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In his forty years as a freelance writer and newspaper reporter, Bill Kelly had interviewed and written about hundreds of names familiar to us: Mickey Rooney, Rory Calhoun, Sylvester Stallone, Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, Broderick Crawford, Henry Fonda, Victor Mature, Ginger Rogers, Ida Lupino, John Wayne, Aldo Ray, Joe Louis, Rocky Marciano, Sugar Ray Leonard, Muhammad Ali, and Henry Armstrong are among many.

Bill has authored an astounding 15,000 magazine articles -- a phenomenal feat for any writer. He had appeared in Poker Digest, Card Player, Real West, True West, Treasure Search, Treasure Cache, Lost Treasure, South Bay, Country Review, True Detective, Inside Detective, California Highway Patrolman, Oklahoma State Trooper, Texas Highway Patrol, Inland Empire, Reader’s Digest, Poker World, Ring Magazine, Boxing Illustrated, K.O., and Variety.

His freelance work has appeared in too many California newspapers to list here, but they include, Herald Examiner, Orange County Register and Press-Enterprise.

His critically-acclaimed Collector’s Edition of Bill Kelly’s Encyclopedia of Gunmen is a reference book treasured by historians and Western buffs alike. Bill’s second book, Treasure Trails and Buried Bandit Booty, is a collection of true accounts of buried outlaw swag, and contains clues to reportedly hidden loot throughout the United States.

Bill recently appeared on the History channel as an old west historian in High Rollers: The History of Gambling.

His latest book is Gamblers of the Old West ($24.95). An autograph copy can be purchased by contacting Bill by e-mail: wildbill@cosmoaccess.net or by snail mail: 29759 Longhorn Dr. Canyon Lake, Ca. 92804.

Bill Was born in Tom’s River, New Jersey, on May 5, 1927. He now resides in Canyon Lake, California, where he spends most of his waking hours writing tons of articles to be enjoyed by thousands of readers.

His book, EMPTY SADDLES, is a nostalgic tribute to the sagebrush sagas of the 1940s and 50s, and contains Bill’s interviews with fifty Cowboy stars that made cinema history. No release date has been set for this book at this writing

GOLDFIELD GOLDIE'S FATAL MISTAKE

At the time of our story -- 1905, Goldfield, Nevada boasted of 30,000 people, and the average lot sold for $45,000. The boom camp was originally called "Grandpa" when Harry Stimler and Bill March staked out their claim in 1902. The name, Goldfield came about when "jewelry rock" was discovered. This precious gem sold for up to $100 a pound.

Labor problems plagued the boom camp. Strikes, disorder and fights were as common as the prostitutes who had a stranglehold on the city. State police troops were called in to restore order. When things went back to normal, miners returned to any one of the various saloons that offered women and gambling. The most famous gambling establishment was Tex Rickard's Northern. The bar was so gigantic 80 bartenders were keep busy. As many as 60 employees ran the gaming tables, which included 30 poker tables that seated six to ten players at a time.

Tex Rickard made his fortune in the Klondike, lost it in California, and ventured to Goldfield with the gold strike. His first big promotion was the champion prize fight between Joe Gans and "The Durable Dane," Battling Nelson on September 3, 1906. Nelson lost on a foul in round 42, and Gans was the new World Lightweight King.

Not quite as elegant, nor as busy as Tex Rickard's Northern, was Goldfield Goldie's gambling house and parlor house. Goldie covered her tracks better than Rickard, for no one ever knew her real name. This was the way with many women of the Old West who ran away from home and ended up in a life of prostitution. Simply, they did not want to throw shame and embarrassment on their loved ones back home so they lived incognito.

Goldfield Goldie realized at an early age that the only two who could live as cheap as one were a horse and a bird. She saved her money and acquired a gambling hall with an upstairs "parlor. " Her combination gambling/whorehouse was only one of four on Ramset Street. There, by virtue of a crown of corn-blonde hair, she acquired the sobriquet, Goldfield Goldie.

Into her establishment one night strolled Ace Chandler, a tinhorn card shark who carved his career by first-class chiseling. He had been barred from Tex Richard's poker tables after he made an odd movement with his hands to which Richard's dealer said, "was a bit suspicious." After sizing up Richard's well-armed security guards, Ace left peaceably, although he had been involved in several shootings over poker hands and was known to be a fast-draw artist. Ace worshipped money and females, especially females with bulging garbonzas who wore peek-a-bosom gowns. He'd do anything to acquire either. He came to play poker and to share Goldie's bed when it was not otherwise occupied. With those low-cut dresses, it didn't take much for her to pour her heart out. She suggested they form a partnership, and together they could become rich. Lady Luck came along on a bright day in 1905. Rumors flew of a new "Golconda," a new tapping of the Mother Lode at a camp called Hart.

