[Illustration: THE AUTHOR AS HE APPEARED AFTER THE COEUR D’ALENE
RIOTS.]
A COWBOY DETECTIVE
A True Story of Twenty-Two Years with a
World-Famous Detective Agency
Giving the Inside Facts of the Bloody Coeur
d’Alene Labor Riots, and the many Ups
and Downs of the Author throughout
the United States, Alaska, British
Columbia and Old Mexico
Also Exciting Scenes among the Moonshiners
of Kentucky and Virginia
By CHAS. A. SIRINGO
Author of “A Texas Cowboy”
CHICAGO
W. B. CONKEY COMPANY
1912
COPYRIGHT, 1912
BY
CHAS. A. SIRINGO
[Illustration]
[Illustration: OLD COLT’S 45 AND THE HAND THAT HAS KEPT HER UNDER
CONTROL.]
TO MY FRIEND
ALOIS B. RENEHAN
OF SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO
An eminent lawyer, advocate and writer,
as a token of appreciation of many
kindnesses done, this book
is dedicated.
PREFACE
This story of twenty years of active service as a detective, an
autobiography of many thrilling adventures, on mountain and plain,
among moonshiners, cattle thieves, tramps, dynamiters and other
strong-arm men, has been delayed for a long time in coming from the
press. The delay was due to the protests of the author’s former
employers. These protests were undoubtedly rightful, but it was
considered in the beginning that no harm could come therefrom, for the
reason that the identity of persons involved was not disclosed except
in reference to past facts, matters that were done and over with. Now
this difficulty has been overcome and the objections removed by the use
of fictitious names in many places. But the story in no wise loses its
interest, and it is believed the reader will find in the volume much
with which to entertain himself.
The author is not a literary man, but has written as he speaks, and it
is thought that the simplicity thus resulting will not detract from the
substantial merit of the tales, which are recitals of facts and not of
fiction.
CHARLES A. SIRINGO.
Santa Fe, New Mexico, January 6, 1912.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
The Anarchist Riot in Chicago--My First Work for the
Dickenson Agency--In Jail for Slugging a Slugger 11
CHAPTER II
Archuleta County Uprising--Rope Secured to Hang
Me--Running Down a Wells Fargo Robber in Old
Mexico--We Capture the Noted Bassick Mine 25
CHAPTER III
To White River as an Outlaw--The Ute Indian War--Riding
and Roping Under Name of “Dull Knife” at Denver
Cowboy Tournament--Off for Wyoming as an Outlaw 44
CHAPTER IV
In Jail with Denver & Rio Grande Holdups--Aspen Ore-Stealing
Case--Testing Railroad Conductors--The Mudsill
Mine-Salting Case--In Longmont as a Bronco-Buster--In
the Bull-Pen with Hobos 66
CHAPTER V
Two Wealthy Mine-Owners of Tuscarora, Nevada, Blown
Up with Dynamite--A Confession Secured after Nine
Months of Strenuous Life in Nevada and Indian Territory 91
CHAPTER VI
Shooting of Ancheta--I Join the “White Caps” of New
Mexico--Taken Down with Smallpox and Given Up to
Die 114
CHAPTER VII
The Bloody Coeur D’Alene Strike--I Become Recording
Secretary of the Union--During the Riot I Sawed a
Hole in the Floor to Escape from Bloodthirsty Dynamiters 135
CHAPTER VIII
United States Troops Fill the “Bull-Pen” with Miners’
Union Dynamiters--My Evidence Convicts Eighteen of
the Union Leaders 172
CHAPTER IX
In Jail with Two Murderers--Testing Railway Conductors--Tramping
as a Hobo through Colorado, New Mexico,
Arizona, California and Texas--Robbery of the Treadwell
