COACH ROBBERIES
The placer at Alder Gulch was so extensive, so easy of development, and
so prolific, that many of the miners who commenced work upon it in the
early days of its discovery, fortunate in their acquisitions, and
disgusted with their associations, were ready to return to the States in
the fall. Failing in this, they knew that they would be doomed to a long
winter of idleness, exposed to the privations incident to a new and
isolated region, and to the depredations of a large and increasing
criminal population. The hegira, at first small, increased in numbers,
so that, by the first of November it could be numbered by hundreds, who
were on their return to their old homes. Many—perhaps the greater
portion—of those wayfarers travelled in the conveyances which brought
them to the country; others on horseback; and a large number leaving
Virginia City on one of the two lines of coaches for Bannack, trusted to
chance for an opportunity to continue the journey beyond that place. How
many of these persons fell victims to the road agents, on their long and
perilous journey, it is impossible to tell; but the inquiries of
relatives and friends for hundreds of them for months and even years
after their departure, leave no chance for doubt that the villains drove
a bloody and prosperous business.
Several of their most daring exploits occurred on the route between
Virginia City and Bannack, a region admirably adapted to their purposes.
Its frequent streams, cañons, mountain passes, rocky ledges, willow
thickets, and deep embosomed valleys, afforded ample means of
concealment, and advantages for attack upon passing trains, with very
few chances for defence or escape. The robbers had their established
points of rendezvous on the road, and worked in concert by a system of
horseback telegraphy, as unfailing as electricity. Whenever it was known
that a person with money was about to leave by coach, a private mark was
made upon the vehicle, which would be recognized wherever seen, at
Daly’s, Baker’s, Dempsey’s, or Bunton’s, the several ranches where the
coach horses were changed. Bunton, who kept the Rattlesnake ranche, was
the same villain who was associated with Plummer in the shebangs near
Walla Walla, of which an account has already been given.
When the approach of the coach was perceived at either of these changing
stations, the herder in charge mounted his horse, and rode hurriedly off
to drive up the horses for the next route, which were generally feeding
in sight of the station. Sometimes they strayed off, and the coach would
be delayed until they were found, but this was of infrequent occurrence.
Precisely the same system was followed here as upon the plains in the
days of the overland mail stages.
The horses in use when not of the cayuse breed, were bronchos, or wild
horses from California, neither in quality nor breed suited for the
service, unreliable, and easily broken down. They were driven very
rapidly, and when their speed gave out were turned loose as no longer
fit for use. As a consequence it was one of the chief difficulties of a
stage proprietor to secure horses which would insure the punctuality of
his trips. The trip between Virginia City and Bannack was ordinarily
completed between the rising and setting of the sun.
Among the miners earliest to arrive and stake a claim in Alder Gulch,
was an Irishman by the name of Daniel McFadden, who soon became
familiarized to the sobriquet of “Bummer Dan.” Why he was thus
designated was never known, but it may be presumed that he early
developed some peculiarities, which, in the opinion of the people,
justified it. He was fortunate in securing one of the richest claims in
the gulch, and, making good use of his time, had saved two thousand
dollars or more in dust by the middle of October. Having sold his claim,
with this gold in his possession, he made preparations for a journey to
Bannack. Securing it in buckskin purses, he put them in a larger bag,
and by means of a strap across the shoulder, and a belt, contrived to
conceal the treasure under his clothing, and carry it very conveniently.
One raw, gusty day, toward the close of the month, he left Virginia City
on foot, and walked down the valley to Dempsey’s ranche, on the Stinking
Water, where he waited the arrival of Peabody & Caldwell’s coach on its
way to Bannack.
Owing to the sickness of the driver, William Rumsey was pressed into
service for the trip, and the coach left Virginia City at the usual hour
in the morning, with Messrs. Madison, Percy, and Wilkinson, as
passengers. One of the heavy snowstorms peculiar to this season and
latitude set in soon after the coach was under way, and continued during
the drive of the first ten miles, rendering their progress slow and
cumbersome. At Baker’s ranche the passengers were obliged to wait until
the herder, who had been housed during the storm, could drive up the
horses. He returned after an hour’s search with an indifferent team,
which was driven on a run to Dempsey’s ranche, to recover the time lost
by the delay. Here “Bummer Dan” took passage, and the same speed was
maintained to “Point of Rocks,” the locality known in Lewis and Clark’s
travels as Beaver Head Rock. The wearied horses gave place here to a
fresher team, which continued on a keen run to Bunton’s ranche on the
Rattlesnake. It was now sunset, and yet twelve miles to Bannack. The
herder who had brought up the horses for the change at the usual hour,
finding that the coach did not arrive on time, had, under Bunton’s
orders, turned them out again, an hour before. Bunton pretended that he
did not expect the coach. The herder was sent out immediately after the
horses, and returned at dark with the report that he could not find
them. Rumsey then requested “Little Frank,” a Mexican boy in whom he had
confidence, to go in search of the horses. He, too, soon returned with
the report that they could not be found. This “Little Frank,” a few
weeks afterwards, told Rumsey that the horses were near at the time, but
that before he started to look for them, Bunton told him that if he did
not report them to be missing he would kill him.
