John William “Big Bill” Lupton

Photo of Bill Lupton standing outside of his home in Gypsum, Colorado. Around 1928

The tranquility of Highland County was shattered in April 1861 when Confederate artillery opened fire on Fort Sumter. Ohio, firmly loyal to the Union, responded with enthusiasm, and thousands of young men enlisted. John, not yet fourteen, watched as older boys marched away to war in crisp blue uniforms. The excitement was contagious. Highland County men fought bravely in many early battles, and news of their exploits filled the county with pride. For a boy like John, this stirred a deep sense of patriotism. He wanted to join them.

By age fifteen he was restless and determined to enlist. Twice he ran away from home, hoping to lie about his age and slip into a regiment. Each time he was caught and brought back, likely with stern words from his father. But John’s resolve only deepened. He was convinced the Union cause was righteous and felt that he was wasting precious time on the farm. Finally, just before his sixteenth birthday, his father relented and signed the consent papers that allowed his son to enlist as a volunteer. In October 1863 John rode to Greenfield, Ohio, and joined Company M of the newly formed 12th Ohio Volunteer Cavalry. He claimed he was eighteen to meet the legal requirement, though he was barely sixteen.

The 12th Ohio Cavalry was a regiment of young men like him, many fresh from farms and villages. Organized at Camp Taylor near Cleveland and Camp Chase in Columbus, the unit was created to counter Confederate raids in Kentucky and Tennessee. Cavalry training was grueling, but John took to it quickly. His natural ease with horses made him a valuable recruit, and he soon learned saber drills, marksmanship, and scouting techniques. The regiment spent the winter of 1863 drilling and preparing for active duty. John would later tell stories of sleeping in drafty barracks, drilling in snow, and polishing his saber until it gleamed, eager for the day when he would ride into battle.

By the spring of 1864 the 12th Ohio Cavalry was deployed to Kentucky, where it was assigned to protect vital supply lines and hunt down Confederate cavalry raiders. The war in Kentucky and Tennessee was less famous than the great Eastern campaigns, but it was vicious and chaotic. Confederate cavalry under leaders like John Hunt Morgan made daring raids deep into Union territory, burning bridges, tearing up railroads, and stealing supplies. John and his comrades learned to ride long distances, sometimes covering forty miles in a day, to respond to these threats. He became skilled at navigating rough terrain and learned the importance of discipline and teamwork.

The regiment saw heavy action during Morgan’s final raid into Kentucky in June 1864. Morgan, a Confederate hero, had terrorized the region for years. The 12th Ohio played a key role in defeating him at Cynthiana, Kentucky, ending his ability to threaten Union supply lines. It was during this period that John developed a reputation among his comrades as steady under fire. Letters from men in the regiment described the constant danger of ambush and the exhaustion of sleeping in the saddle, but also the thrill of pursuing enemy cavalry through Kentucky’s hills and valleys.

In the fall of 1864 the war brought John to one of its most harrowing moments. His regiment joined General Stephen G. Burbridge’s expedition to destroy the Confederate saltworks at Saltville, Virginia. Salt was vital to the Confederate war effort, and Saltville was heavily defended. On October 2, 1864, Union cavalry attacked but were repulsed with heavy losses. John was shot through the hand in the fighting and captured as Union forces retreated. He was taken to a Confederate field hospital where doctors decided amputation was necessary. For a young cavalryman, losing a hand would mean the end of his service and the end of his independence.

Refusing to accept this fate, John hatched a daring plan. One night he slipped out of the hospital, stealing a Confederate officer’s overcoat and horse. With only a pint of cornmeal to sustain him, he rode through enemy territory for three days, evading patrols and sleeping under trees. Hunger gnawed at him, and his wound throbbed with pain, but his determination never faltered. On the third day he reached Union lines, exhausted but triumphant. Army surgeons treated his injury and saved his hand, though it remained stiff and partially crippled for the rest of his life. This escape became a defining moment in his life, a story retold countless times in later years.

After recovering, John rejoined his regiment. In December 1864 the 12th Ohio participated in Stoneman’s raid into southwestern Virginia and North Carolina, destroying the Saltville works and cutting Confederate supply lines. They rode hundreds of miles through hostile territory, burning bridges, tearing up railroads, and liberating prisoners. John’s skill with horses and his unshakable composure under fire made him a valuable scout. He may not have literally marched with Sherman’s army, but his unit’s raids complemented Sherman’s March to the Sea by crippling Confederate infrastructure in the mountains.