Gold Mill in Alaska--We Capture the Thieves and
Recover the Gold 192
CHAPTER X
Chasing Leon Carrier through the Republic of Mexico--Running
Down “Bad” Men in Arizona--Big Ore Robbery
on Bull Hill--Golden Fleece Ore-Stealing Case--Hobo
Operation--Big Mining Suit in Arizona--Running Down
Banker’s Son in British Columbia 229
CHAPTER XI
Bill Blank Cattle-Stealing Case--Christmas Dinner and a
Dance on the L X Cattle Ranch in Texas--Left Afoot
on a New Mexico Desert Without Water 247
CHAPTER XII
Jersey Lillie and Butterfly Mine-Salting Cases--Tramping on
the Oregon Short Line Railway Company’s System--A
Big Ore-Stealing Case in Salt Lake City, Utah--Trip to
British Columbia--Playing Outlaw in Cripple Creek,
Colorado 268
CHAPTER XIII
A Lawsuit in Bent County, Colorado--A Big Murder Case
in Benkelman, Nebraska--Ernest Bush Sent to the Penitentiary
for Life 288
CHAPTER XIV
On Trail of Union Pacific Train Robbers through Utah,
Colorado, New Mexico, Kansas, Indian Territory,
Arkansas, Tennessee, Mississippi, Montana and the Republic
of Mexico 305
CHAPTER XV
A 1,000-Mile Horseback Ride from Grand Junction, Colo.,
to Alma, New Mexico--In with “Kid” Curry’s “Wild
Bunch” Crowd, in Colorado, Utah, Arizona, New Mexico
and Wyoming 339
CHAPTER XVI
A Big Railroad Stealing Case in Texas and Old Mexico--A
Bullion Stealing Operation in Salt Lake, Utah 381
CHAPTER XVII
A Mining Case in Alma, Colorado--A Prospecting Trip with
a Half-Breed Mexican--Taking Prisoner to Kansas City,
Missouri--Working on United States Senator Smoot 387
CHAPTER XVIII
The Wentz Kidnapping Case--Eight Months among the
Moonshiners of Kentucky and Virginia 395
CHAPTER XIX
A Hurrah Life among the “Moonshiners”--I Escape Possible
Death by a Scratch--The Body of Ed. Wentz
Found 418
CHAPTER XX
A Mining Case in Kelly, N. M.--Big Robbery in Prescott,
A. T.--Incendiary Case in Wyoming--Mrs. Shaw Kidnapping
Case in Pueblo, Colo.--Chase After “Bad” Man
in Sonora, Mexico--Cattle Case in Wyoming and Montana--“Frenzied
Finance” Operation in Roswell, N. M. 454
CHAPTER XXI
A Cowboy Operation in Eastern Oregon--A Trip to Sombrerete,
Old Mexico--A Visit to the Coeur D’Alenes with
James McParland--Laying for Train Holdups in Nebraska--An
Operation in Mexico City 486
CHAPTER XXII
In Idaho with Dynamiters--A Cowboy Operation in the Bad
Lands of South Dakota--I Resign from the Dickenson
Agency 511
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
The Author as he appeared after the Coeur D’Alene riots 2
Old Colt’s 45 and the hand that has kept her under
control 3
The Kidlet Author after he became a Cowboy 11
Henry Brown--Ben Wheeler 14
Mamie and Viola 80
Pablo H. standing.--His two brothers sitting 118
Tim Corn 234
Big-foot Wallace 262
The Author and W. O. Sayles 310
Little Harvey T. and his dog 330
Author and two horses 349
“Kid” Curry and his sweetheart 370
“Doc” Lockridge and the Author 387
Emma S., “Donk” and the Author 407
Victoria Craft 413
The Author as he appeared when he whittled the chair 428
Eat ’Em Up Jake 464
Wallace, Idaho. The X marks the spot where the Author
stood when the soldiers arrived 501
Orchard and Guards--Reading from Left to Right: (1) Pen
Guard Ackley. (2) Harry Orchard. (3) R. Barthell.
(4) Chas. A. Siringo. (5) Bob Meldrum. (6) Warden
Whitney 511
McCartney and the Author 514
[Illustration: THE KIDLET AUTHOR AFTER HE BECAME A COWBOY.]
