Cripple Creek 1894: The Time a State Militia Came to Help Strikers, not Hurt Them

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From the annals of labor history, we are pleased to offer this in a series of occasional essays relating stories of working people standing up for their rights.

It was the first time—and likely the last—that a state militia force was called out in support of a striking union, rather than against it. Why? Because the governor of the state, a populist, was elected by those very same striking workers and miners.

Colorado’s Cripple Creek miners’ strike of 1894 was marred by violence—some of it perpetrated by company thugs, and some by union members—but in the end, the union grew at such a rapid pace that it organized more than 200 local unions in thirteen states over the next ten years, and set the pattern for future mine agreements in the West of eight hours of work for $3 a day.

In 1881, gold and silver were discovered in Colorado’s Rocky Mountains southwest of Pike’s Peak. Fewer than ten years later, more than 500 mines operated in the region. But during the stock market panic of 1893, the silver mines took a serious hit (gold prices did not suffer a similar fate), creating a glut of mining labor. Three of the area’s primary gold mine owners colluded, in early 1894, to demand that their miners shift from an eight-hour day to a ten-hour day, but for the same pay of $3 per day. Some offered an eight-hour shift, but would only pay $2.50.

This didn’t sit well with the miners who, after forming the Western Federation Miners Local 19, went on strike on February 7, 1894.

It was the first major strike of the Western Federation of Miners union, which formed in 1893 after a bitter strike in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, that saw spies infiltrating the union leadership, several miners killed by company guards, and the National Guard being sent in at the behest of the the governor to put 600 miners in a prison camp, where they remained for four months. The Western Federation of Miners union was basically formed there in the prison camp, and as miners traveled to other parts of the West for work, they spread the word—and organized.

Within a month of the Cripple Creek miners calling a strike, area smelters were closing down due to the lack of ore. Several of the smaller mines gave in and accepted the original eight hours-at-$3-a-day rate the union was demanding. But the three or four big mine operators held out.

In early March, 4, 1894, just weeks after the beginning of the strike, the large mine owners decided to break the strike by reopening their mines. They hired strikebreakers, and obtained injunctions to prevent strikers from interfering with production or replacement workers and then, ushered the scabs in. Or, at least tried to.

On March 16, a group of armed strikers ambushed six county deputies on their way from Cripple Creek to the mines to enforce the injunctions. The deputies were attacked in the town of Altman; one of them was shot through the arm. When the dust settled, an Altman judge, who happened to be a member of the union, found the deputies guilty of carrying concealed weapons and disturbing the peace, and sent them back to Cripple Creek, weaponless.

As a result, the strikebreakers did not feel safe showing up for work. It was also clear that, since the union was well-represented by people elected to various positions in most of the town governments around the mining communities—it would be hard for the mine bosses to control the strikers. As if that wasn’t enough, the Colorado governor, Davis H. Waite, elected as a member of the Populist Party, was very sympathetic to the miners as well.

In fact, the next day, the governor sent 300 state militia troops to Cripple Creek to help with law and order. Meanwhile, county sheriff Bowers, friendly to the mine owners, ordered the arrest of several of the Altman officials as well as its union president. They met with the general in charge of militia troops, who found after inquiring that none of the miners had resisted arrest and in fact went willingly—and then were promptly bailed out.

The general declared that he would not assist the deputies with any of their duties, because he was there to preserve the peace and protect both sides. The mine owners then closed the mines, rather than try to stay open.

In early May, the companies came back to the table with the offer of $2.75/day but at eight hours. The union refused.

Mine owners then met privately with sheriff Bowers and offered him the money and sufficient weapons to deputize a small army of 100 to help keep the mines open and workers protected. He agreed.

The miners got wind of this, and sent union president John Calderwood out to collect funds so that their strike could continue; he asked former Army officer Junius J. Johnson to fill in. This was rather prescient; he put his skills to use immediately establishing a camp on top of Bull Hill, a steep bluff which overlooked the town of Altman. He also began training the miners in military-style maneuvers, and enlisted their help in getting the commissary fully stocked. In other words, he was preparing for siege warfare.

A few days later, 125 deputies arrived and began to set up camp within view of Bull Hill. The miners sent some men down to “greet” them, which sent the deputies off in the other direction. The miners then left dynamite charges in the Strong mine shaft house nearby, and promptly detonated it.

The steam house rained iron, dirt, cable, and timber onto the deputies, who promptly began to leave town.

But there was one more altercation: some of the miners decided to steal a work train and head toward the fleeing deputies; they caught up with them, and a battle ensued, which left one dead on each side, as well as several prisoners, which were exchanged quickly; in this way as well as many others, this was almost like an actual war.

In late May, companies met again with Bowers; this time, they wanted 1,200 deputies—and they were willing to pay for every last one of them.

The situation came to a head on May 27 and 28 when Governor Waite again got involved. He ordered the miners off of Bull Hill, while at the same time designating the 1,200 deputies an illegal force. He also let the state militia know they were needed—and soon.

As the state forces arrived and began to congregate in the Cripple Creek area, the deputies took advantage of the situation and began firing on the miners atop Bull Bluff and harassing citizens of Cripple Creek. All of this was finally interrupted by the militia, and eventually, the deputies were disarmed and ushered through town while the miners willingly left Bull Bluff to meet the friendly visitors sent by Governor Waite.

The Western Federation of Miners agreed to go back to eight hours a day for the full $3/day (which became the standard for mine worker agreements in the West going forward), and they agreed to not bother nonunion miners who might be sent to work in their midst. Of course, those of us who have worked in a strong union environment know how that goes—eventually, the non-union people are won over.

The WFM flourished in the months to follow, organizing hotels, restaurants, laundry workers, newsboys, and more. It eventually had 200 local unions in thirteen Western states. It also enjoyed political support throughout the region as it grew and thrived; clearly, having a governor who supported working people made the difference in this particular strike, and political power is the second half of the same hammer that unions organizing can wield for the working class. As many of the traditional labor unions across the United States became politically more conservative, the WFM actually helped to create the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW) and remained fairly radical throughout its existence.

There were several other important union drives and strikes in Colorado over the next few decades—the Ludlow strike and massacre being one of the major events—but Cripple Creek was the beginning of these miners deciding to take some of their fate into their own hands and wrest from the mine owners a little more control of their working conditions and a bit more of the piece of the golden pie that they dug, shoveled, and pick-axed every day of their working lives.

Brandon Weber has written for Upworthy, Liberals Unite, and Good.Is magazine, mostly on economics, labor union history, and working people. He is author of Class War, USA: Dispatches from Workers' Struggles in American History, from Haymarket Books. For more information, email Brandon.Weber@gmail.com.