Old Missoula

“Rover’s Rest” – Missoula’s Famous Hobo Hotel – 1929

“Stiffs” Hate “Dehorn” Addicts

Respectable Hoboes Bar Drinkers of Wood Alcohol From the Hotel De Bum, Noted Local Institution

By Thomas Duncan

The blown-in-the-class Stiff or Hobo, as he is commonly called, hates the Hi-Jacker, the Canned-Heat Artist and the Dehorn. I learned that the other day when I went down into the Jungles where the hobos hang out to get the Low Down.

The aristocrats of the box-cars, on arriving in Missoula, go down to Hotel De Bum, otherwise known as Rover’s Rest. The resort is located on the Milwaukee tracks, where the Bitter Root branch of the Northern Pacific crosses.

When the new arrival approaches the hotel one of the first things to attract his eye is a sign painted on the door, “No Dehorns allowed.” To those familiar with the lingo of jungle-land the sign has a significance. The sign refers to those tramps who drink “dehorn,” and “dehorn” itself is a drink made by mixing wood alcohol with water. Sometimes, when they can get it, the juice of fruit or berries is added to give the drink a more pleasant flavor. When the boys have mixed up a batch of this stuff and drink it, the results are about the same as come from any intoxicating liquor. Sometimes, though, “dehorn” causes blindness or insanity.

Another beverage is made by extracting the alcohol from “canned heat” and the effects are about the same as from “dehorn.”

Now and then the Dehorns move in on the respectable bunch at the “hotel,” and as there is neither manager, clerk nor bellboy on the job to keep order, the sober ones take it upon themselves to see to it that the roughnecks are ejected. Sometimes it turns out in a free-for-all, but as a rule the more temperate ones accomplish their purpose; that is, unless there are too many for them to manage. In the conversation one of the boys observed, “Dem Dehorns won’t let none o’ us decent guys sleep, and dey come down t’ d’ joint in d’ middle o’ d’ night all canned up and we hav t’ trow ‘em out.”

The “Hotel.”

On entering the lodge the newcomer observes both the luxury and peacefulness of the place. There are several double-deck bunks with mattresses on them, a table, heating stove, and over the table on a shelf is an alarm clock, ticking the time away until it will awaken one of the men to catch the next freight out. Several of the men were asleep; snores issued forth in competition with one another. An old man of about 70 was lying on his bunk reading one of the “confession” magazines. No sheets were on the mattresses, but the boys didn’t seem to mind a little thing like that, for they are used to sleeping ‘most anywhere.

Outside the door is always a load of wood which adds considerably to the comfort of the guests at Rover’s Rest these chilly nights. The wood has been put there through the kindness of the Polleys Lumber company and the tramps appreciate it. The hospitality of the place is known for hundreds of miles along the line, both east and west. The “hotel” was put up by the lumber company to protect its yards.

In the court behind the resort, the fire places have been built from scraps of old iron and here it is the Stiffs cook up feeds and boil out their clothes. Between two cottonwoods a clothesline has been stretched and it does duty nearly every hour of the day. Near the fires, which are kept burning most of the time, are packing boxes and crates which are used for tables, and on them practically every kind of a cooking utensil is to be found, together with knives, forks and spoons. They have been left there for anyone to use who wishes.

Tempting feeds are often cooked up and when there is any money in the crowd, it is pooled to buy a supply of meat and groceries for the bunch.

Three colored adventurers from the South were preparing breakfast. The can of coffee on the fire came to a boil, and nearby on one of the packing boxes was a can of fresh-fried sausages. The [Black Men] were hopping about in delight, tending to this and that, while one of them was serving the scrambled eggs and toast on the lids of tin cans. The table was set and they were ready to “have at ‘er.” It was a breakfast fit for anyone, and while they were laughing and talking, one could hear mentioned such cities as Memphis and Birmingham and the names of “gals” they knew down there.

“Hey, Slim.”

Someone was calling. I turned and saw a couple of neat-looking young fellows in working clothes. “Had breakfast, Slim?” one of them asked. I told them I had, but went over to talk and asked which way they were headed. They were both going to the coast and had stopped off in Missoula to clean up and wash their clothes before continuing on with their journey. When they had finished and I had heard at least a dozen times about the high cost of living, as was demonstrated by the small piece of liverwurst they had bought for their 39 cents, one of them gathered up the remainder of the meal and carried it to an old colored fellow who began to eat as if he had not had the pleasure in several days.

The old [Black man] was on his way to Tacoma and said he had stayed in jail there all last winter because he had no other place to sleep. When he was in the jail he was permitted one meal a day and that was “rotten,” he said.