CHAPTER I
THE ANARCHIST RIOT IN CHICAGO--MY FIRST WORK FOR THE DICKENSON
AGENCY--IN JAIL FOR SLUGGING A SLUGGER.
The writer was born in Matagorda county, Texas, in the extreme southern
part of the State, in 1855, and was reared on the upper deck of all
kinds and conditions of cow-ponies scattered throughout the Lone Star
State, Kansas, Indian Territory and New Mexico. I spent fifteen years
continuously in the saddle, seldom ever sleeping in a house or a tent.
In these early days of the cattle business when the southern half of
Texas was overrun with wild, long-horned cattle, the cowboys used the
ground for a bed and the sky for covering.
I first started out as a full-fledged cowboy in 1867 when only eleven
years of age. Of course, I naturally became an expert at riding “bad”
horses and roping wild cattle. Besides, this strenuous, open-air life
gave me health and a longing to see the world and to learn the ins and
outs of human nature.
The chance came when the spring of 1886 found me in Chicago with a
pretty young wife and a sweet little girl baby on my hands. We were
boarding and rooming with a private family on Harrison avenue on the
night of the Haymarket riot, when an anarchist’s bomb killed and maimed
over sixty of the city’s police officers. We went to bed expecting
a riot before morning, so we were not surprised when we heard the
explosion of the bomb, and, soon after, the shooting which followed. A
young lawyer, Reynolds by name, ran to our room to tell me to get ready
and go with him to the riot, but my frightened girl-wife held on to me
and wouldn’t let me go, though I sent a representative in the shape of
my silver-plated, pearl-handled “Colt’s 45” pistol, which had been my
companion on the cattle range and which still keeps me company as I
write. Reynolds had borrowed my pistol and as he ran around a corner
at the Haymarket with the “gun” in his hands, policemen opened fire on
him, thinking that he was an anarchist. He dodged into a door, went
up a flight of stairs and out an alley gate and flew for home like a
scared wolf. With face as white as snow he handed me the pistol while
I still lay in bed, saying that he had enough of the riot business, as
several bullets had whizzed close to his head.
After the riot the city was all excitement, and I commenced to wish
that I were a detective so as to help ferret out the thrower of the
bomb and his backers. I knew very little about the detective business,
though I had spent part of 1881 and 1882 doing secret work for Texas
cattlemen against cattle thieves in western Texas and New Mexico. This
had given me a taste for the work, and I liked it. Besides, I had been
told by a blind phrenologist that I was “cut out” for a detective. At
that time I didn’t believe in phrenology, but this man being as blind
as a bat and telling so many truths about people I knew, convinced me
that there was something besides wind and graft in phrenology. Had
this man not been blind, I would have attributed his knowledge to his
ability to read faces.
It was in the year 1884. I lived in Caldwell, Kansas, a cattle town
on the border of Kansas and the Indian Territory. Circulars were
scattered broadcast over the town announcing the coming of this noted
phrenologist. After supper, on the evening of his arrival, many leading
citizens turned out to hear him lecture at the Leland Hotel. He stood
in the center of a large parlor, holding to the back of an empty chair.