The war was winding down by spring 1865, but danger still lurked. In April Stoneman’s cavalry captured Salisbury, North Carolina, freeing thousands of Union prisoners. John was there as Confederate resistance crumbled. For a boy from a quiet Ohio farm, these experiences were transformative. He had seen comrades fall, endured hunger and exhaustion, and stared death in the face.

On November 11, 1865, John was mustered out of service in Nashville, Tennessee. He was eighteen years old but carried himself like a man twice his age. His discharge papers marked the end of two years of service, but the war never truly left him. His hand bore the scar of Saltville, and his character bore the mark of hardship. He had learned courage, discipline, and the ability to act decisively under pressure. These traits would define him for the rest of his life and make him a legend in Missouri and Colorado.

Returning to Ohio, John found farm life dull after the adrenaline of war. Like many veterans, he was restless, drawn to the frontier where opportunities awaited. The years after the Civil War saw thousands of men like him drift westward, chasing fortunes in railroads, ranching, and mining. By the late 1860s John had made his way to southwest Missouri, where lead and zinc discoveries promised quick wealth. He took up mining near Joplin Creek, setting in motion the next chapter of his extraordinary life.

Mining Camps and Joplin’s Birth

When John William Lupton arrived in the hills of southwest Missouri, he stepped into a world that bore little resemblance to the quiet farm country of his youth. The land around Joplin Creek had become a chaotic magnet for fortune seekers. Miners, entrepreneurs, gamblers, and outlaws poured into the area, chasing wealth in the lead and zinc deposits that would make Joplin one of the fastest-growing towns in Missouri. The Civil War had left scars across the region, and its aftermath created a restless energy. The railroads were expanding, mining investors were flooding in, and ex-soldiers, both Union and Confederate, were converging on Jasper County with shovels and revolvers.

In 1870 John C. Cox, a veteran entrepreneur, and Patrick Murphy, a businessman with ambitions of his own, separately platted two rival towns on opposite sides of Joplin Creek. Cox established Joplin City on the east bank, while Murphy founded Murphysburg on the west. Each man laid out streets and lots on paper, hoping to profit from the mining boom. The idea of orderly towns existed only in their ledgers. In reality, these were not towns but sprawling camps of tents, shacks, and hastily built structures. By the summer of 1871 both settlements had grown to more than a thousand residents each, and the sound of picks and hammers rang day and night as miners worked their claims. The promise of quick riches attracted a wild mix of humanity: farm boys seeking their fortune, professional gamblers, prostitutes, drifters, and adventurers from across the country.

There was no law. The county seat of Carthage was miles away, and Jasper County had few deputies to patrol this new boomtown. Disputes were settled with fists or pistols, and gambling halls operated openly under tents. Whiskey flowed freely. The muddy tracks that passed for streets were crowded with wagons hauling ore and goods, while miners spent their pay on drink, cards, and women. For many, this was a place of opportunity, but for families trying to settle there, it was a place of fear.

Thirteen-year-old John C. Maddy arrived in July 1871 with his family, who opened a boarding house in East Joplin. Years later, he recalled the wild scene in an interview with the Joplin Daily Globe. Hundreds of tents dotted the hillsides. Smoke from campfires curled lazily into the sky. Rough men in overalls and work shirts rushed about with mining tools, while makeshift shops sold supplies under canvas roofs. A saloon operated beneath two trees, with only a plank balanced on barrels serving as a bar. Gambling games were set up in tents, and the sound of hammer and steel echoed constantly as miners dug into the earth. It was a place alive with energy but lacking any sense of safety.

This was the world that greeted Lupton when he arrived to work claims near Moon Range, a hill overlooking Joplin Creek. He had seen danger before, but the lawlessness of the camps was unlike anything he had encountered in the army. Here, violence was casual, and men carried revolvers as part of their daily attire. Lupton was content to work as a miner at first, but his reputation as a war veteran and his natural authority soon made him a figure of respect among his peers. He was calm, disciplined, and physically imposing, with the quiet confidence of a man who had faced worse than drunken miners.

