that by evening, when his followers would be perfectly sober, they
would listen to reason. He doubted, however, if the sum first named
would satisfy them, and insisted that he be authorized to offer more.
To this latter proposition Don Ramon made answer, “I am helpless to
promise you anything, but if you will only place me in correspondence
with my son, all I possess, everything that can be hypothecated shall
go to satisfy your demands. Only let it be soon, for this suspense is
killing me.”
An hour before dark the band was once more summoned together, with Don
Ramon in their midst. The chief asked the majority if they had any
compromise to offer to his proposition of the morning, and received a
negative answer. “Then,” said he, “remember that a trusting wife and
eight children, the eldest a lad of twenty, the youngest a toddling tot
of a girl, claim a husband and a father’s love at the hands of the
prisoner here. Are you such base ingrates that you can show no mercy,
not even to the innocent?”
The majority were abashed, and one by one fell back in the distance.
Finally a middle-aged man came forward and said, “Give us five thousand
dollars in gold apiece, the money to be in hand, and the prisoner may
have his liberty, all other conditions made in the morning to be
binding.”
“Your answer to that, Don Ramon?” asked the chief.
“I have promised my all. I ask nothing but life. I may have friends who
will assist. Give me an opportunity to see what can be done.”
“You shall have it,” replied the chief, “and on its success depends
your liberty or the consequences.”
Going amongst the band, he ordered them to meet again in three days at
one of their rendezvous near Agua Dulce; to go by twos, visit the river
towns on the way, to pick up all items of interest, and particularly to
watch for any movement of the authorities.
Retaining two of his companions to act as guards, the others saddled
their horses and dispersed by various routes. The chief waited until
the moon was well up, then abandoned their camp of the last ten days
and set out towards Agua Dulce. To show his friendship for his victim,
he removed all irons, but did not give freedom to Don Ramon’s horse,
which was led, as before.
It was after midnight when they recrossed the river to the American
side, using a ford known to but a few smugglers. When day broke they
were well inland and secure in the chaparral. Another night’s travel,
and they were encamped in the place agreed upon. Reports which the
members of the band brought to the chief showed that the authorities
had made no movement as yet, so evidently this outrage had never been
properly reported.
Don Ramon was now furnished paper and pencil, and he addressed a letter
to his son and family. The contents can easily be imagined. It
concluded with an appeal to secrecy, and an order to observe in
confidence and honor any compact made, as his life and liberty depended
on it. When this missive had passed the scrutiny of the bandits, it was
dispatched by one of their number to Señora Mora. It was just two weeks
since Don Ramon’s disappearance, a fortnight of untold anguish and
uncertainty to his family.
The messenger reached Agua Dulce an hour before midnight, and seeing a
light in the house, warned the inmates of his presence by the usual
“Ave Maria,” a friendly salutation invoking the blessings of the saints
on all within hearing. Supposing that some friend had a word for them,
the son went outside, meeting the messenger.
“Are you the son of Don Ramon Mora?” asked the bandit.
“I am,” replied the young man; “won’t you dismount?”
“No. I bear a letter to you from your father. One moment, señor! I have
within call half a dozen men. Give no alarm. Read his instructions to
you. I shall expect an answer in half an hour. The letter, señor.”
The son hastened into the house to read his father’s communication. The
bandit kept a strict watch over the premises to see that no
demonstration was made against him. When the half hour was nearly up,
the son came forward and tendered the answer. Passing the compliments
of the moment, the man rode away as airily as though the question were
of hearts instead of life. The reply was first read by Don Ramon, then
turned over to the chief. It would require a second letter, which was
to be called for in four days. Things were now nearing the danger
point. They must be doubly vigilant; so all but the chief and two
guards scattered out and watched every movement. Two or three towns on
the river were to have special care. Friends of the family lived in
these towns. They must be watched. The officers of the law were the
most to be feared. Every bit of conversation overheard was carefully
noted, with its effects and bearing.
