Henry
“Hank” Parish appeared in Nevada literature in February 1880 when he
established a mining claim in El Dorado Canyon, Lincoln County not far
from the Lone Star Mine. Later that year Parish had difficulty with a
miner named Taylor and Parish killed. The circumstances must have been
justifiable as no charges were filed against Parish. The following year
Parish was playing poker with James Greenwood and N. Clark. Parish,
after losing consistently, shot both men and fled. Parish was certain he
had killed Greenwood and was afraid he might be lynched, but when he
learned that Greenwood recovered he returned. He made his case and was
not charged suggesting he was able to raise a reasonable suspicion that
the men were cheating at cards.
Parish’s mining ventures did not “pan-out” so he reportedly turned to
crime. In 1882 Parish was suspected of stealing cattle and horses from
the Pony Springs ranch of Archibald Stewart, but the case could not be
worked up. However, the accusation by Stewart angered Parish so when
Stewart was murdered on July 13, 1884 Parish was suspected but without
proof he was not charged. Parish was then rumored to head a gang of
cut-throat highwaymen so, when a gang stole a string of good horse flesh
it was thought to be Parish’s gang. After disposing of the horses and
dividing the spoils the gang dispersed through-out the west, but Parish
remained in Lincoln County, Nevada. Once again a case could not be
worked up against this well-known Lincoln County desperado, and he did
not seem to have any unexplained wealth so he was not arrested.
On the evening of July 2, 1890 Parish went to the saloon of Jimmy
Curtis in Royal City. He began drinking heavily but seemed in good
spirits. During the early morning hours of Sunday he was again walking
around the saloon looking at the goings-on, and once again stopped at a
poker table and leaned on the shoulder of P. G. Thompson. Thompson, a
stranger to Parish, had been playing poker with H. Hill, a Chinese man,
and Bob Martin all night. Each time Parish leaned on Thompson, the poker
player told the kibitzer to stop. Parish returned to the bar but within
a few moments the three men at the poker table broke into hysterical
laughter. Parish was certain they were laughing at him, though in fact
they were laughing with Hill who had just been bluffed into folding a
club flush.
Parish pulled a large folding knife from his pocket and opened the
blade. He concealed the knife in his left hand and, using the foulest
language he could muster, approached the table. Thompson arose to face
his antagonist and told Parish, “I don’t give a damn for you,” and
without hesitation Parish struck him in the face with his right fist.
Thompson fell backwards onto the table but quickly recovered and, as he
arose to continue the fist fight, Parish struck out with his left hand
and drove his knife blade deep into Thompson’s stomach. The wound was
just above and to the right of Thompson’s navel and, as Parish pulled
the blade out, he cut sideways widening the wound. Thompson cried out, “
I have been cut,” and ran from the saloon with saloon-keeper Curtis
close behind him. Parish, now satisfied, returned to the bar where he
was kept under close watch by Hill and Martin.
Curtis managed to corral Thompson in the street, and supported the
wounded man as they walked to the livery, where Curtis obtained a wagon
and team. Curtis drove the wounded man to Pioche, arriving at the
McFadden Hotel at 8:00 a.m., and summoned Dr. James A. Nesbitt. After
examining Thomson, Nesbitt called for Dr. Austin J. Louder to assist him
in an operation. The blade had pierced Thompson’s bowel and the wound
was already putrefying. Both doctors believed their patient’s condition
was hopeless, but they tried to clean the wound and seal the bowel as
best they could. Their efforts prolonged Thompson’s life until July 7,
when he died at 9:00 p.m. after suffering excruciating pain for several
days.
As soon as Dr. Nesbitt arrived at the hotel, Curtis went in search of
Lincoln County Sheriff E. D. Turner and reported the attack. Turner,
concerned over the delay in forming a posse, secured a team and wagon
and went alone to Royal City, where he arrested the drunken Parish
without resistance. He brought his prisoner back to Pioche and by that
same evening had lodged him in the county jail awaiting word of
Thompson’s condition. When Thompson expired on July 7th, Parish was
charged with first degree murder.
Within days Parish had his examination and he pled not guilty. He
claimed that he could not get a fair trial in Lincoln County so his
attorney filed a motion for a change of venue and it was granted. In
early October Parish was taken to Ely, White Pine County and turned over
to Sheriff Ben Payne. The trial commenced in mid-October and lasted one
day. The prosecution presented a strong case relying upon several eye
witnesses, while Parish’s attorney declined to mount a defense.
Consequently, jury deliberations were brief before announcing that
Parish was guilty as charged. On October 16, 1890 Judge Thomas H. Wells
sentenced the prisoner to hang on December 12, 1890. There were no
appeals and the application for a commutation of sentence was rejected.