The defining moment that pushed Lupton into law enforcement came one night in 1871 when two armed men from Seneca rode into Joplin and began firing their pistols in the air. They shot at tin cans lined up on Main Street, frightening residents and causing chaos. No one dared stop them. Lupton, working his mining windlass on Moon Range hill, heard the commotion but kept at his work, remarking that they had not bothered him yet. A bystander mocked him, saying, “You brave fellows always have some excuse.” That remark stung. Lupton set down his tools, walked into town, and found the two gunmen.

He moved with the decisiveness of a soldier. Without drawing a weapon, he overpowered both men, disarmed them, and rented a buggy from a local livery to drive them to Carthage, where they were jailed. When he returned to Joplin, he was wearing a deputy sheriff’s badge. This single act changed everything. People saw in him someone who could restore order in a town spinning out of control.

As word spread, Lupton became known as a man who did not back down. He had a sense of fairness, but he was unafraid of confrontation. The mining camps were full of rough characters with colorful nicknames. Three Fingered Pete, Rocky Mountain Bob, and Reckless Bill were just a few of the notorious drifters who came and went. The most feared of them all was Dutch Pete from Bitter Creek, a tall, broad-shouldered fighter who ruled the saloons with intimidation. For months he bullied the townspeople, and no one dared challenge him.

Lupton decided to put an end to it. In early 1872 he confronted Dutch Pete in front of a crowd. Witnesses described Lupton approaching him calmly, seizing him in a sudden motion, and throwing him to the ground. He tied Pete’s hands and marched him through town to jail. The arrest shocked the community. People who had lived in fear of Pete’s temper were stunned that a single man had subdued him so easily. This was the moment that cemented Lupton’s reputation as a fearless lawman.

Joel T. Livingston’s 1912 History of Jasper County called Lupton “the man of the hour,” writing that his courage “brought forcible to the attention of the citizens of the towns the necessity of having a local government and officers to enforce the law.” Lupton’s actions gave Murphysburg’s leaders the confidence to petition the Jasper County Court for official recognition. In February 1872 Galena Township was created, and Lupton was sworn in as its first constable. This was the first step toward turning a chaotic mining camp into a functioning community.

With a constable now in place, discussions began about uniting the rival settlements of Joplin City and Murphysburg. On February 27, 1872, citizens voted to incorporate the area as Union City. The Jasper County Court approved the incorporation in March, and officers were appointed. Jesse Shortess served as president of the board of trustees, C. J. G. Workizer as clerk, and John W. Lupton as marshal.

Union City was a bold experiment. The trustees quickly passed ordinances banning the open carrying of firearms and punishing public drunkenness. A small wooden jail was built to hold offenders, and Lupton patrolled the muddy streets daily. Families began to feel safer, and businesses opened with confidence that lawbreakers would face consequences. Lupton’s reputation grew rapidly. He was calm, strong, and efficient, never rushing to violence but unafraid to use force when needed.

The experiment, however, was short lived. Residents of East Joplin challenged the legality of the incorporation, claiming procedural errors. In December 1872 a judge agreed, and Union City was dissolved. For a time the two towns reverted to their separate identities, but the taste of security and order had made its mark. Citizens pushed for a stronger, permanent incorporation.

On March 23, 1873, the Missouri legislature approved the charter for the City of Joplin, uniting both settlements under one government. Governor Silas Woodson appointed the first officers, naming E. R. Moffet as mayor and John W. Lupton as city marshal. In October of that year Joplin held its first municipal election, and Lupton retained his position as marshal. He now commanded a small police force tasked with maintaining order in a town that was growing by the day.

Lupton’s approach to law enforcement was straightforward. He did not rely on firearms to establish authority. His presence alone often settled disputes. Judge W. H. Picher recounted one of Lupton’s most famous exploits. Three gunmen from Baxter Springs rode into Joplin, shooting at random and scattering citizens. Lupton tracked them to a house in the Kansas City Bottoms. He knocked on the door and demanded their surrender. They threatened to kill him. “What, kill a man who is unarmed?” he asked calmly. When the door cracked open, Lupton rushed inside, seized all three, and threw them into a heap. They were fined two hundred dollars each and warned never to return. One of them later remarked, “When one man without a gun can take care of three with guns, it is no place for strangers.”

