Mushroom Towns of the American West
By Randall Parrish in 1907
The westward expansion of the United States in the 19th century was a period of dramatic transformation, marked by the relentless march of railroads across vast, untamed landscapes. Accompanying this progress was a peculiar and fleeting phenomenon: the rise and fall of "mushroom towns." These ephemeral settlements, born from the unique circumstances of railway construction, sprouted overnight, thrived briefly, and vanished almost without a trace, leaving behind only faint echoes of their existence on the expansive plains.
The construction of the great transcontinental railroads, such as the Union Pacific and the Kansas Pacific, demanded a constant supply of materials and manpower deep within the sparsely populated territories. As the iron rails stretched further into the wilderness, the point where the track ended became a crucial logistical hub. Every resource, every tool, and every worker had to be funneled through this temporary terminus, transforming it into a hive of frenetic activity. Money flowed freely, and the absence of established social structures and traditional family life created an environment ripe for the emergence of these transient towns.
Attracted by the promise of quick riches and unbridled freedom, a diverse and often disreputable population flocked to these nascent settlements. Gamblers, saloon keepers, prostitutes, and other purveyors of vice eagerly descended upon the temporary terminus, seeking to capitalize on the transient wealth and the lack of legal constraints. Makeshift structures, hastily erected from rough-hewn boards, canvas tents, and even sod, sprang up across the prairie with astonishing speed. The declaration that the railroad would pause at a particular location was virtually synonymous with the instantaneous creation of a new "city," teeming with humanity and driven by an insatiable hunger for fortune. However, the lifespan of these mushroom towns was inherently limited.
Few of these settlements managed to survive beyond a few months, and only a handful endured for longer than half a year. They existed in a state of perpetual revelry, often characterized by rampant lawlessness and moral decay, only to disappear completely from the map as the railroad advanced, leaving behind a desolate landscape and scattered remnants of their fleeting existence.
Despite their historical significance, the story of these mushroom towns has often been overlooked by traditional historians. However, these settlements provide a valuable insight into the raw and untamed nature of frontier life and the chaotic process by which civilization first penetrated the American West. One account, published in Harper’s Magazine by an individual involved in the construction of the Kansas Pacific Railroad, offered a vivid portrayal of this era. Drawing upon this and other sources, the aim is to preserve the memory of these fleeting settlements, rescuing them from the brink of oblivion.
One such town was Coyote, Kansas, the temporary terminus of the railroad in 1868. Its setting could not have been more desolate. The monotonous expanse of the Great Plains stretched out in every direction, meeting the seemingly endless sky. Coyote itself was a chaotic collection of hastily built shacks, inhabited by a rough and tumble population of men who had seemingly materialized from thin air, mingling among the dwindling herds of buffalo. Many of Coyote’s residents had migrated from previous mushroom towns further east, bringing with them their rudimentary dwellings, their meager possessions, and the basic necessities of life. In a single day, a new home could be established, only to feel old and worn by nightfall. Canvas saloons, sheet-iron hotels, and crude sod dwellings dotted the landscape, alongside discarded tin cans and playing cards scattered across the ground. The sheer number of playing cards was particularly striking, seemingly omnipresent.
The writer in Harper’s Magazine eloquently described the ever-present playing cards:
"Before the breath of the north wind, they would rise into the air, the queens dancing like so many witches in effigy, as close over the smooth surface as they fled south. A few moments and the barren earth would be swept clean, while the pasteboards, accompanied by stray newspapers and old hats, were fluttering out of sight like a flight of white birds. Three days, the usual life of a full-grown prairie gale might pass, and then, as the north wind met the forces of the south, the tenantless air became alive again.
Far off on the heel of the vanquished and the crest of the victor wind came the white-winged coveys of cards, like the curses of the proverb, on their way home to roost. At nightfall, they had collected beside the track and among the houses and were again as thick as leaves in autumn. Had it been possible for conscience to prick through a Coyote gambler’s skin, how it might have gratified him to see the marked Jack that had fleeced the last stranger rise like a grasshopper and fly south, beyond the possibility of becoming State’s evidence! And how annoying to wake up and find the knave again under his window!"
Coyote, Kansas, existed for a brief period amid the vast buffalo country. For miles in every direction, the carcasses of slaughtered buffalo littered the landscape. Buffalo meat, cut into strips and dried or transported on sleds, was readily available and incredibly cheap. Occasionally, a stampeding herd of buffalo, startled by careless hunters, would thunder directly through the town, demolishing tents and causing chaos among the startled residents. For many, such an event was second only to a dogfight in terms of entertainment value, and bets were placed accordingly. The sporting inclinations of the town were particularly evident when a buffalo bull attempted to dislodge a frightened citizen from behind a log where he had sought refuge after a poorly aimed shot. While the animal failed to extract the man, he managed to rip his pants to shreds, eliciting enthusiastic cheers and bets from the onlookers.
The mushroom town of Coyote’s lifespan was short but lively. When the railroad terminus moved further west to Sheridan, Kansas, the transition was swift and complete. Within a week, virtually nothing remained of Coyote, save for scattered oyster and fruit cans marking the deserted site. Sheridan, where the terminus remained for a longer period, grew into a larger and more prominent mushroom town. Named after General Philip Sheridan, who was stationed at nearby Fort Hays, the town was said to have reminded the General of the Shenandoah Valley as a seat of war. The raucous behavior of the Irish railroad workers on payday reminded him of Stonewall Jackson’s Confederate troops.
