Note: I’ve adapted and expanded upon this from Chapter Two of my book, Bend Beer.
Just before three a.m. on the morning of Monday, March 8, 1926, a terrific explosion rocked the Congress apartments, located at the corner of Congress Street and Hood Place southwest of downtown. The apartment building was demolished and several nearby houses were damaged; miraculously, none of the residents of the apartments were killed or seriously injured, though in a neighboring home, Alice Bush was buried in falling debris as she slept. Another home, owned by the Mansfield family, had a piece of timber punch through the wall; “Had it continued its line of flight,” The Bend Bulletin reported, “Miss Mansfield would have probably been seriously injured.”
The cause: Dynamite. The targets: state Prohibition officers A. F. “Buck” Mariott and C. C. McBride, who had been involved in the shooting death of suspected moonshiner Vayle Taylor several weeks earlier. Mariott and his wife had been sleeping in their apartment at the time of the explosion, and luckily escaped unscathed—possibly due to either the would-be assassin(s) being unfamiliar with demolition techniques, or because a barking dog heard before the blast scared the bomber(s) off. Regardless it appears they did not plant the explosives properly, leading to spectacular destruction but no lives lost.
Though this was the most spectacular local story occurring during Prohibition, it was far from the only one. Central Oregon during Oregon’s prohibition years of 1916 through 1933 became, in the words of writer Finn J. D. John, “Oregon’s liquor cabinet.” The Oregon Outback, as the High Desert region of Central and Eastern Oregon is sometimes called, was a major source of bootleg whiskey and moonshine for the entire state—and beyond. “[Few] parts of the Pacific Northwest,” wrote journalist and historian Phil Brogan, “had more moonshine stills in operation… than Central Oregon.” Historian David Braly said it more directly: “Central Oregon became the moonshine capital of the Pacific Northwest.”
In his book East of the Cascades, Brogan wrote:
The Central Oregon moonshining industry began… when men with little or no knowledge of liquor-making fashioned crude stills from copper boilers and coils, then launched their great experiment with sugar, corn meal, barley, and wheat. At first the potent product from the desert stills was sold in nearby towns to a select trade. Later, as competition increased, the market expanded, and moonshine runners took their liquor into Portland and Seattle. Some of this liquor produced in caves of the High Desert bore Canadian labels.
The High Desert was full of ideal hiding places for the moonshine stills: the openings of lava caves, abandoned homestead shacks, sheltered coves and gullies—all spread out over hundreds of square miles. “Every night,” according to Braly, “the countryside… would light up with the fires of whiskey stills.”
Unsurprisingly, law enforcement officials were unable to keep up with the sheer number of moonshiners over the vast expanse of land. Part of the problem was that they were too well known; people noticed if the sheriff headed east into the desert. The wide-open landscape worked against them as well; seeing them coming from a distance, the moonshiner had plenty of time to vacate his still and evade capture.
With well-known local law officers were unable to curb moonshining and bootlegging, state revenue officers, unhindered by the same constraints, took over much of the effort. The incident that led to the death of Vayle Taylor (and the subsequent attempted bombing of Mariott and McBride) took place in mid-February at a moonshine plant near Bear Butte on the edge of the High Desert.
Here is the account of the incident from The Bend Bulletin. This article related the findings of the coroner’s inquest of the shooting, which fully exonerated the prohibition officers:
The story of how Taylor came to his death, related by the three living witnesses, C. C. McBride, A. F. Mariott, state prohibition officers, and a third man, Fern Lowell, was dramatic. They reached the moonshine plant on the west slopes of Bear creek in Crook county, not far from the Deschutes county line, Wednesday afternoon. Removing the window from the only door to the dugout, they entered the place where 10 barrels of mash were brewing and hid there for 18 1/2 hours, from 3 o’clock Wednesday afternoon until about 9:30 Thursday morning.
Shortly after 9:30, Taylor came to the moonshine plant from the direction of the Tom Ewing place, where he lived, with a saddle horse and a packhorse. He evidently saw the tracks of the prohibition officers. He picked up a 4 by 2 inch, 12 foot long plank, placing it against the door behind which the three men were hidden, waiting for the owner of the plant to return, according to the testimony brought out at the inquest. After placing the plank against the door, he walked around the dugout and the adjoining shed which sheltered two complete stills.