By now, Lupton was a legend in Joplin. He brought peace to a town that had been known for its violence. Saloon owners respected him, gamblers feared him, and families trusted him. Under his leadership the police force grew, and Joplin began to resemble a proper city rather than a lawless camp. Yet his rise also made him a target.

In May 1874 Police Judge Jacob Hogle accused Lupton of mishandling fines collected from gambling halls and brothels. The city council convened hearings and voted to remove him as marshal. Lupton refused, arguing that the council had no legal authority to oust him. What followed became one of the most dramatic events in Joplin’s early history, later remembered as the Lupton Riot.

When W. B. McCracken was appointed to replace him, Lupton arrested McCracken, locked him in a cell, and forced him to resign. The council then appointed W. S. Norton, who arrived with armed deputies to seize control of the jail. Lupton and his supporters drove them off. Soon two armed factions faced each other in downtown Joplin, one loyal to Mayor Lee Taylor and the other to Lupton. Tension gripped the city, and residents feared bloodshed.

City Attorney John McAntire rode to Carthage to retrieve an official court order confirming Lupton’s removal. He returned with the document and persuaded Lupton to step down peacefully. The confrontation ended without a shot fired, but it revealed the deep divisions in Joplin politics and cemented Lupton’s status as a figure of immense influence. Even after losing his badge, his legend only grew.

Though no longer marshal, Lupton remained a civic leader. He joined Joplin’s first organized fire department, serving as second in command under Chief Clark Claycroft. The department had three hose companies, and Lupton was instrumental in its operations. His transition from law enforcement to fire protection showed his commitment to safeguarding the growing city.

By the time Lupton left Joplin for Colorado in 1886, he was already a legend. The stories of his bravery were passed from miner to miner, and his name became part of local folklore. Historian Bill Caldwell, writing in The Joplin Globe more than a century later, called him “the man of the hour,” a title originally given by Joel Livingston. Lupton’s exploits demonstrated that one determined man could bring order to a lawless camp and help shape a city’s identity.

The Lupton Riot Aftermath, His Wider Influence, and the Road West

When the smoke of the Lupton Riot cleared in May of 1874, Joplin was a different town than the raw, untamed mining camp where Lupton had first strapped on a badge. The violence had been narrowly avoided, but the episode left its mark on the city and its people. It also revealed much about Lupton himself. Though he had been accused of mishandling fines, his refusal to relinquish authority until a court order was produced spoke volumes about his belief in proper legal procedure. Even as tensions escalated, Lupton refused to allow bloodshed. He stood down not out of fear, but out of a soldier’s respect for the rule of law, and in doing so, he preserved his reputation as a man of integrity.

For Joplin’s residents, this was a turning point. They had seen firsthand what lawlessness could do to a community in its early days. The riot reinforced the need for a well-structured municipal government and an orderly justice system. The city council learned that even with an official charter, the respect of the people could not be taken for granted. Lupton’s popularity remained high, and many saw him as the man who had brought order to Joplin in its formative years.

Though he no longer wore the marshal’s badge, Lupton remained deeply involved in public service. He joined the city’s first organized fire department, becoming second in command under Chief Clark Claycroft. This was no ceremonial title. Firefighting in 1870s Joplin was as dangerous and demanding as policing. The department operated with hand-pulled hose carts and bucket brigades, and fires were a constant threat in a city filled with wooden structures and heated by coal stoves. Joplin’s fire companies were stationed strategically, one in East Joplin, one in Murphysburg, and a central station near Main Street, where Lupton’s leadership was felt. He was known for his calm demeanor under pressure, and that steadiness translated well from law enforcement to firefighting.

His years of service as a lawman and firefighter helped lay the foundation for Joplin’s civic identity. In 1870 there had been no city at all, only a sprawl of tents and shanties. By the mid-1870s, thanks in part to Lupton’s efforts, Joplin was becoming a true community with infrastructure, governance, and civic pride. He symbolized that transformation.

Newspapers and local historians celebrated his feats. Joel T. Livingston’s 1912 History of Jasper County immortalized Lupton as the man of the hour, and decades later Bill Caldwell’s research for The Joplin Globe would highlight the pivotal role Lupton played in establishing order. These accounts tell not only of the Dutch Pete incident or the Baxter Springs gunmen, but also of a man who earned respect from ordinary citizens and hardened criminals alike. He had been a soldier in the Union Army, but in Joplin he became something more: a peacekeeper who represented fairness as much as strength.

