The Most Bizarre Unsolved Mysteries Of The Wild West

This story begins in the gold mining town of Jacksonville, Oregon (pictured). In 1853, writes Oregon historian Finn J.D. John, brothers James and Henry Wilson set out with a group of prospectors looking for gold. After one of the men was killed by rogue Native Americans, the Wilsons trudged on alone. They eventually found a valley surrounded by steep cliffs and built a cabin, and Henry discovered a nearby creek chock full of gold nuggets. With winter and the dangerous natives on their minds, the boys dug a rock-lined hole in the floor of the cabin, deposited their treasure, and covered it with two flat stones.

The brothers no sooner set out for civilization when the natives reappeared and killed Henry. James escaped to northern California. He was in very ill health, writing his cousin, Ted Harper, before dying. Fifteen years later, Harper and an alcoholic poet, Sam Simpson, went looking for the cabin. All they found were burned ruins with Henry's body inside, right as Harper allegedly accidentally shot himself and died! A shaken Simpson returned home sans the gold. Later that year, another group of men went looking for the mine, according to Crater Lake Foundation. They of course found nothing, but they did discover a national treasure – Crater Lake itself, the deepest known lake in America.

Modern-day Bigfoot tales aside, the big hairy guy has actually been alive and well since the 16th century, says Legends of America, when Native tribes reported seeing the great "Sasquatch." History says there are actually Bigfoot stories from all over the world. In the American west, various newspaper stories from the 1800s, according to Cowboys & Indians, "are brimming with giant wild men, [and] wood apes" who look and sound like the Bigfoot everyone has come to know and love. Oh yeah, and they stunk back then just like they are said to today. In Spokane, Wash., says Crosscut, they actually call Bigfoot the "Bad Smelling Tree Man."

The Oregon Encyclopedia says that ethnographer George Gibbs first started recording Native stories of Bigfoot in the state as early as 1865, although the first official record of sightings was not made until 1904 when one was seen around Sixes River on the southern coast. Bigfoot Field Researchers Organization (BFRO) started recording sightings in each state online in 1995. As of this writing, Washington state leads with 690, followed by California with 454, and Florida with 333. Colorado has only 129 recorded sightings, but enough have been reported to merit posting a warning sign on Pikes Peak, according to Woman's Day. If you happen to see a Bigfoot, you can report it on the BFRO site, which makes for fascinating reading.

Between 1885 and 1886, according to Austin Culture Map, eight ghastly murders in Austin, Texas, were attributed to a serial killer. Of the victims, most were "servant girls." Only one lived but her daughter, as well as the companion of another victim, were killed. PBS notes that six of the victims were Black. So were three women who were attacked in July, August, and November, says Servant Girl Murders, but they survived. Then Mollie Smith's axe-mutilated body was found next to an outhouse in December. The murders were quite grisly. In May 1885 another victim, Eliza Shelly, was found with her head "almost completely split." The killer was brutal, assaulting his victims with knives, axes, rocks, and even an iron. 

According to KVUE, the writer O. Henry dubbed the murderer the "Servant Girl Annihilator," as Austin's Weekly Statesman commented, "The heart sickens at these repeated details of horrid, merciless crime." Next, Irene Cross, Clara Dick, and Rebecca Ramey and 11-year-old Mary Ramey were attacked. Only Rebecca survived. The next victims, according to the Fort Worth Daily Gazette, were Gracie Vance and her paramour, Orange Washington. Two more women who were not domestics, Sue Hancock and Eula Phillips, were murdered on Christmas Eve 1885. In February 1886, police killed Nathan Elgin, who was beating a saloon girl to death. The attacks stopped, but Elgin was never proven to be the Annihilator. 

Albert Jennings Fountain, according to Findagrave, was many things — an Army Lieutenant, attorney, newspaperman, and senator. Until his disappearance he was best-known as the trial lawyer for Billy the Kid, who lost his case. In 1896, Fountain and his young son, Henry, were in Lincoln, N.M., for the rustling case against cattle baron Oliver Lee, per Socorro County Cold Cases. Desert USA says author A.M. Gibson verified Fountain had many enemies at the trial, including Lee. No wonder Fountain "had the feeling of being closely watched" while in Lincoln. And after receiving a threatening note as the trial ended, the Fountains immediately started for home 150 miles away. 

Two days later the pair disappeared, according to True West. Only Fountain's wagon was found, along with pools of blood, bullet shells, and Henry's handkerchief. Even famed sheriff Pat Garrett got involved, to no avail. Although Lee's hired hands were eventually tried, they were found not guilty. Two confessions came later — one by James Gilliland in 1937, and one in 1949 when convicted outlaw Sam Ketchum claimed on his deathbed that it was he and his brother, Tom "Black Jack" Ketchum, who killed the Fountains. But the bodies weren't where the men said they were. The Fountain case remains the most famous cold case in New Mexico history.