Leaving the “hotel” for the Jungles east of Higgins avenue bridge with another fellow who was on his way up town to the employment office to see about a job, I met a couple of tramps coming toward us on the track in front of the Milwaukee depot. They were evidently new on the road or else awfully dumb, for they asked where it was the city was putting on the free feed for the Stiffs. When we told them we knew nothing about it, they told us that all along the line they had heard the city barbecued a beef for the tramps every day. When we told them someone had been “stringing” them, they refused to believe us and headed on down the track to find the mythical barbecue.

The “Jungles.”

East of the Higgins avenue bridge, in the trees by the irrigation ditch, were nine hobos, some sitting by the fire and three or four lying about among empty Sterno cans in the grass. The place is favorite with the Dehorns and Canned Heaters and one of the boys was very evidently sleeping off the effects of a spree. Another fellow was improving his mind reading the “Literary Digest” and was so interested in the subject matter he did not notice who came or went about him.

Beside the smoldering fire sat a man with his shoes off, applying cold cream to his feet. He said his feet were in bad shape and then went on to tell that kerosene would do just as well and added that the oil would cure most any kind of bug or snake bite. On the man’s hand was a scar which he said was caused by the bite of a rattlesnake down in “Arizony.” With emphasis he impressed upon me the fact that if it had not been for his having a can of kerosene handy at the time, he would not have been there to tell me the story.

“Big Shots.”

Often the residents of Missoula are host to some of the most distinguished knights of the road, for the visitor to the jungles will hear casually mentioned the names of such famous men as Dirty Face Jack, Frisco Slim, Marmon Red and others who pass through at least once a year.

Many of the men who travel about the country on the boxcars have regular trades which they follow when they can get work.[1] Others are from the “hoosegows,” as they call the jails.

During the fire season when forest fires are continually “blowing up” in this district, the word passes all along the road and men flock here to go to work for the forest service. Some are harvest hands on their way to new fields, many of them recently went through to Washington to pick the apple crop. Others who have made their “stake” are on their way to the coast and points south, where they will winter.

Hunting Jobs.

The tramp of today is forced by circumstances, in many instances, to travel from place to place in search of a new job. He is a builder of bridges and tunnels. He works in logging camps and on all manner of construction jobs. They all have their stories and talk of Chicago as “Chi” and Cincinnati as “Cincey.” One man told of seeing Toni Lombardo, the Chicago gangster, shot on the street. Another said he knew Scarface Al Capone personally, as well as many of the other racketeers. He was fresh from Chicago and knew all the latest dope on the gang wars, had driven a liquor car and knew the methods of the booze operators in the Windy city.

When on the road the experienced Stiff, as he prefers to be called rather than Hobo, if he has any money, does not take it with him but sends it ahead by post office money order, for he knows of the hi-jacker and his methods. One fellow told of his experience with hi-jackers and said that at one time he with about 20 other men, who had recently been paid off in the harvest fields near Great Falls, were in a boxcar traveling at night. The hi-jackers swung into the open door of the car from the roof. The first man into the car pulled some newspapers from his coat and set fire in them, thus making a torch. Immediately his partner swung into the car and in a moment had his pistol out and ordered the harvest hands to line up facing the wall of the car. Then the hi-jackers made short work of taking the money, which amounted to several hundred dollars.

There are two more Jungles in the city besides those mentioned, one on the river bank below the city dump and the other on the river bank a few hundred feet west of the Van Buren street bridge. There are no real Jungles on the Northern Pacific. There would be if water, shade and resting places were convenient. However, men do congregate on the west end of the Northern Pacific yards, but only long enough to catch the next train out.

 

The above article appeared in The Sunday Missoulian on October 20, 1929.

 

Attempts to remove and eliminate the transients from the Polley’s Mill location were unsuccessful for many years. An article in the Missoulian two years later in 1931, stated that “Rover’s Rest” would be boarded up because of health problems, but another Missoulian article the following year noted that men were still spending nights in the “shack” during the cold weather. That would have been in the middle of the ‘Great Depression.’

While the shack may have been eliminated, men were still camping in this spot when this author noticed them when exploring the area, and while trekking to the McCormick Park swimming pool in the 1950’s. Closure of the Milwaukee Rail line in 1979 probably spelled the end of camping in that area.

The great stock market crash occurred over September and October 1929. 4 days after the article above appeared, on Oct. 24, 1929, the market fell 11%, the day given the title of “Black Thursday.”

A native Missoulian, the author of the above article, Thomas Duncan, was the son of revered Missoula judge, Asa Duncan.

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