The mining boom of the early 1870s brought prosperity, but it also made Joplin a magnet for outlaws. Saloons multiplied, gambling dens operated openly, and brothels flourished. Lupton’s approach was simple. He did not seek to eradicate vice, which was nearly impossible in a frontier boomtown. Instead, he sought to regulate it, to keep it from spilling into violence. Offenders were fined and jailed when necessary, but Lupton’s even-handedness earned him respect even from those he arrested.

The Lupton Riot, while dramatic, was not a blemish on his character in the eyes of most residents. If anything, it enhanced his legend. The image of the tall, calm marshal standing against armed deputies and a hostile council reinforced the idea that he was a man of principle, willing to defend his post until proper authority intervened. He was not a politician; he was a lawman shaped by military discipline and a personal code of honor.

After stepping down, Lupton shifted focus. He still worked around the mines, a reminder of his versatility and resilience. Many early peace officers in mining towns were also miners, and Lupton was no exception. Mining gave him steady income, and he remained a familiar sight in Joplin, often sought out for advice or mediation when tempers flared. He was a natural leader, not because of a badge but because of his character.

During these years, Joplin continued to grow rapidly. The streets where Lupton had once arrested drunken gunmen now bustled with businesses and traffic. Railroads connected Joplin to regional markets, and smelters turned ore into wealth. Families built permanent homes, churches were established, and schools opened. Lupton watched the city evolve from chaos to order, and his role in that transformation was not forgotten.

Even after his removal as marshal, Lupton remained an icon in local lore. Newspapers occasionally referenced his exploits, and citizens would point to him as the man who tamed Joplin. It was a legacy that carried weight not only in Missouri but eventually across the West. When he later moved to Colorado, his reputation followed him, giving him credibility as a peace officer in other dangerous boomtowns.

Lupton’s departure from Joplin in 1886 came during a period of transition. The mining industry was still thriving, but other opportunities beckoned. He was nearing forty, and though his time as a lawman had brought him respect, he was ready for new challenges. He and his wife, Alice Martin, whom he had married in Carthage on July 28, 1872, had endured years of living in the rough mining environment. Alice was a devoted partner, willing to follow him into uncertainty, and together they raised a family while he pursued work that often placed him in harm’s way.

In 1886 the Luptons moved to Colorado, seeking both opportunity and a quieter life. They first settled on a homestead along Deep Creek in Eagle County, where John attempted ranching. The Colorado frontier, however, was much like Missouri had been two decades earlier: full of opportunity but also danger. Ranching was peaceful compared to chasing outlaws in Joplin, yet Lupton was not a man who could remain idle for long. The lure of mining towns drew him back into law enforcement work, and his experience made him invaluable.

Before leaving Missouri, Lupton had established himself not only as a lawman but also as a community builder. His role in founding Joplin’s first fire department reflected his dedication to civic service. Fire was a constant threat in early mining towns, where wooden structures and coal-fired stoves created tinderbox conditions. Lupton’s ability to organize and lead helped Joplin avoid catastrophic losses. He was as fearless rushing into a burning building as he had been facing down Dutch Pete.

Joplin’s leaders recognized his contributions, even if politics had forced him out of his role as marshal. By the time he left Missouri, Lupton’s story had already become part of the city’s identity. The early days of lawlessness, the arrest of Dutch Pete, and the confrontation with the Baxter Springs gunmen were told and retold in saloons, homes, and newspapers. Parents recounted his exploits to their children, and newcomers heard tales of the unarmed marshal who could subdue three armed men.

This reputation followed him west. In Colorado, Lupton would become a peace officer once again, serving in some of the roughest mining camps in the state. His experience in Joplin had prepared him for the challenges of places like Cripple Creek, where strikes, violence, and lawlessness often overwhelmed local authorities. The transition from Missouri to Colorado was seamless because the skills he honed in Joplin—courage, restraint, and physical strength—were universally valued in frontier communities.

Lupton’s years in Joplin also shaped his approach to justice. He believed in enforcing the law firmly but fairly. He avoided unnecessary violence, preferring to use his presence and strength rather than his revolver. This philosophy came directly from his Civil War experience, where discipline and calm under pressure often meant survival. In Joplin he became a model of what a frontier lawman could be: both protector and enforcer, respected by citizens and feared by criminals.