History buffs love debating about whether Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid really died in Bolivia. But the real mystery is what became of their companion, Etta Place. Not even Pinkerton's Detective Agency knew her real name, although they could describe her, according to Legends of America – "classic good looks, 27 or 28 years old, 5'4″ to 5'5″ in height, weighing between 110 and 115 pounds, with a medium build and brown hair." But that could be about any woman in the Edwardian era. Everything else about Place is purely speculation. Was she a schoolteacher? Or a harlot from a Texas bordello? Or maybe even Sundance's cousin, according to Criminal Element? Nobody knows for sure.

It is a fact that Place loved Sundance enough to accompany him and Cassidy to South America. For a couple of glorious years, according to True West, the trio "robbed numerous banks, and intercepted one mule train after another carrying gold and paper money." Although Place was supposedly killed along with her outlaw men by Bolivian soldiers, others point out that she was later seen back in America both with and without Sundance. Historian Anne Meadows, in her book 'Digging Up Butch and Sundance," maintains that Sundance took Place to San Francisco for a final time in 1905. She was also identified as the woman seeking "documents declaring Sundance dead" there in 1909. Whoever she was, Place took her secret to her grave.

A true wild child, Pearl Hart was a Canada native whom Annals of Crime says made it through finishing school before making a series of life mistakes. She was 17 when she was "seduced" by gambler Fred Hart, who remained in the girl's life until 1898. Tired of supporting her and two children, according to Legends of America, Fred beat her up and split. The next man in Pearl's life, Joe Boot, was her final undoing. The two embarked on a life of crime but were caught in 1899. Boot was sentenced to 30 years in prison (and later escaped), while Pearl got five years.

The public now took interest in the woman bandit who dressed like a man. In prison she not only signed autographs but also began spreading the gospel. Pearl was finally paroled — because she inexplicably became pregnant while in prison. Gov. Alexander Brodie pardoned her in 1902, says Spartacus Educational. What happened to her? It's hard to say. The Vintage News says she tried performing onstage as a "Lady Bandit" before being arrested in Kansas City for buying stolen goods. She was arrested again in 1904, after which she wasn't seen again until 1924 in Florence, Arizona. Various sources say she died in 1925, or sometime in the 1950s, or even as late as the 1960s. But nobody knows for sure.

As the legend goes — and as published in the April 17, 1897 edition of The Dallas Morning News — an odd craft described as an airship struck a windmill near the little town of Aurora, Texas. The pilot was killed, but his remains were intact enough to indicate that he was not human.

Local merchant S.E. Haydon may have created the story in an attempt to capitalize on UFOs that had been recently sighted around Fort Worth. His motive was supposedly to revitalize Aurora, which had been hard-hit by disease and a lack of railroad access. If that's the case, Haydon's effort didn't do much, as the town struggled along until a state highway came through in 1939. Now, it's doing fine as a suburb of Fort Worth that doesn't mind capitalizing on the maybe-true story of an extraterrestrial visitor.

But there is a lingering issue, at least for some. That would be the otherworldly pilot's gravesite, where the oddly proportioned remains were allegedly given a Christian burial. The original gravestone has disappeared, but people still leave flowers, plastic toys, and other trinkets where they believe the ship's occupant still rests. Ground penetrating radar shows that something may be there, but the report of a Christian burial means the next-of-kin has to give permission for the grave to be dug up. With no records and next-of-kin that might just be on another planet, this mystery will have to linger for a while longer.

On April 28, 1881, Billy the Kid was awaiting execution for committing murder, then dramatically escaped jail in Mesilla, New Mexico, killing two sheriff's deputies in the process and leading to Sheriff Pat Garrett tracking Billy through New Mexico. While Garrett was questioning an associate of the outlaw, Billy unexpectedly walked into the dark room. Garrett quickly pulled his gun and shot the young man dead.

Many have since claimed that Garrett made a grave mistake and killed someone else, including multiple people who have been identified as Billy the Kid himself. The most notorious may be the grizzled old man who went by Ollie "Brushy Bill" Roberts. In 1948, Brushy Bill was living in Hico, Texas, where he confessed to a researcher that he was the notorious outlaw. Roberts even attempted to get a pardon for his supposed crimes as Billy the Kid, but he died in December 1950 before anything came of it.

Further complicating things is a 1904 flood that washed away the marker over the "real" Billy's New Mexico grave. Afterward, even people who attended the burial couldn't remember exactly where he had been laid to rest. The grave of Billy's mother, Catherine Antrim, is known, but requests to open it and get a DNA sample have been denied. Attempts to exhume Brushy Bill haven't panned out either, with local officials nixing any attempts due to confusion over where Roberts' grave lies and serious doubts about his claim.