He was a fine-looking old man, regardless of the fact that both eyes
were out. After making a few preliminary remarks on phrenology, he
called for some one to come forward and have his head examined. The
audience began calling for our popular city marshal, Henry Brown, who
had only been marshal a short time, but who had won glory and a new
gold star by killing several men, including an Indian chief, “Spotted
Horse,” who had taken on more “firewater” than he could carry. Brown
hesitated quite awhile about having his head “felt.” He knew better
than any one else in the audience as to what was in his head and he
didn’t want to risk having his faults told. He finally went out and
sat down in the chair. But it was soon made plain by the color of his
face that he regretted going. He stuck it out though, and heard some
very uncomplimentary remarks said against himself. I knew that the
phrenologist was telling the truth, because I had known Henry Brown
when he was a member of the notorious “Billy the Kid’s” outlaw gang
in the Panhandle of Texas, and the Territory of New Mexico. I first
became acquainted with him through introduction by “Billy the Kid” in
the fall of 1878. I had just returned to the Panhandle from Chicago,
where I had been with a shipment of fat steers, and had found “Billy
the Kid” and his gang camped at the L X ranch where I was employed as
one of the cowboy foremen. I presented “Billy the Kid” with a fine
meerschaum cigar holder, which I had bought in Chicago, and he in turn
presented me with a book containing his autograph. He also introduced
me to several of his men, one of them being Henry Brown. During that
winter Brown and a half-breed Indian quit “the Kid’s” outlaw gang and
went to the Indian Territory, and I lost track of him until I met him
wearing an officer’s star in Caldwell, Kansas. He begged me to not give
him away as he intended to reform and lead an honorable life. But I
regretted afterwards that I didn’t tell the citizens of Caldwell of his
past record. For, while acting as city marshal of Caldwell, and while
wearing his star, he rode into Medicine Lodge, a nearby town, with
his chief deputy, Ben Wheeler, and two cowboys, and in broad daylight
held up the Medicine Lodge Bank and killed the bank president, Wiley
Pain, and his cashier. After a lively chase by the citizens of Medicine
Lodge the four robbers were caught and jailed. That night when the mob
opened the jail door to hang them, Brown and Wheeler made a break for
liberty, knocking men down as they ran. Brown was killed with a charge
of buckshot and Wheeler and the two cowboys were hung to a nearby tree.
[Illustration: HENRY BROWN. BEN WHEELER.]
After the blind phrenologist had finished Brown’s head, he called for
another subject. This time the crowd began calling for Mr. Theodore
Baufman, the Oklahoma scout. “Bauf” needed very little coaxing. He
strutted out, carrying his two hundred and fifty pounds of flesh with
the air of a king. The phrenologist ran his hand over “Bauf’s” head
just once, and then said: “Ladies and gentlemen, here is a man who,
if the Indians were on the warpath and he should run across one lone
Indian on the plains, he would tell his friends that he had seen a
thousand warriors.” This caused such yelling and laughter that Baufman
was angry for weeks; but I, for one, knew that the phrenologist had
told the truth, as I had worked with “Bauf” on the range as early as
1878 and therefore knew that his worst failings were a fear of hard
work and the stretching of the truth.
Next the audience began calling for “Mamie,” my sixteen-year-old wife.
She took the seat and the blind man ran his hand over her head once. He
then said: “Here is a good-natured little somebody who cannot tell a
lie or do a wrong.” The balance he told was what we all knew to be true.
Next the crowd called for me. I went forward and sat down in the chair.
The blind man laid his hand on the top of my head and then said:
“Ladies and gentlemen, here is a mule’s head.” When the laughter had
subsided he explained that I had a large stubborn bump, hence was as
stubborn as a mule. He then said I had a fine head for a newspaper
editor, a fine stock raiser, or detective; that in any of these
callings I would make a success. So, during the excitement following
the anarchist riot in Chicago, this old man’s words began to bear
fruit and I concluded to try my hand as a detective.
But the question arose as to the best way to start in the business, my
main object being to see the world and learn human nature. I wisely
concluded to start right by entering the greatest detective school on
earth--the Dickenson National Detective Agency. My steps were light and
my hopes buoyant when on the 29th day of June, 1886, I stepped into S.
A. Kean & Co.’s Bank and asked the cashier, Mr. Yure, for a letter of
introduction to Mr. Wm. L. Dickenson. I was slightly acquainted with
this cashier, as I had done business with his bank. He replied that he
would speak to Mr. Kean. He soon returned and wrote me the letter. It
read as follows:
“CHICAGO, ILL., June 29th, 1886.
_Dickenson Detective Agency_,
City.
Gentlemen:--The bearer, Mr. Chas. A. Siringo, we know to be a person
of good character, and having been a cowboy and brought up on the
plains, his services and ability are commendable to you.
