowing winks of townsfolk. Within three weeks he’d proven them wrong by bringing out gold by the pouch.

From dawn till dusk, his sweating crew worked five ancient sluiceboxes. When days, then weeks, passed without his neighbors on the creek having any success beyond finding a little colour, exuberant boasts and rumors gave way to ugly insinuation. Why was it, some asked in sarcastic tones, they worked as hard but found nothing, while Rowlands’ camp added each day to its treasure?

Old Man Rowlands did nothing to discourage the doubters, making enemies of one and all by his marked hostility. Once he’d been quiet and inoffensive, but now he was openly belligerent, warning all visitors off his claim at rifle point. He even ordered his men not to talk with the other miners if they valued their jobs. All very strange for a veteran member of the raucous mining fraternity.

Twice a week Rowlands forwarded a pouch of the coveted dust to storekeeper F.W. Foster’s safe in Ashcroft by B.X. stage.

With each passing day – particularly the days Rowlands shipped his treasure – the miners became increasingly bitter. The most inexperienced youth in the luckless company knew something was decidedly wrong with the entire business.

Finally one man became angry enough to brave Rowlands’ rifle and invective. Striding into camp, he approached the glowering miner and demanded to know why it could be no one else found gold although they’d painstakingly searched every inch of creekbed. To his surprise, Rowlands answered; not politely, but he answered.

He had, he said, spent a month scouring Scottie Creek, looking under every rock and shifting tons of gravel without finding so much as a nugget. Until he found his present claim; it must be the mother lode, he reasoned.

When the miner reported back to his comrades, they discussed the grizzled prospector’s explanation. The unanimous verdict was they’d never heard the likes of a creek that could be so rich in one little spot and so barren everywhere else. With their verdict came a decision to inform the police of Scottie Creek’s mysterious miner with the golden touch of King Midas.

Gus Erikson and Ed Wright were duly appointed to take the weird story to Ashcroft. Here, the miners earnestly told of the strange events on Scottie Creek. Constable Burr listened but remained unimpressed. There just wasn’t enough evidence to prove a crime had been committed, he replied.

“Then how come Rowlands only finds his pile when his helpers are having dinner, eh? Answer us that!” challenged Wright.

It was about then the skeptical policeman recalled the daring holdup of July 19. Fifteen thousand dollars, most of it in dust, was still missing. The only problem with this thought, however, as he patiently explained to his angry visitors, was the difficulty of identifying Rowlands’ gold as being from the robbery—unless they could find the two bars.

Although pessimistic as to his chances of laying a charge, Burr eventually agreed to return with Erikson and Wright, disguised as a prospector. Upon arrival, he joined those still panning the controversial creek and watched Rowlands’ every move without arousing any suspicion.

His surveillance confirmed that only Rowlands found colour when his men were eating. Within days of the officer’s arrival, it became apparent Rowlands was preparing to leave. Jack had paid off his crew and was bundling up his equipment when Burr and a crowd of miners called on him.

To the officer’s question, he replied the claim was picked clean, he was pulling out. “No, sir, I’m afraid you’re not,” Burr answered. “I’m arresting you on suspicion of robbing the B.X. You’ll have to come with me to Clinton to straighten this out.”

A suddenly contrite Rowlands protested weakly, then surrendered without struggle.

When he finally faced a jury of his peers in a rustic courtroom packed with miners, it was to face a Crown case of circumstantial evidence. Driver Billy Parker testified Rowlands was of the same build and age as the highwayman but he couldn’t give a positive identification. As for the passenger, he sheepishly admitted he’d seen nothing from his refuge on the coach floorboards after taking one look at the robber’s rifle.

A more damning point was the remarkable coincidence concerning the date of the robbery and the time of Rowlands first “strike.” On July 21, just two days after Billy Parker threw down the strongbox to the man with a Winchester, old Jack had made his first deposit with storekeeper Foster.

Furthermore, declared the prosecution, Rowlands’ claim had been thoroughly checked after his arrest, without a single grain of gold dust being found. To which the defendant sneered: “I cleaned it out.”

But there was one piece of evidence Rowlands couldn’t refute with a scornful laugh.

Superintendent of Police Fred Hussey took the witness stand to deliver the coup de grace. A deathly silence fell upon the room as the mustachioed chief constable quietly explained how he and Const. Burr had impounded Rowlands’ gold dust in Foster’s store. Undramatically, Hussey told his spellbound audience how he and Burr had minutely examined the dust and nuggets under a powerful magnifying glass. Their inspection had revealed the gold could not possibly have come from Scottie Creek. At least, not all of it.

Every creekbed, he explained, left its own distinguishable mark on its gold. Usually washed down from the headwaters, nuggets were battered and polished by miles of swirling currents and abrasive bottom. The same would apply to gold taken from Scottie Creek. Instead, Rowlands’ pokes contained nuggets and dust of all conditions. Some nuggets were worn smooth, others gnarled as if found near the source.

The gist of Hussey’s testimony was that such an assortment of gold could only have come from many creekbeds – or the B.X. strongbox. The jury of miners didn’t take long to decide Mr. Rowlands had sluiced his fortune from the stage company, and the magistrate sentenced him to seven years in New Westminster penitentiary.

Two years later, Jack Rowlands was gone from the British Columbia scene.

Despite his advanced years, like that grand old highwayman Bill Miner, he’d slipped out of prison and successfully eluded all pursuit. He was never seen again.

To this day, oldtimers around Clinton and Ashcroft wonder if Jack managed to return to his stashed loot before skipping across the border. Some maintain the hue and cry for his capture would have prevented his daring to reappear at Scottie Creek and vicinity where it’s likely he hid the dust and ingots.

Which leaves the matter of $12,000 unresolved. The gold seized in Foster’s safe amounted to $3,000. At today’s prices, the remainder would be worth a sizable fortune.

Years after the famous robbery, surveyors laying out the route of the PGE Railway stumbled upon a rusted, battered strongbox in a brush-shrouded gulley, within five miles of Bridge Creek Hill. It was empty.