Situated high up on the jagged backbone of the Rocky Mountains, the mining camp Tin Cup was one of the richest in Gunnison County. It was also the most wicked. During its first great boom in the early 1880s, the ill-fated men who donned its marshal’s star learned fatality was often in store for them.
Named for the tin cup used by a prospector to pan for gold in nearby Willow Creek in 1859, Tin Cup was nothing more than a seasonal placer mining site for the first twenty years of its existence. All that changed when lode deposits were discovered around the area in 1878.
Hundreds of prospectors, miners, and gamblers rushed to the gold-bearing cliffs surrounding Tin Cup in search of treasure. Some were good men, but many were short-tempered criminals who wasted no time taking control of the fledgling town.
Fueled by whiskey and prone to violence, these lawless “roughs” created a crude government and appointed their own marshal. Old Man Willis, as the marshal was known, was charged with giving Tin Cup the appearance of an orderly town. This would make it easier for the roughs to lure unsuspecting tenderfeet into the camp and fleece them.
Marshal Willis was warned by the authorities of the roughs who appointed him that the first man he attempted to arrest would be his last. His duty was to see nothing and know nothing, lest he find himself on the wrong end of a gun barrel.
As a man who enjoyed breathing, Willis performed his job nobly. He never interfered with the roughs’ ruthless ways or took a man into custody other than for show. In return for his loyalty, Willis was allowed to serve out his term in one piece.
A border ruffian and confirmed outlaw named Tom Leahy served as the second marshal of Tin Cup. More interested in asserting his rights as marshal than actually wrangling the roughs, Leahy developed a reputation for feigning perilous arrests. Standing off entire mobs of drunken miners and cheating “tinhorn” gamblers, he’d capture roughs four at a time and march them to the station. But as they reached the station door, he’d release them with a sneer.
Never creating real trouble for the roughs, Marshal Leahy made it through his term alive. The same could not be said of the marshal who succeeded him. It was Leahy himself who made sure of it.
A popular miner named Frank Emerson was selected to serve as the third marshal of Tin Cup. Rumor had it that after enduring the harsh conditions of the mountains for many years, Emerson feared nothing. He didn’t shy away from serving up wild-west justice either. He once shot and killed a rebel named Bud Christopher over a horse trade gone bad.
During Marshal Emerson’s short term, he was unflinching in asserting his authority. This meant frequent clashes with the roughs, as well as the previous marshal, Tom Leahy, who had already returned to his criminal ways. For reasons that never made it into the historical record, the two men had a longstanding feud. No one was surprised when Leahy killed Emerson in a public shootout in front of town hall.
A mountain man named Harry Rivers, hailing from the Black Hills of South Dakota, wore the Tin Cup marshal star next. The year was 1882, and thousands of dollars were pouring into Tin Cup every day. Saloons and gambling dens were running around the clock. The roughs controlling town were more ruthless than ever.
Marshal Rivers didn’t live long, though accounts of his rise and fall vary greatly. The roughs of Tin Cup called him a drunken criminal who did special favors for a band of Black Hills outlaws from his hometown. Rivers’ brother said the marshal was targeted by the roughs for declaring his intention to bring law and order to the corrupted town.
A saloon owner named Charley LaTourette pulled the trigger the night Marshal Rivers was murdered. According to LaTourette, Rivers had stormed into his empty saloon as he was closing shop and began berating him. LaTourette ordered the drunken Rivers to go home, but Rivers followed him into the street and fired his gun wildly. LaTourette was forced to fire back in self-defense.
The Rocky Mountain News interviewed Rivers’ brother in 1882. He revealed a more nefarious account. As he explained it, LaTourette and his gang had been planning to take out Rivers for some time, and the mayor was in on it. They wanted to install a new marshal, one who was in their league and wouldn’t give them trouble. To accomplish that goal, LaTourette killed Rivers in cold blood as he walked by LaTourette’s bustling saloon.
After the murder, LaTourette appeared before a court of men, who cleared him of the crime. Rivers’ brother said they were drunk on LaTourette’s whiskey and certain to offer a not-guilty verdict no matter what. Rivers was buried in the town cemetery, and thus ended the life of another Tin Cup marshal.
A Tin Cup local named Sam Micky was selected to be the fifth marshal of Tin Cup. Rumor had it that Charley LaTourette, the saloon owner who murdered Marshal Rivers, had Micky in his pocket. The roughs believed Micky would let them rule the roost, but they threatened his life constantly to be certain.
A few months into his term, Marshal Micky cracked under the pressure. He was declared insane and removed from his post. Then he disappeared. Word around town was that Micky had been shipped off to an Illinois asylum and died soon after. No one knew for sure.
After much reluctance, a well-liked miner named Andy Jameson was induced to put on the marshal star. He didn’t last long either. Doomed to an early end, Jameson was shot by an easily-provoked outlaw named William Taylor during a barroom quarrel. According to Taylor, who was known for his dark eyes, black mustache, and volatile disposition, Marshal Jameson had handled his friend badly, and so he was compelled to draw his revolver.
The role of town marshal remained vacant for many months until a grizzled pioneer named Uncle Dave Corsaut stepped in. Sporting the unusual distinction of being feared by the roughs, Marshal Corsaut had already made a name for himself battling border ruffians and chasing down cattle thieves. He was an unflinching man who bravely held his ground no matter the foe. It was he who would finally bring justice to the lawless town.
Under Marshal Corsaut’s watch, the roughs’ stranglehold on Tin Cup was dismantled. They vacated Tin Cup in large numbers, finding easier places to rob and rustle with impunity. As their numbers dwindled, so did the ever-present sense of fear that had plagued the good people of Tin Cup.
Toward the end of 1884, mining in the surrounding hills waned. Many of the town’s remaining citizens moved on. Its population shrank from 7,000 people to 400. One of the few who stayed behind was Marshal Corsaut. At the end of his term, he opened a lime kiln smelter outside of town. He made headlines in 1888 after finding gold bullion at the bottom of his kiln.
A second boom in 1903 brought 2,000 miners scurrying back to town. They left ten years later when mining dropped off. The post office closed in 1918, and thereafter, Tin Cup has been little more than a sparsely populated summer retreat. The Tin Cup graveyard, where some of the ill-fated marshals were buried, still stands a mile outside of town.