A night with Bill Bunton was unavoidable, and the passengers at once
determined to “make a night of it.” Bunton entered into the spirit of
the occasion with them. Whiskey was provided. They drank themselves
hilarious, sang, related adventures, and caroused until daylight; but,
to Bunton’s disappointment, without becoming intoxicated, and never
forgetting, meantime, their exposure to robbery, or the convenience of a
revolver in the belt.
At daylight two herders were sent for the horses. One returned at eight
o’clock, with the report that they could not be found. An hour
afterwards the other brought in the same horses that came with the coach
the previous evening. “Necessity knows no law,” and so with a pair of
these for leaders, and two worn-out wheelers, the coach was soon
declared ready for a start. Just at this time, Oliver’s coach from
Bannack drove up, _en route_ for Virginia City, and fresh drinks were
called for. In the meantime a rough by the name of Bob Zachary, who was
going to Bannack with a couple of horses, insisted that Wilkinson should
bear him company and ride one of them. They departed on a canter in
advance of the coach, and were soon out of sight. Bunton, who had been
distributing liquor among the passengers of the coaches, and trying to
make himself generally agreeable, came out with the bottle and a tumbler
to give Rumsey a drink.
“Wait a few minutes, Billy,” said he, “and I will ride to Bannack with
you. These passengers will be gone in a moment.”
“Get up on the box with me,” replied Rumsey. “These old ‘plugs’ at the
wheel will need pretty constant whipping, and my exercise in that line
yesterday has lamed my arm.”
“I’m a good whipper,” Bunton responded, laughing, “and if there’s any
‘go’ in them, I can bring it out. They’re a pair of ‘played out’
wheelers that had been turned out to rest, and I think we’ll fail to get
them beyond a walk,—but we’ll give them a try.”
The weather was cold and blustering. The curtains of, the coach were
fastened down. Percy, Madison, and “Bummer Dan” got in, and Bunton
mounted the box beside Rumsey. The horses began to weaken before they
reached the crossing of the creek, less than a mile away. There the road
entered the gulch. Bunton, who had succeeded, as he intended, in tiring
the horses, surrendered the whip to Rumsey and got inside the coach. He
knew what was coming. Rumsey whipped up the wheelers, but could not urge
them into any faster gait. Cursing his “slow poke of a team,” his eye
caught the figures of two horsemen entering the gulch from a dry ravine
a few rods in front of the coach. They were wrapped in blankets, with
hoods over their heads, and armed with shotguns. It flashed upon him
that they were robbers.
“Look! boys, look!” he shouted. “See what’s coming. Get out your arms.
The road agents are upon us.”
The eyes of every man in the coach were peering through the loopholes at
the approaching bandits. Madison, the first to discover them, was
searching for his pistol, when the robbers rode up, and in broken Irish,
and assumed tones, with their guns aimed at the coach, yelled,
“Up with your hands, every one of you.”
This formula, always used, was generally concluded with an abusive
epithet. Bill Bunton, who had a part to enact, threw up his hands and in
an imploring voice, exclaimed,
“For God’s sake, don’t kill me. You are welcome to all my money,—only
spare my life.”
The other inmates raised their arms as commanded.
“Get out,” shouted the robbers, “and hold up your hands. We’ll shoot
every man who puts his down.”
The passengers descended hurriedly to the ground and stood with their
arms upraised, awaiting further orders. Turning to Rumsey, who remained
on the box holding the reins, the robbers ordered him to get down, and
remove the arms from the passengers.
Not easily frightened, and anxious to escape a service so distasteful,
Rumsey replied,
“You must be fools to think I’m going to get down and let this team run
away. You don’t want the team. It can do you no good.”
“Get down,” said the robber spokesman with an oath as he levelled his
gun at Rumsey, “or I’ll shoot the top of your head off.”