The Lupton Riot was a fitting bookend to his Missouri law enforcement career. It demonstrated not only his popularity but also the tension inherent in early frontier governance. Elected officials, police judges, and city councils were often at odds, and lawmen like Lupton operated in a gray area between politics and justice. He walked that line carefully, never abusing his authority but unwilling to back down when challenged.

By the mid-1880s, Joplin was no longer the chaotic camp Lupton had tamed. It had become a bustling city, one of Missouri’s industrial centers. His job there was done. As he and Alice packed up their belongings and prepared to head west, they left behind a legacy that would endure for generations. Joplin’s transformation into a lawful, organized city owed much to his courage and leadership.

Moving to Colorado opened a new chapter in Lupton’s life. He brought with him a wealth of experience and a reputation that preceded him. Mining towns across Colorado were as unruly as Joplin had been a decade earlier, and lawmen were in high demand. Lupton would soon find himself in the heart of conflicts as intense as anything he had faced in Missouri, but now he was a seasoned veteran, both of war and of frontier law enforcement.

In Eagle County he first tried his hand at ranching, claiming a homestead along Deep Creek. The quiet life appealed to Alice, but Lupton was restless. The mining boom in Colorado was heating up, and with it came violence and opportunity. Soon he was back in uniform, working as a deputy, undersheriff, and eventually a private bodyguard for one of the wealthiest men in the West. But before all of that, his time in Joplin had already carved his name into history.

John William Lupton’s Missouri years were brief compared to his long life, but they defined him. He was remembered not just as a marshal but as a man who shaped a community. Joplin’s early history is a tale of transformation, from a lawless mining camp to a thriving city, and Lupton stood at the center of that story. His actions in those crucial years showed what one determined individual could accomplish. He proved that courage and fairness could tame even the wildest frontier town.

Colorado Years, Cripple Creek, Stratton, and Legacy

When John William Lupton and his family left Missouri in 1886, they traded one mining boomtown for another frontier in the making. The Missouri city he had helped tame was growing rapidly into a regional hub, but Colorado promised new opportunities and a fresh start. The American West of the late nineteenth century was a place of movement, with railroads cutting through mountains, gold and silver discoveries transforming remote camps into bustling towns overnight, and ranchers carving out livelihoods in valleys once traversed only by Native Americans and trappers. For Lupton, a seasoned Civil War veteran and former lawman, Colorado offered both a chance to put down roots and a call to adventure he could not ignore.

The Luptons first settled in Eagle County, a rugged and beautiful part of central Colorado where steep mountains towered over broad valleys. In 1886 Lupton filed a homestead claim along Deep Creek, a tributary that wound through high pastures and forests. This was a major change for a man accustomed to the constant noise and danger of a mining boomtown. Ranching required patience and hard work, but it was not the kind of work that Lupton had been trained for. He spent several years attempting to build a ranch, but the quiet life was not enough to satisfy a man who had spent his youth in the cavalry and his adulthood facing down gunmen.

The lure of the mining camps eventually drew him back into the life of a peace officer. By the late 1880s Colorado was in the throes of another mineral rush. Gold discoveries near Cripple Creek in the early 1890s would transform the region into one of the most famous gold camps in the world, but even before that boom, mining had made Colorado a magnet for fortune seekers, drifters, and outlaws. Towns like Leadville, Aspen, and Victor sprang up almost overnight. Violence was common, and law enforcement officers often found themselves badly outnumbered. Lupton, with his reputation from Joplin, quickly found work in these volatile communities.

In Aspen he operated as a mining engineer and mine leaser, showing that his years in Missouri had given him technical expertise as well as physical courage. He also ran a livery stable, a natural business for a man who had spent his life around horses. The Aspen of the 1890s was a booming silver town, filled with saloons, theaters, and hotels that catered to prospectors and millionaires. Lupton’s steady temperament and skill with horses made him a respected figure in this bustling environment.