It was after walking around the plant that Taylor again went to the door of the dugout, lighting a match and placing it against the smoke blackened glass which formed the upper half of the door. He put his hand through, and it was grasped by McBride, who told him he was under arrest. He wrenched his hand loose and braced the plank once more against the door. At the same time, McBride and Mariott, their guns in their hands, broke the door down with their shoulders. It was when they broke through, according to testimony, that McBride’s .38 automatic pistol was discharged.
The bullet struck Taylor on the left side of the neck, ranging downward to his right shoulder. The shot broke his neck. Death was instant. Taylor fell on the end of the board he was using to hold the state men in the dugout. McBride, Mariott and Lowell came through the broken door and attempted to give first aid. After ascertaining that Taylor was dead, Mariott drove to Millican, from where he telephoned to Deschutes and Crook county officials. Sheriff S. E. Roberts, Deputy Sheriff George Stokoe and District Attorney A. J. Moore of Deschutes county arrived at the scene of the shooting shortly after 3 o’clock Thursday afternoon. Sheriff Steve Yancey, Coroner P. B. Poindexter and Dr. J. H. Rosenberg of Crook county reached the Beer creek country shortly before 5 o’clock Thursday evening.
When the Deschutes county officials arrived at the moonshine plant, walking part of the distance over the high Bear creek ridge, only Mariott, McBride and Lowell were there. Mariott was standing on one ridge, to direct the officials to the dugout. McBride and Lowell were on an opposite ridge, keeping themselves warm by a juniper fire. Shortly after the arrival of the Deschutes county officers, residents of the Bear creek country and the high desert country began to arrive. In sullen groups they discussed the death of Taylor. Feeling against the state officers ran high.
Without realizing that the majority of the men gathered in front of the dugout which held the body of Taylor were harboring ill feeling for the state officers, Coroner Poindexter started to impanel a coroner’s jury. The jury impaneled consisted of Eli Wilson, Tom Ewing, W. P. Rogers, Joe Varco, Jerry Swisher and Fern Lowell. After the coroner was made acquainted with the feeling of some of those present, it was announced that the inquest would be held in Prineville.
It was at this point that the undertone of bitter feeling was made manifest by a number of the ranchers and others present. “If the Bear creek gang was here, the inquest would be held on the ground,” one of the men remarked. He was told by one of the county officials to “bring on the Bear creek gang.” The county officials remained near the state men until they had reached their automobile. The Deschutes county officials, the state men and the Crook county officials, having with them the body of Taylor, arrived in Bend about 7:30 Thursday night, continuing on to Prineville.
McBride at the scene of the shooting Thursday afternoon was plainly broken by the killing of Taylor. When Sheriff Yancey of Crook county arrived, McBride walked up to him, handing over his revolver, not speaking a word. No arrest was made. McBride frequently states to his companions that he would not have shot Taylor intentionally even his own life was at stake.
Belief that Taylor came to his death because of his well known inclination to play practical jokes is held by a number of local people who were well acquainted with the youth. It is held possible by these people that it would be Taylor’s idea of a good joke on the officers to pen them in, not with the intention of escaping, but merely to “kid” them.
Before the body of Taylor was strapped across a saddle on one of Ewing’s horses, the county officials and the state men broke up the two moonshine stills, piled boards and barrel staves in the dugout and under the adjoining shelter. Two fires were then started. The last thing officers saw as they went over the ridge to the cars, with the horse carrying Taylor’s body leading the procession, was the smoke from the moonshine plant rolling down into Bear creek valley. Only one quart of alleged moonshine was found in the plant, one of the best equipped ever located by Central Oregon officials.
Taylor was 25 years of age, having spent most of his life in the Central Oregon country. His father is Walter Taylor, now a resident of Tacoma, Washington. Sheriff Roberts Thursday night sent a telegram to Taylor, telling him about the death of his son. Taylor’s mother died in the local hospital several years ago. When the body of Taylor was searched by the coroner Thursday afternoon, $195 in bills was found on him. One of the bills was $50. Taylor had been living at the Ewing ranch for a number of years. The land on which the moonshine plant was operated is owned by Chester Smith.
