One circumstance at last brought to a sudden close Gov. Geary's term
of office. When he had disbanded the three thousand "Law and Order"
militia that were to attack Lawrence, that part of them known as the
Kickapoo Rangers were returning home by way of Lecompton. One of this
number went into a field where "a poor, inoffensive, lame young man"
named David C. Buffum was plowing, and demanded his horses. Buffum
protested against this robbery, but the wretch shot Buffum and took
the horses. The unhappy man gave the following account of the matter:
"They asked me for my horses. I told them I was a
cripple--a poor lame man--that I had an aged father, a
deaf and dumb brother, and two sisters, all depending on
me for a living, and my horses were all I had. One of them
said I was a Abolitionist, and, taking me by the shoulder,
he shot me."
Gov. Geary was returning to Lecompton, and hearing of what had been
done, he called with Judge Cato at Buffum's house, and by the
Governor's direction Judge Cato took the dying man's deposition. Gov.
Geary was terribly shocked, and said to himself, "I never witnessed a
scene that filled me with so much horror." Mr. Geary sent a detective
on the track of the Kickapoo Rangers, and found that the murderer was
one Charley Hayes, living in Atchison county. He had the horses still
in his possession. The Governor ordered his arrest, and the Grand
Jury found a bill against him of murder in the first degree. Meantime
the Free State men came to the Governor making a bitter complaint of
the persecutions they were suffering. They said, "Our relatives and
friends are arrested and confined for weeks and months in a filthy
prison, not fit for dogs to live in, and are kept without proper food
or clothing, and are not allowed to give bail even for bailable
offenses; while murderers of the other party are allowed to go at
large and no attention is paid to them." They said, "The murderers of
Dow, Barber, Brown, Phillips, Hoppe and Buffum, have not even been
arrested or examined."
The Governor replied that he had already ordered the arrest of Hayes,
and that a grand jury of Pro-slavery men had found a true bill against
him, and that Hayes should be tried for his life. But while he was yet
speaking a messenger brought word that Judge Lecompte had released
Hayes on bail, and that Sheriff Jones had gone on his bail bond, a man
notoriously not worth a dollar; and this when the crime of murder in
the first degree, for which Hayes had been indicted, was not a
bailable offense. The Governor was terribly indignant, and ordered
Hayes to be re-arrested. But while he was absent at the land sales at
Fort Leavenworth, Judge Lecompte a second time set this wretch at
liberty. Mr. Geary was provoked beyond endurance, and wrote to the
President that he would not remain in office and allow such a
scoundrel to be kept in a position to pervert the ways of justice.
President Pierce nominated C. O. Harrison, of Kentucky, to take
Lecompte's place, but for some unexplained cause the appointment was
not confirmed in the Senate, and Judge Lecompte retained his place,
and in unspeakable disgust Gov. Geary resigned, making his resignation
take effect on March 20, 1857. Thus he had spent a winter in the
chamber of death of the wicked old Blue Beard, but did not lose his
official head till spring.
The writer was acquainted with the family of this Charley Hayes. They
were decent sort of people; but when a young boy Charley went on the
plains, where he became a brutal ruffian. A good many years ago there
was a story current in Atchison county, that when this Hayes was
acting as wagon-boss on the plains, in a train owned by Russell,
Majors & Waddell, that one of the teamsters having offended him he
tied him up to a wheel of one of the train wagons, and, holding a
pistol in one hand, he cowhided him with his black-snake whip with the
other. And this teamster was a white man.
But there are avenging furies that follow a man, even though the law
does not reach him. There is a man now living in Atchison county whose
truthfulness has never been questioned, and he stated that he spent a
winter in the Missouri River bottoms, sleeping in the same cabin with
Charley Hayes, and that it seemed as if the devil had a mortgage on
the ruffian's soul, and tormented him in his sleep with images of the
horrors that awaited him in the future world. That it seemed as if he
was wrestling in mortal struggle with the men he had maltreated and
murdered, and that they were choking him to death. Hayes afterwards
died of a consumption presumably brought on by his dissipated habits
and by his debaucheries.
Meantime the writer had started for Illinois the preceding summer,
had been prostrated for four weeks with a fever, and late in the
autumn of 1856 had returned to Kansas, there to remain. The times were
becoming quiet, the peaceful counsels of such leaders as Stringfellow
and Abell were beginning to take effect, and it evidently would be
safe for the writer to go to work on his claim. But he needed a supply
of corn, and had to go over into the Missouri River bottoms to buy it.
A heavy snow had fallen. I had a heavy, well-trained yoke of oxen, and
my faithful riding horse was obedient in every place. Myself and
brother-in-law had made a heavy Yankee sled that would hold all the
load that was put on it. I borrowed from my neighbor, Caleb May, two
additional yoke of oxen, but they only knew how to pull in a big
freighting team, and were not leaders. But putting my own heavy oxen
behind, my wild steers in the middle, and my horse in the lead, I made
out a good freighting team. But I had to pass through Atchison. The
business men of the place had already made this overture to me. They
had said: "You can come to Atchison during the day time and we will
guarantee that you shall not be molested, but we would rather you
should not be here in the night. The South Carolinians are here, and
there are other desperate characters here, and in the night we do not
know what might happen." And so, on the strength of such an agreement,
I had done business in Atchison, and to get my corn across the river
had gone over one day and back the next.