S. A. KEAN & CO., Bankers.”
Armed with this letter of introduction I bolted into the Dickenson
Agency. I found the air in the main office impregnated with mystery
and suspicion. A dozen pairs of eyes were focused on me as though
I were an anarchist with a bomb up my sleeve. I asked to see Mr.
“Billy” Dickenson. I had often heard him called “Billy,” and my lack
of business knowledge prevented me from using his proper name. The
attendant informed me that he couldn’t be seen, but that any word or
letter which I might have could be conveyed to him. I then wrote a note
addressed to Mr. “Billy” Dickenson, stating my business, and enclosed
it with the banker’s letter of introduction. The young man disappeared
with these letters. In about twenty minutes he returned with the S. A.
Kean letter, on the bottom of which was written in Mr. Dickenson’s own
handwriting:
“Capt. Farley:--The party referred to in this letter is undoubtedly a
good man.--Wm. L. Dickenson.”
I was told to go down stairs and present the Kean & Co. letter to Capt.
Farley. I did so. He read it, then handed it back to me, and I still
retain it as a relic of bygone days.
After being put through a test by Capt. Mike Farley, I was allowed to
see the “big chief,” Wm. L. Dickenson. He asked for references and I
gave him the names of David T. Beals, president of the Union National
Bank of Kansas City, Mo.; Jas. H. East, a popular Texas sheriff, and
Pat Garrett, the slayer of “Billy the Kid.” In 1880 I had assisted
Garrett in running down that noted outlaw and his murderous gang; hence
I felt safe in giving this noted “bad” man-killer as reference.
Mr. Dickenson said he would write to these men at once, and if their
replies were favorable, he would give me a position in a new office
which they were opening in Denver, Colo. He said they would need a
cowboy detective there, as they figured on getting a lot of cattle
work. I had told Mr. Dickenson that the east was too tame for me, hence
I wanted a position in the west.
After the interview I went home to wait a week or two for replies from
my references, and while waiting, I broke into jail for the first time
in my life.
It was Saturday evening after dark. The mix-up took place at Barnum’s
circus near the ticket wagon, when the great crowd was scrambling to
buy tickets to the circus. A large man, who would have made two of me,
tried to be fresh and I called him down. He made a pass to put me to
sleep the first punch but before he could get in his work the weight
of my old Colt’s 45 pistol had landed on his head. This was followed
up with one more lick which buried the sharp pistol-sight into his
skull. This brought the blood in a stream. By this time his partner
had picked up a piece of board and had it raised to strike me from the
rear. I saw him just in time. He found a cocked pistol in his face, and
dropping the board, begged for mercy. Both of these men had wives with
them and they were crying and screaming. No doubt they thought their
“hubbies” had innocently stirred up a hornet’s nest. A policeman came
running up, but he was so excited that he forgot to take my pistol,
so I put it back into my pocket. This good-looking young policeman
informed me that I was under arrest. I told him that I wouldn’t be
arrested unless he also arrested the other two men. He then told them
to consider themselves under arrest. The wounded man, whose face and
neck and white shirt front were red with blood, begged not to be put in
a patrol wagon. Therefore, as it was only a few blocks to the Harrison
street police station, the officer consented to let us walk. The other
two prisoners and their nicely dressed wives took the lead, while the
officer and I brought up the rear. We had only gone a block when the
wounded man balked. He wouldn’t budge until I surrendered my arsenal to
the policeman. He had suddenly remembered that I still had the pistol.
On reaching the Harrison street station we stepped up to a desk behind
which sat a very old, fat man. My pistol was laid on his desk and the
policeman told him I had used it on the red man. The old fellow eyed
me, then the pistol, then the man covered with blood and his nice
broadcloth suit ruined. He asked me if I had used this pistol on the
man. I replied “Yes.” Then he said, “I’ll fix you, young man. I’ll make
the charge assault with intent to murder.” He then began writing it
down in his book. The tiger blood in me began to boil. I finally turned
myself loose and called the old bald-headed “judge” some hard names.
The policeman tried to stop me but failed. Then he leaned over the
desk and whispered something to the “judge” who changed the charge to
“assault with a deadly weapon.” This satisfied me and I sat down.