The barrels of mash in the dugout were ranged along the sides of the place, warmed by a “furnace.” Three fires were needed in the operation of the moonshine plant, one under in the dugout furnace and one under each of the stills just in front of the dugout and under the board shelter. The dugout was covered with dirt. A trench, about 10 feet deep, had been dug recently in the draw just above the dugout, supposedly for the purpose of catching rain and snow water. A trail led from the dugout to Bear creek.
It was brought out at the inquest that the state officers called to Taylor through the door of the dugout, when he attempted to brace the door, that he was under arrest. Taylor is said to have paid no attention to this ultimatum.
The Bend Bulletin, Friday Afternoon, February 19, 1926
The “Bear Creek gang” and high desert folk were unhappy with the verdict, and tensions ran high. Just how the officers were tipped off to the moonshine plant is unknown, though some suspected rancher Marshall Green of being the informant; Green was even assaulted by Eli Wilson, resulting in a head wound:
Desert Rancher Declares That he is being threatened and persecuted by high desert moonshiners who charge that he informed the officers about the still that Vayle Taylor was operating prior to the raid which resulted in Taylor’s accidental death last week, was the statement made in Bend today by Marshall T. Green, the rancher who reported earlier in the week that he had been assaulted by Eli Wilson, who threw an automobile jack at his head and knocked him unconscious. Green was in Bend to have his wound dressed.
Green also stated that in order to keep a neighbor from trespassing on his property, Green had found it necessary to shoot at him after the visitor had ignored his orders to advance no farther.
The Bend Bulletin, Friday Afternoon, February 19, 1926
McBride’s life was threatened only a few days before the bombing, according to a man the desert gang tried to hire to kill him. Since McBride formerly lived with the Mariotts at the apartment, it’s believed he was the intended target of the dynamite.
The headline for the March 8, 1926 edition of The Bend Bulletin said it all:
OFFICER’S HOME DYNAMITED
Buck Mariott’s Apartment Wrecked in Night Blast
Death Vengeance, TheoryA dynamite blast which awakened the city, wrecked the apartment of A. F. “Buck” Mariott, Congress apartments, a few minutes before 3 o’clock this morning. Suspicion of officers is directed toward moonshiners of Deschutes and Crook counties whose plants had been the frequent object of raids in which Mariott and his fellow officer, C. C. McBride, have taken part. The apartments are at the extreme south end of the building. McBride formerly lived with the Mariotts, and he is believed to have been the object of the dynamite attack.
The blast was set off in the basement or under the corner of the rear of the Mariott rooms. Had it been placed to the front Mariott and his wife would have been killed, or at least severely injured. As it [was], their bedroom, in the front of the building, was [laid] ruin of broken glass and fallen plaster. Both were asleep when the explosion came.
Miss Alice Bush, Shevlin-Hixon office employee, living in the rear of the Congress apartments, was covered by falling debris, and was carried out by rescuers, her lower extremities paralyzed temporarily.
Despite the early morning hour crowds had gathered at the scene in a few minutes after the explosion. First to arrive were neighbors, whose own homes were damaged by the blast. Men and women in slippers and bathrobes, hurried to give help. Mariott and his wife were taken down town in a police car. Tenants of the other apartments busied themselves attempting to bring some sort of order out of the chaos the dynamiter had wrought.
The fact that so much damage was done to Miss Bush’s home adjoining the Congress apartments lends credence to the theory that the dynamite was placed just outside the apartment building, rather than in the basement. Water connections were broken in the apartment basement, but no fire started.
The Bend Bulletin, Monday, March 8, 1926
Aside from the property damage, the assassination attempt failed, and Deschutes County placed a reward of $750 per head for information leading to the arrest of the bombers. The culprits were never found, however, and the case remains unsolved to this day.
Further reading: The Coldest Cold Case, published in the November 2017 issue of Bend Magazine, by Tor Hanson. It’s a good piece with some additional backstory and photos.
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