In the popular mythology of Pleasanton, the sleepy city of 78,000 was once one of the most lawless, dangerous and sordid settlements in the state.
Known as “the most desperate town in the West,” the story claims that Pleasanton was an outpost for desperados and bandits and a haven for outlaws and drunkards who rustled cattle and robbed travelers between the gold fields of the Sierra Nevada and the lights of San Francisco.
It’s a compelling and cinematic history for a wealthy suburban city that is now decidedly undramatic. But it’s also probably not entirely true.
“On one level of the spectrum there are good stories. On the other end of the spectrum there’s good history,” said Steve Minnear, a local historian. “Good stories are more interesting, but they tend to be incredibly inaccurate.”
As two decades of development have dramatically changed the makeup of Pleasanton, some business leaders are now asking whether those stories can be leveraged to distinguish the city within a growing Tri-Valley area that is becoming increasingly indistinguishable. But to do so, residents must agree on what made Pleasanton unique and whether that history can ever stand up to a romanticized legend.
In 1853, when Alameda County was founded, Pleasanton was a small stopover point with no more than 100 people. Dublin and Livermore had similar populations. The area, relatively insulated from population growth, remained a hamlet far from urban life in a region dominated primarily by cows, sheep and horses.
According to historians, it is likely that there was some crime — the Tri-Valley would have been the primary alcohol smuggling corridor. Most people were only there temporarily, and any transient town of that era had an element of lawlessness.
But that history is a far cry from the legends of “the most desperate town in the West.” In that version of events, Pleasanton was actually a town called Alisal, known for its Main Street shootouts and home to some of the most infamous outlaws in the history of the country. In that retelling, Joaquin Murrieta, a semi-mythical figure considered the Robin Hood of the West, made Pleasanton his home.
According to Minnear, author of a book about the history of the Alameda County Sheriff’s Office, that sensationalized reputation may actually have stemmed from the tales of Harry Morse, an early sheriff. Much of the Tri-Valley’s criminal history during that time period has been pieced together from Morse’s memoirs. But the sheriff may have had an incentive to tell a story of a lawless landscape that only he, through sheer force of will, was able to tame.
“He made an effort to self-promote that is absolutely amazing,” Minnear said.
Regardless of its historical accuracy, stories persist to this day about bandits, downtown tunnels and secret passageways between opium dens or jails. A facebook group, Pleasanton Underground, aims to “investigate” the legends, and the Museum on Main has hosted free walking tours discussing the tales. The city has been featured in articles about haunted places, and even investigated by a paranormal research group.
In the eyes of James Cooper, the president of Pleasanton’s Chamber of Commerce, those types of stories could be leveraged to attract visitors to town and help distinguish Pleasanton from Dublin or Livermore.
“I don’t see a great emphasis on our past when we’re talking about promoting the community, promoting who we are and how we are,” Cooper said. “It’s a fairly recent phenomenon to have the city developed the way it is.”
The culture of Pleasanton today is far from whatever outlaw history may have existed. The crime rate is among the lowest in the county. The median household income is over $160,000, more than double the national average. The city has high performing schools, fine neighborhoods and high housing prices. Pleasanton’s Main Street is now home to a series of expensive bistros and coffee shops, not saloons or shoot-outs.
To those who have watched Pleasanton evolve, the change has been deliberate — for decades, city leadership has worked to make Pleasanton an attractive place for families and professionals. But those shifts may also be why people are increasingly attracted to the stories of old.
“It creates that contrast — ‘This is where we are now, but back then we were wild,’” said Ken MacLennan, the curator of the Museum on Main, which highlight’s the city’s past. “I don’t begin to understand the psychology behind that.”
In MacLennan’s view, if history is going to be promoted, it should be accurate. Although the true story of Pleasanton is more simple, in his view it’s no less beautiful — it’s the story of people struggling to get by. The museum shows some of that history, such as Indigenous groups being marginalized and pushed off their land, and an era of homelessness in the 1930’s.
“You look at the way this community was built, it’s basically people living their lives and trying to make a living,” MacLennan said. “That’s not exciting, but it’s also nothing to be ashamed of.”
MacLennan recognizes that people like to tell stories about cowboys, not sheep and goats and empty spaces. But within those stories of perseverance are the true contributions to Pleasanton’s history: a hop trade that sold to the Guinness Brewery, a famous racetrack, a widely renowned Pleasanton ale. Could those, instead, serve as the backbone of a Chamber of Commerce campaign?
“More people are bound to stop in downtown Pleasanton if you say, ‘Oh my god, there are tunnels beneath the streets that used to go from one opium den to another,’” MacLennan said. “That’s not true, but people will stop and have lunch.”
Minnear believes both versions of the past serve a purpose. Over the years, he said he has noticed a funny thing about myths and legends. Even though they’re rarely factually accurate, they often inculcate people with a love of history and research. They inspire people to want to learn more. And that, in turn, leads residents to invest in their history and work to preserve it.
“That’s what people do, they collect stories. Unfortunately, they sometimes pass stories off as history,” Minnear said. “But you have to start somewhere, collecting something.”