"Gold!" was the word that had turned many boom camps into ghost towns over night. Gold was the word that drove winter from the human face. As long as there was gold, life had zest. "Where the hell is Hart?" Goldie asked Ace who wanted her to pull up stakes and follow the gold rush. "Over in California," he said. "Its in San Bernardino County some sixty-five miles west of Las Vegas in the New York Mountains."

People were more adventuresome then. Goldie and Ace left Goldfield on the morning stage for Las Vegas. At Vegas they waited nearly a week for passage to Hart because the stagelines were all booked. At a parched lake a few miles northeast of Clark Mountain Pass the stage took a southerly side-road, two ruts churned knee-deep with dust by the incessant roll of wagon wheels and the pound of hooves -- all headed for Hart.

There it lay, a rough and raucous town filled with shanties and hovels crammed with a collection of clapboard gambling saloons on the west slope of some sage-brush hills scarred with diggings. Within 24 hours the gambler and the prostitute had set up separate businesses. Goldie's parlor house was now a 10 x 12 tent with a cot, a vegetable box, a pitcher of water, and a waste bucket. Within arms-length, Ace Chandler was dealing poker and dispensing whoopee-water by candlelight. Business flourished for both. Ace's fingers were rubbed raw from dealing cards. The line in front of Goldie's tent never dwindled from dusk to dawn.

Goldfield Goldie had become a legend within six weeks and her tent expanded into a clapboard parlor house of which she half-owned with Ace. She was Madam over a half-dozen "fallen angles." Ace also owned the New Yorker, a combination bar and gambling casino next to Goldie's Golden Palace.

A man who came to Hart in its roistering days to start a newspaper noted "There was gambling all day, and there was no night in Hart."

The successful team now had a corner on the market on their private, two-way street. Ace bamboozled his customers with marked cards and left them with only enough money for Goldie's "doves" to take it away from them. When they came to Goldie's place with money in their pockets, Goldie would steer them to Ace. Suckers were as plentiful as jack rabbit ears.

During the period of greatest activity there arrived in camp a man named Sven "Swede" Jurgensen. He was a dull clod of a man with the woebegone expression of a bankrupt undertaker. He had been a farmer but the only thing he could grow was tired. So he became a prospector. On May 25, 1906, he strolled into the New Yorker, pounded a heavy hand on the bar, and snapped, "Whisky!"

Ace was dealing poker when he heard Swede's call. After motioning for one of his boys to take over, he casually walked over to the man in the dirty, town coveralls and asked, "You got money?" "If gold is money," Swede said. "Vell den, I've got plenty of it." He took out a two pound rock from a pucker-stringed rawhide sack and plunked it on the bar. Ace's eyes focused on the flickering yellow glitter of unmistakable gold. "Give him all the whiskey he wants, Ace told his barkeep. At the same time Ace put his arm around his new-found friend and ushered him over to a quiet table in the corner of the room.

"Where'd you get it?" Ace whispered as he poured Swede a drink. "Voodn't you like to know," chucked Swede. "Whoever finds out vere I got dis rock vill half to pay troo der nose. Vun million dollars I vant, and vun million dollars I get or I keep der mouth closed." Ace leaned back in his chair, lit up an cigar and studied his opponent the way a homeless individual studies a rib-eye though a bistro window. Sitting across from him was a human gold mine. The trick was, how to get it away from him. At first Ace thought about torturing him until he squalked like a parrot. But that idea was preposterous because the Swede was built like a sturdy barge and looked like he could lick his weight in wildcats. After sizing his man up, Ace decided that in a battle of wits, where Swede would be completely unarmed.

"Look," Ace said, "I wouldn't go showing that gold around if I were you, everybody isn't as honest as I am. Bigger men than you have been killed for less than that hunk of rock is worth." "Vot do you tink it's vurth?" the curious Swede replied.

Ace took the rock in his hands and fondled it as gently. He took out his knife and scratched the surface. It was sixty percent virgin gold, all right. "I wouldn't want to tell you wrong," said Ace, but I have an assayer friend across the street. I'd trust him with my life. Ace motioned his bartender to bring a bottle of rot-gut over to the table. "Here, drink up on me. I'll be right back."

"Tanks," the Swede chuckled. "Dot's der first ting I vant -- a drink. Next I vant a vooman."

At the word "vooman," Ace turned on his heels. "A woman? Listen my friend, right next door is Goldfield Goldie's Golden Palace. Any size, any color. Take you pick and pay your dollar. That's her motto."