“There’s a man,” said Rumsey, pointing to Bunton, “who is unarmed. Let
him disarm the others.”
“Oh!” replied Bunton in a lachrymose tone, “I’ll hold the horses—I’ll
hold the horses, while you take off the pistols. Anything—anything, only
don’t shoot me.”
“Go then, and hold the horses, you long-legged coward,” said the robber;
“and now,” he continued, levelling his gun at and addressing Rumsey,
“get down at once, and do as you’ve been ordered, or you’ll be a dead
man in half a minute.”
The order was too peremptory to be disobeyed. Rumsey tied the reins to
the brake-handle, and jumped to the ground.
“Now take them arms off,” said the robber, “and be quick about it too.”
Removing the two navy revolvers from “Bummer Dan,” Rumsey sidled off
slowly, with the hope of getting a shot at the ruffians; but they,
comprehending his design, ordered him to throw them on the ground. As
the choice lay between obedience or death, he laid them down, and was
proceeding very slowly to remove the pistols from the other passengers,
with the hope that by some fortunate chance a company of horsemen or
some friendly train would come to the rescue before the villains could
complete their work.
“Hurry up there,” shouted the robber. “Don’t keep us waiting all day.”
After the passengers were freed of their arms, and the arms piled up
near the road agents, the speaker of the two ordered Rumsey to relieve
them of their purses. Bunton, who had all the time been petitioning for
his life, took out his purse, and throwing it towards Rumsey, exclaimed,
“There’s a hundred and twenty dollars,—all I have in the world. You’re
welcome to it, only don’t kill me.”
All this while, the men, not daring to drop their hands, directed Rumsey
in his search for their purses. He had taken a sack of gold dust from
Percy, one from Madison, and two from “Bummer Dan,” and supposed his
work to be completed.
“Have you got all?” inquired the robber.
“All I could find,” replied Rumsey.
Turning to Madison, the robber asked, pointing to the sacks,
“Is that all you’ve got?”
“No,” said Madison, nudging his pocket with his elbow, “there’s another
in this pocket.”
The road agent, in an angry manner, cursing Rumsey for trying to deceive
him, ordered him to take it out.
“Don’t you leave nothing,” was the stern, ungrammatical command.
Rumsey took the purse, and having added it to the pile, was about to
resume his seat on the box.
“Where are you going?” shouted both the robbers.
“To get on the coach, you fools,” retorted Rumsey. “You’ve got all there
is, and we want to go on now.”
“Go back there, and get the big sack from that Irish bummer,” said one
of the robbers; and pointing his pistol at Dan, he added, “You’re the
man we’re after. Get that strap off your shoulder.”
Poor Dan! His money was very dear to him, but his life was dearer. As he
could not save both, he commenced at once to remove the strap. Rumsey
came up, and tried to pull it out, but finding it would not come,
stepped back, while Dan was engaged in unbuckling the belt.
“Jerk it off,” shouted the robber; “or I’ll shoot you in a minute.”
“Give him time,” interposed Rumsey; “you’ll not kill a man when he’s
doing all he can for you?”
“Well, hurry up, then, you awkward blackguard. We have no time to lose.”
As soon as the belt was loosed, Dan drew forth a large, fringed,
buckskin bag containing two sacks, which he handed to Rumsey, who tossed
it on the heap.
“That’s what we wanted,” said the robber. “Now get aboard, all of you,
and get out of this as fast as you can; and if we ever hear a word from
one of you, we’ll shoot you on sight.”
They obeyed with alacrity. Bunton resumed his seat beside the driver,
and commenced whipping the horses, observing, as they rode off, that it
was the hottest place he was ever in. At a turn in the road, Bunton
looked back. The bandits had dismounted. One held the horses; the other
was picking up the plunder, which, in all, amounted to twenty-eight
hundred dollars. After gathering up their booty, the robbers galloped
rapidly over the Indian trail leading to Bannack, arriving there in
advance of the coach.
When intelligence of the robbery reached Bannack, public indignation was
aroused, but the time had not yet arrived for action. Had the robbers
been recognized, they would have fared hard on their return to Bannack,
but the people felt that it was better not to strike, than strike at
random.
George Hilderman, one of the robber gang, was present at the
express-office on the arrival of the coach, seemingly as much surprised
as any one at the intelligence of the robbery. His real object, however,
was to observe whether the passengers had recognized the ruffians. If
so, he was to report it to them, that they might keep out of the way.
“Bummer Dan,” doubtless, had in his employ some person in the confidence
of the robbers; otherwise, his efforts to avoid them might have been
successful.