At the appointed time, another messenger was sent to the ranch, but
only a part of the band returned to know the result. The sum which the
son reported at his command was very disappointing. It would not
satisfy the leaders, and there would be nothing for the others. It was
out of the question to consider it. The chief cursed himself for
letting his sympathy get the better of him. Why had he not listened to
the majority and been true to an accepted duty? He called himself a
woman for having acted as he had—a man unfit to be trusted.
Don Ramon heard these self-reproaches of the chief with a heavy heart,
and when opportunity occurred, he pleaded for one more chance. He had
many friends. There had not been time enough to see them all. His lands
and cattle had not been hypothecated. Give him one more chance. Have
mercy.
“I was a fool,” said the chief, “to listen to a condemned man’s hopes,
but having gone so far I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.”
Turning to Don Ramon, he said, “Write your son that if twice the sum
named in his letter is not forthcoming within a week, it will be too
late.”
The chief now became very surly, often declaring that the case was
hopeless; that the money could never be raised. He taunted his captive
with the fact that he had always considered himself above his
neighbors, and that now he could not command means enough to purchase
the silence and friendship of a score of beggars! His former kindness
changed to cruelty at every opportunity; and he took delight in hurling
his venom on his helpless victim.
Dispatching the letter, he ordered the band to scatter as before,
appointing a meeting place a number of days hence. After the return of
the messenger, he broke camp in the middle of the night, not forgetting
to add other indignities to the heavy irons already on his victim.
During the ensuing time they traveled the greater portion of each
night. To the prisoner’s questions as to where they were he received
only insulting replies. His inquiries served only to suggest other
cruelties. One night they set out unusually early, the chief saying
that they would recross the river before morning, so that if the ransom
was not satisfactory, the execution might take place at once. On this
night the victim was blindfolded. After many hours of riding—it was
nearly morning when they halted—the bandage was removed from his eyes,
and he was asked if he knew the place.
“Yes, it is Agua Dulce.”
The moon shone over its white stone buildings, quietly sleeping in the
still hours of the night, as over the white, silent slabs of a country
churchyard. Not a sound could be heard from any living thing. They
dismounted and gagged their prisoner. Tying their horses at a
respectable distance, they led their victim toward his home. Don Ramon
was a small man, and could offer no resistance to his captors. They
cautioned him that the slightest resistance would mean death, while
compliance to their wishes carried a hope of life.
Cautiously and with a stealthy step, they advanced like the thieves
they were, their victim in the iron grasp of two strong guards, while a
rope with a running noose around his neck, in the hands of the chief,
made their gag doubly effective. A garden wall ran within a few feet of
the rear of the house, and behind it they crouched. The only sound was
the labored breathing of their prisoner. Hark! the cry of a child is
heard within the house. Oh, God! it is his child, his baby girl.
Listen! The ear of the mother has heard it, and her soothing voice has
reached his anxious ear. His wife—the mother of his children—is now
bending over their baby’s crib. The muscles of Don Ramon’s arms turn to
iron. His eyes flash defiance at the grinning fiends who exult at his
misery. The running noose tightens on his neck, and he gasps for
breath. As they lead him back to his horse, his brain seems on fire; he
questions his own sanity, even the mercy of Heaven.
When the sun arose that morning, they were far away in one of the
impenetrable thickets in which the country abounded. Since his capture
Don Ramon had suffered, but never as now. Death would have been
preferable, not that life had no claims upon him, but that he no longer
had hopes of liberty. The uncertainty was unbearable. The bandits
exercised caution enough to keep all means of self-destruction out of
his reach. Hardened as they were, they noticed that their last racking
of the prisoner had benumbed even hope.
Sleep alone was kind to him, though he usually awoke to find his dreams
a mockery. That night the answer to the second demand would arrive. A
number of the band came in during the day and brought the rumor that
the governor of the State had been notified of their high-handed
actions. It was thought that a company of Texas Rangers would be
ordered to the Rio Grande. This meant action, and soon. When the reply
came from the son of Don Ramon, he was notified to have the money ready
at a certain abandoned ranchita, though the amount, now increased, was
not as large as was expected. It required two days longer for the
delivery, which was to be made at midnight, and to be accompanied by
not over two messengers.