His reputation, however, would reach its peak in Cripple Creek, the camp that came to symbolize the drama and danger of Colorado mining life. The Cripple Creek gold strike of 1890 triggered one of the last great rushes in the American West. Tens of thousands of prospectors and speculators poured into the rugged mountains west of Colorado Springs, building a sprawling city of tents and wooden shacks that quickly became a center of wealth and violence. The camp was notorious for saloon shootouts, labor disputes, and political corruption. Lupton entered this scene as a seasoned lawman who already had a legend trailing behind him from Missouri.

In Cripple Creek he served as a peace officer during some of the most turbulent years in Colorado mining history. By the mid-1890s tensions between mine owners and miners erupted into strikes and armed conflict. In 1894 striking miners clashed with deputies, resulting in gunfights, bombings, and martial law. Lupton’s role was to maintain peace in a town where law enforcement officers were often targets. Newspapers of the time described Cripple Creek as a “battlefield without uniforms,” and men like Lupton were tasked with keeping order while heavily armed miners and company guards faced off in the streets.

It was during this period that Lupton forged a friendship with Winfield Scott Stratton, the Cripple Creek prospector whose Independence Mine made him one of the wealthiest men in Colorado. Stratton was an eccentric millionaire, known for his philanthropy but also for his tendency to attract enemies. His fortune made him a target for extortion and assassination attempts, and he relied on men he trusted to protect him. Lupton became Stratton’s personal bodyguard, a position he held for years. Their relationship was built on mutual respect: Stratton valued Lupton’s courage, discretion, and military background, while Lupton admired Stratton’s generosity and vision for Colorado Springs, where he funded civic improvements.

Working as Stratton’s bodyguard brought Lupton into the circles of wealth and power that dominated Colorado mining. He traveled with Stratton, including a trip to Mexico in the late 1890s. That trip was cut short by international tension when the battleship Maine exploded in Havana Harbor in February 1898, triggering the Spanish-American War. With anti-American sentiment rising, Stratton’s party decided to return to the United States immediately. Lupton, who had served in the Civil War, now found himself once again guarding an American citizen in a climate of danger. The episode demonstrated his value as a trusted protector, a role that came naturally to a man who had spent much of his life defending others.

By the turn of the twentieth century, Lupton’s career in Colorado had expanded beyond private security. He worked as a watchman at the Independence Mine and later as undersheriff and special officer in both El Paso and Teller counties. His assignments often placed him at the center of labor unrest, as mining strikes became increasingly violent. The Cripple Creek Strike of 1903–1904 was one of the bloodiest labor conflicts in American history, with dynamite attacks, martial law, and pitched battles between strikers and the Colorado National Guard. Lupton’s experience in Joplin, where he had faced armed gangs and political unrest, served him well. He was known for his level-headedness and ability to de-escalate confrontations, though he was always prepared to use force when necessary.

In 1908 Lupton accepted a position as a special officer for the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, stationed in Minturn. The railroad was a vital artery for Colorado’s mining economy, and protecting its cargo from theft and sabotage required vigilance. Lupton’s job involved patrolling railyards, investigating crimes, and ensuring that trains carrying gold ore and other valuable freight reached their destinations safely. Minturn, nestled in the Vail Valley, was a small but strategic town, and Lupton’s presence there added another chapter to his long career as a guardian of law and order.

Throughout these years of law enforcement and security work, Lupton remained devoted to his family. He and Alice Martin, whom he had married in Carthage, Missouri, in July 1872, raised eight children, though five of them died young, a common tragedy of the time. Their surviving daughters—Mrs. Bert Wilson of Eagle, Mrs. Ora Fry of Casper, Wyoming, and Mrs. Lenna Bonar of Gypsum—remained close to their parents. Alice was known for her resilience, supporting her husband through decades of danger and frequent moves. In 1922 they celebrated their golden wedding anniversary at their daughter’s home in Casper, Wyoming, a milestone that reflected not only their enduring love but also their remarkable journey together.

After years of moving between mining camps, Lupton settled permanently in Gypsum, Colorado, around 1910. He purchased a home there and became a respected elder statesman of the community. Although he retired from active law enforcement, he remained a figure of authority and wisdom. Friends and neighbors often visited him for stories of the Civil War, Joplin’s violent early days, and the Cripple Creek strikes. He was a living connection to an era of American history that was rapidly fading from memory.

