Antlers Hotel fire in 1898 in Colorado Springs, Colorado.
by Marta Lane
Some evenin’s, when the air howls down the canyon and makes the windows rattle, guests report strange things happenin’ at Antlers Hotel. Employees suspect it’s the ghost of Austin Bluffs, whose soul may have rested in peace if he weren’t a gambler with gold dust in his veins.
It started in 1898, when the Treasury of The United States delivered $50,000 in gold to William Young. William’s the founder of the First National Bank of Colorado Springs and he’d checked into the hotel with his wife and daughter a few days before.
Now the original hotel would still be standin’ if Austin Bluffs hadn’t been workin’ as a clerk behind the counter. A better man would have done a better job. But Austin was a pastor who didn’t like prayers, so he and his wife left Pennsylvania for Cripple Creek. He was down on his gold-minin’ luck—couldn’t even afford matchin’ work-boots—and he became wild and reckless after his wife shot herself in the head with his gun.
Austin was examinin’ a doll that belonged to William’s daughter—who bragged that it was made with human hair and eyelashes—when the wind kicked dust into the hotel’s lobby as two Treasury guards walked in with spurs on their boots and six-shooters on their hips. Austin received William’s delivery and the young girl ran to collect her father, who retrieved the gold a short time later.
Austin’s shift was almost up when he rode the elevator to William’s room and delivered a cigar and glass of port. He tapped and a woman opened the door. William dropped the buckskin bag onto the desk, makin’ the coins clink and chink, then nodded for Austin to put his wine on the table near the fireplace.
After William tossed Austin a gold coin, he rushed from the suite and dashed for the gamblin’ hall. He ordered a glass of the hotel’s best whisky, then looked for an empty chair at the tables. The men called Austin “Bluffs” because he bet more than he won. He heard a loud “crack” when a lady slapped the bartender, who was also her boyfriend, then she shuffled behind the bar and shoved the man. The bartender sprawled into Austin, who fell onto a lighted stove, upsettin’ the coals and setting everythin’ ablaze.
Austin sprinted for William’s room while everyone else raced from the hotel. The fire chief shot his revolver into the sky, signalin’ volunteers to action, and the wind blew until the flames grew. Fire consumed the gabled rooftop, which pointed to heaven like prayin’ hands. Pikes Peak loomed in the background, indifferent, as black smoke rose into the grey sky and the hotel burned to the ground.
No one saw Austin again. But every night, when the wind blows off the Peak and whistles in the pines, you can smell smoke and hear shovelin’ as the ghost of Austin Bluffs digs for $50,000 in gold.