At this juncture, a squad of ten Texas Rangers disembarked at the
nearest point on the railroad to this river village. The emergency
appeal, which had finally reached the governor’s ear, was acted upon
promptly, and though the men seemed very few in number, they were
tried, experienced, fearless Rangers, from the crack company of the
State. There was no waste of time after leaving the train. The little
command set out apparently for the river home of Don Ramon, distant
nearly a hundred miles. After darkness had set in, the captain of the
squad cut his already small command in two, sending a lieutenant with
four men to proceed by way of Agua Dulce ranch, the remainder
continuing on to the river. The captain refused them even pack horse or
blanket, allowing them only their arms. He instructed them to call
themselves cowboys, and in case they met any Mexicans, to make
inquiries for a well-known American ranch which was located in the
chaparral. With a few simple instructions from his superior, the
lieutenant and squad rode away into the darkness of a June night.
It was in reality the dark hour before dawn when they reached Agua
Dulce. As secretly as possible the lieutenant aroused Don Ramon’s wife
and sought an interview with her. Speaking Spanish fluently, he
explained his errand and her duty to put him in possession of all the
facts in the case. Bewildered, as any gentlewoman would be under the
circumstances, she reluctantly told the main facts. This officer
treated Señora Mora with every courtesy, and was eventually rewarded
when she requested him and his men to remain her guests until her son
should return, which would be before noon. She explained that he would
bring a large sum of money with him, which was to be the ransom price
of her husband, and which was to be paid over at midnight within twenty
miles of Agua Dulce. This information was food and raiment to the
Ranger.
The señora of Agua Dulce sent a servant to secrete the Ranger’s horses
in a near-by pasture, and with saddles hidden inside the house, before
the people of the ranch or the sun arose, five Rangers were sleeping
under the roof of the _Casa primero_.
It was late in the day when the lieutenant awoke to find Don Ramon,
Jr., ready to welcome and join in furnishing any details unknown to his
mother. The commercial instincts of the young man sided with the
Rangers, but the mother—thank God!—knew no such impulses and thought of
nothing save the return of her husband, the father of her brood. The
officer considered only duty—being an unknown quantity to him. He
assured his hostess that if she would confide in them, her husband
would be returned to her with all dispatch. Concealing such things as
he considered advisable from both mother and son, he outlined his
plans. At the appointed time and place the money should be paid over
and the compact adhered to to the letter. He reserved to himself and
company, however, to furnish any red light necessary.
An hour after dark, a messenger, Don Ramon, Jr., and five Rangers set
out to fulfill all contracts pending and understood. The abandoned
ranchita in the _monte_—the meeting point—had been at one time a stone
house of some pretensions, where had formerly lived its builder, a
wealthy, eccentric recluse. It had in previous years, however, been
burned, so that now only crumbling walls remained, a gloomy, isolated,
though picturesque ruin, standing in an opening several acres in
extent, while trails, once in use, led to and from it.
When the party arrived within two miles of the meeting point, an hour
in advance of the appointed time, a halt was called. Under the
direction of the lieutenant, the son and his companion were to proceed
by an old trail, forsaking the regular pathway leading from Agua Dulce
to the old ranch. The Ranger squad tied their horses and followed a
respectful distance behind, near enough, however, to hear in case any
guards might halt them. They were carefully cautioned not even to let
Don Ramon, if he were present, know that rescue from another quarter
was at hand. When the two sighted the ruin they noticed a dim light
within the walls. Then, without a single challenge, they dashed up to
the old house, amid a clatter of hoofs, and shouts of welcome from the
bandits.
The messengers were unarmed, and once inside the house were made
prisoners, ironed, and ordered into a corner, where crouched Don Ramon
Mora, now enfeebled by mental racking and physical abuse. The meeting
of father and son will be spared the reader, yet in the young man’s
heart was a hope that he dared not communicate.