I had yet one more load of corn to haul. There had been a thaw, and
then the snow had frozen again, making it in many places slippery
traveling. The river bank, from the top of the bank down to the ice of
the river, was about twenty feet, and very steep; and this by much
traveling had become a perfect glare of ice, so that teams could not
hold their footing at all. I had gone over for my last load one day,
intending to return the next day, but I had found unexpected
hindrances, and when I got to the east bank of the river opposite
Atchison, it was sometime after dark. I got down as best I could and
crossed over on the ice to the Atchison side of the river, and I was
now to get up that bank of glare ice. [6] I placed my sled load of corn
at the bottom of the bank, and taking my team up in an unfrequented
place, I stationed them on the top of the bank directly above my load
of corn at the bottom. Before coming over I had cut a long, slender
pole in the timbered bottoms, and in view of this contingency had also
brought extra chains from home, and by means of the chains and this
long pole I hitched my team on the top of the hill to my load of corn
at the bottom. The thing worked well, and I had my load well on the
top of the bank on the level ground; but here the road turned suddenly
to the left close along the river bank, and my horse, too eager to get
home, turned too soon, and this brought my sled with a sudden crash
against a rock, and down went my load to the bottom of the bank again.
A chain had broken, and now my load of corn was left in such a
position that I evidently could not get it up again without help. In
the hindrances to which I had been subjected it had come to be 9
o'clock. I looked about and saw no light save in a saloon that had
been built under the bluff to catch custom, for this was the ferry
landing. I do not usually visit saloons, but "necessity knows no law,"
and I walked in; and whom should I find but Grafton Thomassen, the man
that made the raft on which they sent me down the river, sitting and
playing cards with a number of South Carolinians! They were
thunderstruck, and I have to confess that I was almost as much taken
aback as they were. But I spoke to them and said, "Gentlemen, good
evening." Then I explained, as well as I could, what had befallen me,
and that I had come in for assistance. But they were dumb--they never
spoke a word. I waited till my position became embarrassing, then
said, "Well, gentlemen, you seem to be busy, and I don't want to
interrupt; I will go somewhere else." I had already opened the door
when Grafton Thomassen found his voice and said, "Boys, it is not
right to leave Butler without help. Let us go and help him." "Yes!
yes! yes!" they all cried at once, "we will go and help him." And,
springing to their feet, and hastily putting on their overcoats, hats
and gloves, they came rushing to the door, saying, "Yes! yes! We will
help you. What is it we can do for you?"
I went with them to the river bank, pointed out my sled loaded with
corn on the ice, and explained to them it had to be brought up the
bank. They asked incredulously, "An' kin ye haul that thar slide up
that slippery bank?"
I said, "Yes, I have done it once," then I explained how the chain had
broken, and how my load of corn had gone down onto the ice again.
They exclaimed, "O! Well now! We have come all the way from South
_Carliny_ to see a Yankee trick an' haint we got it?"
They were eager to help, so as to see the fun. When everything was
ready I gave my horse in charge of one of them, saying to him he must
in nowise let the horse turn till the load of corn was well up and in
the traveled road, then gave the word to start. My team was eager to
pull, for they were getting impatient; and in fine style they brought
the load up on the level ground, and then immediately were in front of
the saloon, and I called a halt. When we got everything fixed I said
to them, "Gentlemen, I thank you. You have done me a real kindness.
But the night is cold."--and handing one of them a piece of silver, I
said, "Please take that and get something to warm you."
He took it and with something of hesitation said, "Won't you come in
and drink with us?"
I replied, "Please excuse me. You know me; you know I don't drink. But
all the same I want you to take it."
He said rather proudly, "We did not work for you for pay. We did it to
oblige you."
But I insisted. I said, "You did me a real kindness, and I want to do
you a kindness in return. I want you to take it." Then they bade me
good night and went into the saloon.
The wind had been rising, and the snow was drifting; and it was
evident that in many places the road would be obliterated, and I had a
long stretch of prairie to travel over on which there was not a human
habitation. It was dangerous to undertake it, and I had to stay in
Atchison. I found an empty corral, where my teams would be decently
sheltered, and went to the only hotel in town. The sleeping room they
assigned me was separated from the bar-room only by a thin board
partition, and I could hear every word that was said. This hotel was
the boarding-place of the South Carolinians, and they soon began to
drop in from about town, and word was passed among them that Butler
was in the house. Then one fellow, who was decidedly drunk, got
turbulent, and protested, with terrible oaths, that such a man should
not stay in the house, but that he would go in and drag him out of
bed. Then another company came in and demanded: "What's all this
fussing about?" These were my friends, the South Carolinians from
under the bluff They heard what this fellow had to say, then said:
"This thing has to be dried up." They then told what had happened down
at the river, and concluded: "Butler is a gentleman. He talks like a
gentleman; _he treats like a gentleman_; he came into this house like
a gentleman, and we will show him that we are gentlemen." And when the
drunken fellow became uproarious they hustled him off to bed.
I was evidently among friends, and slept soundly and without
apprehension till morning. I never saw my South Carolina friends
again. They returned home at an early day.
They had not made Kansas a slave state, but they had seen a Yankee
trick.