It was afterwards ascertained that Frank Parish and Bob Zachary were the
men who committed the robbery. Bill Bunton, being in the secret, aided
as much as possible in delaying the coach over-night at Rattlesnake, and
supplying it with worn-out horses for the trip from his ranche to
Bannack. “Bummer Dan” and Percy recognized the robbers, but were
restrained by personal fear from exposing them.
No man in this company was more feared by the ruffians than Rumsey. They
could not frighten him, and no warning of his friends prevented him from
fully expressing and ventilating his opinions concerning them. Nothing
would silence his denunciations, but his death; and this being resolved
upon by the robbers, they prepared to improve the opportunity afforded
by his return to Virginia City, to accomplish it. It was so late in the
day when he arrived at Dempsey’s that he concluded to pass the night
there. Boone Helm, who had been awaiting his appearance, met him in the
bar-room soon after his arrival, and invited him and other persons
present to drink with him. Rumsey drank with the company two or three
times. Helm called for more drinks.
“I’ve had enough,” said Rumsey, declining to drink more.
“Take another, take another,” said Helm. “It’s good to keep the cold
out.”
“Not another drop,” replied Rumsey. “I know my gauge on the liquor
question, and never go beyond it.”
“You _shall_ drink again,” said Helm, with an oath, casting a malicious
glance at Rumsey.
“I _won’t_ drink again,” was the immediate reply, “and no man can make
me.”
“No man can refuse to drink with me and live,” replied Helm, seizing his
revolver as if to draw it.
Rumsey was too quick for him. Before the desperado could draw his
pistol, Rumsey had his levelled at his head. Addressing him in a calm,
steady tone, he said,
“Don’t draw your pistol, or I’ll shoot you, sure.”
The men gazed sternly upon each other for a minute or more, Helm finally
loosing his grasp of his pistol, and saying,
“Well, you’re the first man that ever looked me down. Let’s be friends.”
The courage of Rumsey inspired the robber with a respect for him which
probably saved his life, as no further molestation was offered him on
his way to Virginia City.
Percy was the proprietor of a bowling alley in Bannack. The roughs, in
frequenting his saloon, would leave their horses standing outside the
door; and he had so often seen the animals and accoutrements of each,
that he easily recognized the robbers by their horses and saddles. When
the coach arrived, Percy saw Frank Parish take Henry Plummer to one
side, and engage in conversation with him. In a few minutes, Plummer
came to Percy, and asked him; if he knew the robbers. Percy replied,
“No; and if I did, I’d not be such a fool as to tell who they were.”
Plummer tapped him on the shoulder, and replied,
“You stick to that, Percy, and you’ll be all right. There are about
seventy-five of the worst desperadoes ever known on the west side of the
mountains, in the country, in a band, and I know who they are.”
Bunton, after this robbery, used occasionally to accost Percy in a
playful manner, with such language as, “Throw up your hands”; or, “We
were fools to be robbed, weren’t we?” Percy, knowing that Bunton was one
of the gang, soon tired of this; and one day at a race-course, when thus
saluted, remarked, with unmistakable displeasure,
“That’s played out.”
The words were scarcely uttered, when Bunton raised his pistol and fired
at him. The ball grazed Percy’s ear. Jason Luce, a driver of Mr.
Oliver’s express, stepped up and said to Bunton,
“If you want to fight, why don’t you take a man of your own size,
instead of a smaller one?”
Later in the day, while intoxicated, Luce called Bunton a coward, in the
presence of his brother, Sam Bunton. The latter whipped him severely on
the spot. Three days later, Luce carried the express to Salt Lake City,
Sam Bunton following four or five days thereafter. Luce met him at the
Salt Lake House.
“We had,” said he, addressing him, “a little difficulty in Bannack, and
now we’ll settle it.”
“It’s already settled,” said Bunton.
“You’re a liar,” replied Luce, and drawing his knife cut Bunton’s
throat, killing him on the spot. Luce was arrested, tried, and found
guilty of murder. By the Territorial statute of Utah, he was authorized
to choose the mode of his execution, from the three forms of hanging,
shooting, or beheading. His choice was to be shot, and he was executed
in that manner.
Bill Bunton and Sam Bunton were natives of Ohio. Their parents moved to
Andrew County, Missouri, in 1839, and thence to Oregon in 1842, when
they were respectively sixteen and fourteen years old. The father was a
rough, drinking, quarrelsome man, clever, but uneducated.