Swede lit up like a Christmas tree. "Vill she take dis rock instead of a dollar and give me all I vant?"

"Sure," Ace said, "But don't be a sucker. That rock's worth fifty whores. Here have another drink while I see my assayer friend."

Two hours later the Swede walked into the Golden Palace dressed like Astor's pet horse, hair slicked back, shows shined, and smelling like one of Goldie's whores. One of Goldie's prettiest soiled doves led him into a reception room, offered him the plushest chair, and served him a shot of Goldie's best private stock. Swede was as contented as a toad at the bottom of a well. Impatiently, he waited for the woman of his dreams.

Finally a harlot entered and escorted Swede through a blue silk curtain, down past a row of little rooms along the hallway. She knocked, "Come in," a sultry voice said. Swede entered and his escort disappeared as quickly as she had arrived. Swede stood dumbfounded. Before him, stretch out on a blue velvet bed was a Salome! A Cleopatra! Jezebel! His heart was jumping around like a pogo stick.

"Come here, sit beside me," said Goldie in her finest rehearsed voice. Goldie took her time, she didn't want this fish to get off the hook. She ran her fingers through his hair, kissed his neck, and asked, "Tell, me, what do you want?"

"I vant a vooman," Swede said nervously.

"Here," she invited, "unbutton my dress.

They stayed together three days, and of course, the Swede proposed marriage. And, of course, Goldie accepted. Only Swede spelled it "Matrimony" and Goldie spelled it "Matter-o'money." Ace hired a bogus parson named Jimmy Kitchner to perform the ceremony. "Get back over their and perform your wifely duties before he gets wise," Ace ordered. And Goldie returned to the arms of her future husband, a man so gullible, he would buy a hair restorer from a bald barber.

Laying beside Swede that night, Goldie was suddenly struck by a thunderbolt. She needed Ace like a duck needs a life preserver. She was doing all the work. All he did was steer the sucker to her. The thought of splitting the ill-gotten gains with that scheming parasite, Ace, chilled her innards. She wasn't getting any younger. Her seductive looks would one day fade, and her hour-glass figure would turn into Big Ben. She decided to make it a real wedding. As Swede's wife she could live like a princess. And if something should happened to him she'd have the world by the tail on a downhill run. Ace was about to find out that Goldie was so two-faced she could give herself mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

Goldie enlisted the services of Reverend Willard Peck, a travelling circuit rider who just happened to be at the right place at the right time. The ceremony was set for 8:30 the next morning, when Ace would be sound asleep.

However, Ace was not asleep at 8:30. because a maid he had hired to keep an eye on Goldie, told all. Thus, Ace was peeking through a peephole in his door when Reverend Peck knocked at Frenchy's door at 8:20. Ace tried to get in, but the door was bolted. He pounded on the door with his snub-nosed, .38-pistol , but the door wouldn't budge. Inside, the Reverend went on with the business at hand while the groom stood paralyzed in a dream work of romance to even consider the noise.

Ace got three of his poker dealers, and they crashed through the door just in time to hear those ball and chain words: "I now pronounce you man and wife."

Ace had been duped by a woman - an unforgivable insult to his monumental ego. The last gossamer thread of sanity snapped. He aimed at Goldie's breast and fired. She fell face down on the parlor floor. Frothy blood foamed from her nostrils and mouth. Ace fired three more shots into her back, then turned to Swede. Swede fell to his knees and begged for his life. Ace fired. The first bullet whizzed by his left ear. The second creased the center of his skull, tearing off a glob of hair in its flight. His face a crimson blotch from blood running off his scalp. Swede darted out the door screaming "Murder! Murder!"

Ace, ran out the back door and hid in a barn, thinking he would wait until nightfall before he made his desperate flight from Hart. A manhunt was launched by a hundred angry miners who had come to know and love Goldfield Goldie. They found Ace hiding under a woodpile and dragged him to the back room of the New Yorker. Ace wept and begged for his life as they tossed a rope over a ceiling beam and hoisted him up. A gravedigger with a sense of humor scrawled on his wooden cross, "Here lies an Ace in the Hole."

Swede heard the true story of the double-cross from Goldie's soiled doves, but he refused to believe it, saying he loved her more than any man could love a woman, "and I know she loved me to." Let it ride. They said. It was far prettier than the truth. They buried Goldie in a graveyard of her own, away from Boot Hill. Her former clients chipped in for a custom fence and a carved pine slab to grace her mound of sod. Swede cried all through the funeral. He slept on her grave all night. In the morning he was gone, never to be seen again.