The time the prisoner spent awaiting his execution was uneventful. He
was not remorseful, resigned himself to his fate, and did not try to
escape.
When his final day arrived, Parish arose at an early hour and ate a
hearty breakfast, then bathed and dressed in the dark suit provided by
the county. At two minutes before noon the solemn procession wound its
way from the jail to the enclosure surrounding the gallows, which had
been constructed at the front of the jail adjacent to the two year old
courthouse. The gallows was the standard drop design, with the scaffold
standing about 8 feet above the ground with a railing all around, except
at the head of the stairs, and with the trapdoor at the center operated
by a spring-loaded release lever. The drop, based upon the prisoner’s
weight, had been calculated at a little over six feet.
Parish ascended the steps without the least appearance of fear and,
when he reached the scaffold, Sheriff William Bassett read the death
warrant. Bassett then asked the condemned man if he had anything to say,
but the Sheriff knew the answer to the question as the prisoner had
asked for an hour and a half to make his address. Parish was entirely
composed as he announced: “I have been charged with a great many crimes;
I killed three men and I was right in doing it. The last man I killed
[Thompson] assisted in stringing me up three times. They say I have a
wife and family that I have not treated right. My wife has been dead
thirteen years; I have two children in Oregon, well fixed. I am an
ignorant man, have always been persecuted and am innocent of crime. All
this will appear in Mr. Murphy’s book of my life, and I want you to
believe it.” The condemned man only spoke for five minutes. The number
of witnesses, though large, was limited as admittance was by Sheriff’s
invitation only. Parish, in his address, made no reference to the
hereafter, nor confessed to having done any wrong.
As soon as the condemned man was finished with his speech he stepped
onto the trapdoor without prompting, positioned himself in the center,
and shook hands with the Sheriff and his attendants. The black cap was
pulled over his head, the noose was adjusted about his neck, the knot
carefully positioned just behind his left ear and, within a moment, the
lever was activated by the Sheriff and the trapdoor was sprung. After
the body fell there was neither a motion nor a quiver evident, which
indicated that the neck of the condemned man had been broken in the
fall. Dr. John D. Campbell took a pulse and, finding none, pronounced
life extinct. Parish’s body was cut down at 12:10 p.m. and his remains
were carefully placed in the cheap pine coffin provided by the county,
which had been laid nearby for that purpose. The body was then carried
into the courthouse, where the doctor prepared him for viewing, and a
little after 12:30 p.m. the doors to the courthouse were flung open and
the public admitted. Viewing continued for 2 hours and after 2:30
p. m. the courthouse doors were closed.
Here begins the mystery, and a ghost story. Ely is at an elevation of
6,500 feet and December 12 is but a week prior to the winter solstice,
the shortest day of the year. The ground at this time of year, if not
covered with snow, was frozen. Parish was first reported to be buried in
the cemetery, but the people of Ely did not want this Lincoln County
murderer buried near their loved ones. As darkness neared Parish’s
remains were still in the courthouse. Later investigation proved the
body was not taken to the cemetery, as no marked nor unmarked grave can
be attributed to Parish, nor are there any graves unaccounted for. In
trying to solve this puzzle an Ely newspaper, four decades later,
suggested that Parish’s remains were taken to Squaw Peak and buried next
to the remains of another Ely undesirable – a man known as “the
Spaniard.” However, it seems unlikely that the remains of the murderer
would be hauled up the mountain at that late hour and a grave dug in
that hard, frozen soil. By daybreak Parish’s remains had been disposed
of, but where?
Over the next decade Ely residents reported that, periodically, they
would see a strange mist at a certain location, and as time passed the
mist thickened to a fog, and finally congealed into a shape – an
apparition of a cheap wooden coffin. Many believed that the coffin was
that of Hank Parish, and that it was his victims who would not let him
rest. A courthouse annex building, without a basement, was built on the
vacant land near the courthouse, the same land where the enclosure and
gallows had stood, and it was not long before the building’s occupants
began to sense a presence, but it was not strong. Later, when the annex
building was expanded, and a basement was built beneath a portion of the
new construction, the presence was felt quite strongly. It was not long
before certain individuals, like Ely ghost-hunter Mary Sorenson,
identified the ghostly presence as Hank Parish. The reason for his
presence in the courthouse annex remains a mystery but what if those
men, responsible for the burial of Henry Parish on that cold dark
December night, decided to make their task easier by simply burying him
in the vacant lot next to the courthouse, inside the enclosure where no
one could see what they were about. They may have even intended to move
him later, but changed their minds. That could explain why Parish’s
spirit haunts the annex today, and that later expansion with a basement
may explain why the spirit is so much stronger today, as the ground may
have been violated in near proximity to his final resting place.