For anyone who harbors even a slight belief in ghosts and an interest in the Wild West, the St. James Hotel is ripe for consideration. Located in Cimarron, New Mexico, it opened in 1872 as Lambert's Inn. It was a nice enough spot for weary travelers on the Santa Fe Trail, but it could also prove deadly. Contentious poker players were known to shoot each other there, lending a possible explanation for the paranormal goings-on that are said to happen in the hotel today (and all those bullet holes in the ceiling). Its original proprietor, Henry Lambert, experienced his own share of tragedy. He was once President Abraham Lincoln's chef, though the Lincoln assassination effectively ended his employment, pushing Lambert to move west.

Many adventurers and fortune-hunters made their way to Lambert's hotel, including Buffalo Bill Cody, Wyatt Earp, Black Jack Ketchum, and Billy the Kid. With the arrival of the railroads, traffic on the Santa Fe Trail died down and so, too, nearly did the St. James. It thankfully survived and has been updated, allowing new guests to ponder mysterious reports of phantom cowboys and disembodied footsteps there.

The most colorful ghost story here may be that of Thomas James Wright, who was shot after winning a poker game and stumbled into his room to die. This room is kept locked because Wright's spirit is said to push people down, appear as a strange light, and has even been rumored to cause deaths.

The Loretto Chapel staircase in Santa Fe, New Mexico, is a supremely lovely structure, with a unique double spiral twisting up 22 feet into the choir loft. But the small chapel opened in 1878 without any stairs at all, so carpenters told the nuns who used the space that they would have to use a ladder. The sisters reportedly undertook a nine-day-long series of prayers called a novena dedicated to St. Joseph, patron of craftspeople. As the prayers were winding down, an itinerant carpenter appeared, looking for work. He proceeded to craft the staircase before disappearing without accepting pay. When a search didn't turn up any information, the sisters and other locals wondered if it was St. Joseph himself.

Even skeptics admit that whoever made the chapel staircase was a master carpenter. However, it isn't a miracle that holds it up but the skillful use of math, wooden pegs, and what must have been many years of experience.

But whose experience? Researcher Mary J. Straw Cook believes she's found proof that French carpenter Francois-Jean Rochas constructed the staircase (via Santa Fe New Mexican). Rochas, who also went by Frenchy and Frank, made his way to New Mexico in the late 19th century, established himself as a hardworking but supremely introverted man, and was reportedly murdered in his home by a mysterious group of three men.

What makes the lights of Marfa, Texas, so intriguing isn't their appearance so much as how long they've been showing up in the desert around this west Texas town. The first recorded sighting is from 1883, when cattle driver Robert Reed Ellison spotted a single light while moving a herd through the Paisano Pass. Reed thought it might be a campfire, but no one found evidence of a campsite and others told him that they'd often seen the strange lights, too. Since then, generations of residents and visitors claim to have seen the lights. Reports typically describe basketball-sized lights that float a few feet off the ground. Most are white, and they're only visible at night.

More grounded explanations focus on car headlights, which could refract through the rapidly heating and cooling desert air. What about the 19th-century reports? Brian Dunning of Skeptoid notes that Ellison's pre-automobile report was actually a story he only told orally and failed to write down. It only became public in the 20th century. Studying the phenomenon in 2004, the Society of Physics Students found strong evidence that the lights moved in concert with traffic on a nearby highway.

If all of that sounds like a major buzzkill, you can put stock into mysterious tales of lights hovering directly above or around a person, or even leading lost folks to safety in poor weather. Perhaps that's enough to hold out hope for the mystery.

It all started in the Superstition Mountains east of Phoenix, Arizona. Conquistador Francisco Coronado is believed to have torn through the region in the 16th century on his search for the mythical Seven Cities of Gold. Though the Spaniards never found gold, later explorers did find valuable ore deposits in the Superstitions — and plenty of trouble via war, betrayal, and the Apache.

In the 1870s, German immigrant Jacob Waltz made his way to the area. By 1877, he was reportedly buying up supplies with suspiciously fine gold ore, but Waltz never gave anyone a straight answer regarding the gold's origins. When he nearly died in a flood and then contracted pneumonia, he gave his caretakers hints of a golden hoard in the mountains. Or did he simply experience slowly declining health and die in Phoenix, as some accounts maintain? Either way, when Waltz died in 1891, the mystery of where he got the riches grew into the legend of the Lost Dutchman Mine (Dutch and German were often confused for each other in the Old West).

Since then, many have attempted to find the mine but with no apparent success and quite a few deaths. Some have speculated that the whole tale is made up or that it was confused with already-established mines. But perhaps, as some still hope, the Lost Dutchman Mine is still waiting out there in the Arizona desert.