The night was warm. A fire flickered in the old fireplace, and around
its circle gathered nine bandits to count and gloat over the blood
money of their victim, as a miser might over his bags of gold. The
bottle passed freely round the circle, and with toast and taunt and
jeer the counting of the money was progressing. Suddenly, and with as
little warning as if they had dropped down from among the stars, five
Texas Rangers sprang through windows and doors, and without a word a
flood of fire frothed from the mouths of ten six-shooters, hurling
death into the circle about the fire. There was no cessation of the
rain of lead until every gun was emptied, when the men sprang back,
each to his window or door, where a carbine, carefully left, awaited
his hand to complete the work of death. In the few moments that
elapsed, the smoke arose and the fire burned afresh, revealing the
accuracy of their aim. As they reëntered to review their work, two of
the bandits were found alive and untouched, having thrown themselves in
a corner amid the confusion of smoke in the onslaught. Thus they were
spared the fate of the others, though the ghastly sight of seven of
their number, translated from life into death, met their terrorized
gaze. Human blood streamed across the once peaceful hearth, while
brains bespattered life-sized figures in bas-relief of the Virgin Mary
and Christ Child which adorned the broad columns on either side of the
ample fireplace. In the throes of death, one bandit had floundered
about until his hand rested in the fire, producing a sickening smell
from the burning flesh.
As Don Ramon was released, he stood for a few moments half dazed,
looking in bewilderment at the awful spectacle before him. Then as the
truth gradually dawned upon him,—that this sacrifice of blood meant
liberty to himself,—he fell upon his knees among the still warm bodies
of his tormentors, his face raised to the Virgin in exultation of joy
and thanksgiving.
XI
THE PASSING OF PEG-LEG
In the early part of September, ’91, the eastern overland express on
the Denver and Rio Grande was held up and robbed at Texas Creek. The
place is little more than a watering-station on that line, but it was
an inviting place for hold-ups.
Surrounded by the fastnesses of the front range of the Rockies, Peg-Leg
Eldridge and his band selected this lonely station as best fitted for
the transaction in hand. To the southwest lay the Sangre de Cristo
range, in which the band had rendezvoused and planned this robbery.
Farther to the southwest arose the snow-capped peaks of the Continental
Divide, in whose silent solitude an army might have taken refuge and
hidden.
It was an inviting country to the robber. These mountains offered
retreats that had never known the tread of human footsteps. Emboldened
by the thought that pursuit would be almost a matter of impossibility,
they laid their plans and executed them without a single hitch.
About ten o’clock at night, as the train slowed up as usual to take
water, the engineer and fireman were covered by two of the robbers. The
other two—there were only four—cut the express car from the train, and
the engineer and fireman were ordered to decamp. The robbers ran the
engine and express car out nearly two miles, where, by the aid of
dynamite, they made short work of a through safe that the messenger
could not open. The express company concealed the amount of money lost
to the robbers, but smelters, who were aware of certain retorts in
transit by this train, were not so silent. These smelter products were
in gold retorts of such a size that they could be made away with as
easily as though they had reached the mint and been coined.
There was scarcely any excitement among the passengers, so quickly was
it over. While the robbery was in progress the wires from this station
were flashing the news to headquarters. At a division of the railroad
one hundred and fifty-six miles distant from the scene of the robbery,
lived United States Marshal Bob Banks, whose success in pursuing
criminals was not bounded by the State in which he lived. His
reputation was in a large measure due to the successful use of
bloodhounds. This officer’s calling compelled him to be both plainsman
and mountaineer. He had the well-deserved reputation of being as
unrelenting in the pursuit of criminals as death is in marking its
victims.
Within half an hour after the robbery was reported at headquarters, an
engine had coupled to a caboose at the division where the marshal
lived. He was equally hasty. To gather his arms and get his dogs aboard
the caboose required but a few moments’ time.
Everything ready, they pulled out with a clear track to their
destination. Heavy traffic in coal had almost ruined the road-bed, but
engine and caboose flew over it regardless of its condition. Halfway to
their destination the marshal was joined by several officials, both
railway and express. From there the train turned westward, up the
valley of the Arkansas. Here was a track and an occasion that gave the
most daring engineer license to throw the throttle wide open.