Sheridan was built along a desolate ravine, surrounded by the vast, empty plains. Remarkably, a graveyard was established on a ridge overlooking the town even before the main street had been surveyed. A threat to give someone a "high lot" was a euphemism for a six-foot plot of land on that hillside. In the first week of Sheridan’s existence, three men were buried "with their boots on," and by the end of the winter, the number had risen to twenty-six.
Communities such as these attracted a collection of unique individuals. Harper’s Magazine described two such characters: "Neb, the devil’s own" and "Ascension Stephen." Neb, short for Nebuchadnezzar, earned his nickname due to his propensity for hiding in the prairie grass to avoid the consequences of his misdeeds. He was known to have dispatched two men "to eternity without previously using a boot-jack." On one occasion, during a payday celebration by Irish workers, Neb fired sixteen shots from a Henry rifle into the crowd. Although no one was killed, Neb was forced to flee on the back of a mule, pursued by a hail of bullets. His career ended at the hands of vigilantes.
Ascension Stephen, described as a "half-witted Millerite," would climb the two buttes near Sheridan once or twice a month, carrying a saloon tablecloth that he intended to use as a garment when the end of times arrived. On one occasion, he frightened a group of drunken Irishmen by running down the hill towards them, the tablecloth billowing behind him. The sight was so effective that the men returned home sober for the first time in months, demonstrating that the tablecloth served as an effective temperance banner.
Judge Lynch held considerable sway in Sheridan, and the railroad trestle served as a convenient gallows. It bore "fruit" on a monthly, and sometimes daily, basis. Passengers on trains often witnessed the gruesome sight of executed individuals hanging from the trestle, reminders of the town’s violent nature. While Sheridan was not outwardly moral or law-abiding, a line existed that could not be crossed without provoking physical retribution. Morals were often treated as commodities, embraced only when profitable. Those who abstained from cards, women, and wine often engaged in other schemes to exploit their fellow citizens. However, they were advised to flee into the prairie before their victims realized they had been conned.
Vengeance was swift and certain, and vigilante juries delivered peculiar verdicts in Judge Lynch’s Sheridan court. In one instance, a man arrested on suspicion, but lacking any concrete evidence, insulted the court and was promptly sentenced to be "strung up for contempt."
The town was rife with "bad men," and the number of aspiring "Bill" heroes seemed endless. The name William seemed to guarantee future fame, transforming ordinary men into "Wild Bill," "Apache Bill," or some other iteration, terrifying newcomers with their swaggering and often cowardly behavior. The Harper’s Magazine correspondent described one such individual, a teamster named William Hobbs, who claimed to be "California Bill" despite never having set foot in California. He would wear a buckskin suit made in St. Louis and falsely claim to be a renowned scout and Indian slayer. Despite his claims, he was known to be a terrible shot and once fled in terror after mistaking a Mexican herder for an Indian.
However, Sheridan also had its share of genuine "bad men." Both Buffalo Bill Cody and Wild Bill Hickok walked the streets of Sheridan. Both were cool and quiet but not to be trifled with.
The observer in Harper’s Magazine wrote, "In all my residence upon the frontier, during which time 62 graves were filled by violence, in no case was the murder other than a benefit to society. The dangerous class killed within its own circle but never courted justice by shedding better blood. Orderly people looked on with something like satisfaction, as at wolves rending each other. The snarl was the click of a revolver, and the bite followed the bark. These men gloried in snuffing out a candle, or a life, at 30 paces."
An example of such violence occurred when two notorious bullies, known as Gunshot Frank and Sour Bill, decided to settle their differences in a spectacular fashion. Each armed himself with a revolver and a spade and marched to the ridge outside of town. Their plan was to dig a grave for the other, exchange places, and then engage in a duel to determine who would be buried. However, before the work was completed, Gunshot Frank made an offensive remark, and Sour Bill shot him in the abdomen. The crowd, disappointed by the abrupt end to the spectacle, turned on Sour Bill and beat him to death with a spade. That night, both men were buried in the graves they had dug for each other.
The experience of staying in Sheridan’s only hotel was unforgettable. Hastily constructed for easy relocation, every bed creaked and groaned with the slightest movement. The partitions between rooms did not reach the ceiling, and every sound echoed throughout the building. A pistol shot in one room was likely to disturb the occupants of another, and the profanity emanating from the crowded bar below caused lodgers to fear stray bullets. Outside, a mob howled, and someone in a distant room struggled to remove a tight boot. "If the landlord wants their boots off, let him come an’ pull ‘em," the lodger yelled. Sleep was elusive as every creak, stamp, and snore was faithfully reported. Inside the hotel was hell, and outside was Sheridan.
The era of mushroom towns has long since passed. The "Bills" are gone, and so is Sheridan. Today, the train still stops at the station bearing the town’s name, but only the solitary house of the railroad section hands remains. The hotels, saloons, and shacks have all vanished, replaced by the vast, silent plains. Only on the hill, lie those left behind by the migrating Sheridan, a lasting testament to the fleeting existence of those bygone days.
Compiled and edited by Kathy Alexander, updated February 2025.
About the Author: Mushroom Towns of the American West was written by Randall Parrish as a chapter of his book, The Great Plains: The Romance of Western American Exploration, Warfare, and Settlement, 1527-1870; published by A.C. McClurg & Co. in Chicago, 1907. Parrish also wrote several books, including When Wilderness Was King, My Lady of the North, Historic Illinois, and others.
Also See other tales by Randall Parrish:
Adventures and Tragedies on the Overland Trail
Beginning of Settlement in the American West
Border Towns of the American West
Frontier Scouts and Guides
The Reign Of The Prairie Schooner
Struggle For Possession of the West – The First Emigrants