Even in retirement, Lupton stayed active. He enjoyed horseback riding well into his nineties, and he was known to ride from Gypsum Canyon to Muckey Lake to fish. The image of the elderly lawman, still comfortable in the saddle and eager to cast a fishing line, captured his enduring spirit. He also participated in veterans’ organizations, including the Grand Army of the Republic, where he was celebrated as one of the last surviving Civil War veterans in Colorado.

His longevity was extraordinary. By the 1930s, Lupton was a beloved local legend. Newspapers profiled him as one of the last links to the Civil War, and his stories were recorded in historical publications like Who’s Who in Colorado (1938), which detailed his service in the Union cavalry, his law enforcement career in Missouri and Colorado, and his friendship with Stratton. He became an honorary member of the American Legion, which pledged to honor him with a military funeral when the time came.

On May 12, 1940, John William Lupton died peacefully at his home in Gypsum at the age of 92 years, 11 months, and one day. According to his obituary in the Eagle Valley Enterprise, he remarked to his family just before passing, “It is indeed a beautiful day.” He died without struggle, a fitting end for a man who had lived fearlessly and rarely known illness.

His funeral was one of the largest in Eagle County’s history. Hundreds of friends and neighbors attended the service at his home, and the American Legion posts of Gypsum and Red Cliff conducted a full military ceremony at Cedar Hill Cemetery. The sight of uniformed veterans saluting his casket symbolized a life spent in service to his country and his communities. He was buried beside a family marker that proudly noted his Civil War service, a reminder that his journey began as a teenage cavalryman riding through Kentucky and Virginia.

Newspapers across Colorado and Missouri honored him as a pioneer, lawman, and veteran. The Grand Junction Daily Sentinel noted that he was one of the last Civil War veterans in the region, while the Eagle Valley Enterprise described him as a “fearless man of lovable disposition,” admired by all who knew him. His obituary emphasized that he had “practically never known a day of sickness” and had accepted death “as a haven of rest.”

Lupton’s story is remarkable not only for its length but for its breadth. He lived through the Civil War, the Gilded Age, the rise of industrial America, and the Great Depression. He served as a cavalry soldier, frontier lawman, firefighter, mining security officer, and railroad guard. He tamed lawless towns, protected millionaires, and built a reputation that spanned two states. Few men could claim to have shaped the history of both Missouri and Colorado in such profound ways.

Today, Lupton’s name is most closely associated with Joplin’s early years. He is remembered as the first marshal of a city that began as a collection of tents and saloons. His confrontation with Dutch Pete and his ability to disarm three gunmen without drawing a weapon became part of Joplin folklore. But his Colorado years are equally significant. As a peace officer in Cripple Creek and bodyguard to Winfield Scott Stratton, he played a role in one of the most tumultuous chapters of Western mining history. His life reflects the evolution of the American frontier—from lawless camps to stable communities—and his story provides a human connection to a period that often feels larger than life.

Lupton’s influence extended beyond his own time. In Joplin, his actions demonstrated the importance of strong, fair leadership in building a city. In Colorado, his career showed that law enforcement required more than guns; it required courage, restraint, and a reputation for justice. Generations of peace officers in both states would look to men like him as examples.

When historians write about the taming of the American frontier, they often focus on famous lawmen like Wyatt Earp or Wild Bill Hickok. John William Lupton never achieved that level of fame, but his contributions were no less significant. He was a working lawman who did his job quietly and effectively, earning the trust of his neighbors and the respect of those he arrested. His longevity allowed him to see the fruits of his labor: Joplin grew into a thriving city, and Gypsum became a peaceful community where he could enjoy his final years.

Today, photographs of Lupton in his later years survive in Colorado archives, showing a tall, lean man with a dignified bearing. His home in Gypsum and his grave in Cedar Hill Cemetery are physical reminders of a life that spanned nearly a century. His story lives on not only in local histories but in the oral traditions of families who remember him as a symbol of courage and decency.

John William Lupton’s life is a testament to the strength and resilience of a generation that bridged the Civil War and the modern era. From the muddy streets of a Missouri mining camp to the high mountains of Colorado, he embodied the spirit of the American West. His legend is not one of gunfights or sensational violence, but of quiet bravery, steady leadership, and a deep commitment to the communities he served. When he passed away in 1940, the world had changed dramatically from the one he was born into, but his values—courage, fairness, and service—remained timeless.