The climax of this night’s run was through the Grand Cañon of the
Arkansas. Into this gash in the earth’s surface plunged the engineer,
as though it were an easy stretch of down-grade prairie. As the engine
rounded turns, the headlight threw its rays up serried columns of
granite half a mile high,—columns that rear their height in grotesque
form and Gothic arch, polished by the waters of ages.
As the officials agreed, after a full discussion with the marshal of
every phase and possibility of capture, the hope of this night’s work
and the punishment of the robbers rested almost entirely on three dogs
lying on the floor, and, as the rocking of the car disturbed them,
growling in their dreams. In their helplessness to cope with this
outrage, they turned to these dumb animals as a welcome ally. Under the
guidance of their master they were an aid whose value he well
understood. Their sense of smell was more reliable than the sense of
seeing in man. You can believe the dog when you doubt your own eyes.
His opinion is unquestionably correct.
As the train left the cañon it was but a short run to the scene of the
depredation. During the night the few people who resided at this
station were kept busy getting together saddle-horses for the officer’s
posse. This was not easily done, as there were few horses at the
station, while the horses of near-by ranches were turned loose in the
open range for the night. However, upon the arrival of the train, Banks
and the express people found mounts awaiting them to carry them to the
place of the hold-up.
After the robbers had finished their work during the fore part of the
night, the train crew went out and brought back to the station the
engine and express car. The engine was unhurt, but the express car was
badly shattered, and the through safe was ruined by the successive
charges of dynamite that were used to force it to yield up its
treasure. The local safe was unharmed, the messenger having opened it
in order to save it from the fate of its larger and stronger brother.
The train proceeded on its way, with the loss of a few hours’ time and
the treasure of its express.
Day was breaking in the east as the posse reached the scene. The
marshal lost no time circling about until the trail leaving was taken
up. Even the temporary camp of the robbers was found in close proximity
to the chosen spot. The experienced eye of this officer soon determined
the number of men, though they led several horses. It was a cool,
daring act of Peg-Leg and three men. Afterward, when his past history
was learned, his leadership in this raid was established.
Peg-Leg Eldridge was a product of that unfortunate era succeeding the
civil war. During that strife the herds of the southwest were neglected
to such an extent that thousands of cattle grew to maturity without
ear-mark or brand to identify their owner. A good mount of horses, a
rope and a running-iron in the hands of a capable man, were better than
capital. The good old days when an active young man could brand
annually fifteen calves—all better than yearlings—to every cow he
owned, are looked back to to this day, from cattle king to the humblest
of the craft, in pleasant reminiscence, though they will come no more.
Eldridge was of that time, and when conditions changed, he failed to
change with them. This was the reason that, under the changed condition
of affairs, he frequently got his brand on some other man’s calf. This
resulted in his losing a leg from a gunshot at the hands of a man he
had thus outraged. Worse, it branded him for all time as a cattle
thief, with every man’s hand against him. Thus the steps that led up to
this September night were easy, natural, and gradual. This child of
circumstances, a born plainsman like the Indian, read in plain, forest,
and mountain, things which were not visible to other eyes. The stars
were his compass by night, the heat waves of the plain warned him of
the tempting mirage, while the cloud on the mountain’s peak or the wind
in the pines which sheltered him alike spoke to him and he understood.
The robbers’ trail was followed but a few miles, when their course was
well established. They were heading into the Sangre de Cristo
Mountains. Several hours were lost here by the pursuing party, as they
were compelled to await the arrival of a number of pack horses; so when
the trail was taken up in earnest they were at least twelve hours
behind the robbers.
In the ascent of the foot-hills the dogs led the posse, six in number,
a merry chase. As they gradually rose to higher altitudes the trail of
the robbers was more compact and easy to follow, except for the
roughness of the mountain slope. Frequently the trail was but a single
narrow path. Old game trails, where the elk and deer, drifting in the
advance of winter, crossed the range, had been followed by the robbers.
These game trails were certain to lead to the passes in the range.
Thus, by the instinct given to the deer and elk against the winter’s
storm, the humblest of His creatures had blazed for these train robbers
an unerring pathway to the mountain’s pass.