Then the “judge” told the officer to call the patrol wagon and have me
taken to jail. While awaiting the patrol wagon, I secured the consent
of the kind-hearted policeman to deliver a message for me. I told him
to go to Umbdenstock’s Lithographing and Printing office and tell them
I was in jail. I was well known there and hoped that some one would be
in the office, as it was Saturday night. Shortly after, I had a nice
free buggy ride in the “hurry-up” wagon and was put behind steel bars.
For an hour I paced up and down before the heavy bars like a caged
lion. It seemed as though I was doomed to remain in jail until Monday
morning without my wife knowing of it. That worried me the worst.
About 9 o’clock Mr. Mike Shea, a wood engraver, came to the jail and
heard my tale of woe. He explained that he was the only person left
in the Umbdenstock office when the policeman arrived with my message.
Shea told me to rest easy and he would have me out soon. He then left
to see the judge who ruled over that district. Soon after, Mr. Shea and
a lithographer friend of mine drove up in a buggy. They said they would
have to drive sixteen miles to the judge’s residence out on the edge
of the city. The lithographer, whose name I have forgot, was a leading
Elk and a particular friend of the judge of the Harrison street police
station, so for this reason Mr. Shea was taking him along to “work” the
judge, whose name I cannot recall. At 2 o’clock Sunday morning my good
friends returned with the bond signed by the judge and I was liberated.
It was 4 A.M. when I reached home.
Monday morning I was in the court room which was crowded with people.
I had no lawyer or witnesses, but was trusting to luck, though the
attorney who had used my pistol at the Haymarket riot was present,
ready to offer assistance. When my case was called the two men and
their wives were put on the stand and they all swore lies against me.
I was then called up and told my story. When I had finished the judge
asked me if I had any witnesses. I replied “No.” Here a nicely dressed
old Scotchman rose up in the crowd and said: “Your Honor, I am a
witness for that young man.” This was a great surprise to me and showed
that luck was on my side. The old gentleman was put on the stand and
corroborated my statement. He said he was taking a shipment of draft
horses back to his home in Scotland; that he was trying to get up to
the circus wagon to buy a ticket to the show, when the fracas began,
and thinking that I might need help, he had come up to the court room
this morning. I thanked the old fellow later at his hotel, but I regret
that his name has slipped my memory.
As soon as the Scotchman left the stand the judge dismissed the case.
With a smile he said to me: “Here, young man, take your pistol and go
home.” Thanking him, I started out with the pistol and cartridges in my
hand. I looked at the prosecuting witnesses with a happy smile. They
looked daggers at me in return. I afterwards learned that these people
owned a restaurant on South Clark street, and that the sore-headed one
had a reputation as a slugger and prize fighter.
If Mr. Dickenson ever learned of my breaking into jail while waiting
to be put onto the secret force of his agency, he kept it to himself.
The secret might have prevented my securing the position, and again,
it might have helped me, as I have since found out that the agency
officials admire a fighter when it is known that he is in the right,
though, of course, they want their men to use their brains to control
their trigger finger.
My first work was on the great anarchist Haymarket riot case, and I
remained on it to the end of the trial, when the ringleaders were
convicted.
Parsons, Engel, Fischer and Spies were hung. Ling blew his head off
in jail with a bomb, and Schwab, Fielding and Neebe were sent to the
penitentiary for a long term of years.
I heard most of the evidence, but I couldn’t see the justice of
sending Neebe to the pen. All that he did was to set the type in the
“revenge” circular which was circulated, calling a mass-meeting on
Haymarket Square to revenge the killing of strikers in a late riot
in the McCormick factory. The evidence was in Neebe’s favor, except
that he was running with a bad crowd, and did his loafing where the
beer schooners were the largest. They were all tried in a bunch for
the killing of Degan, one of the policemen killed outright by the
bomb which was thrown from an alley by an anarchist, supposed to be
Shnoebelt. A witness or two swore that they recognized Shnoebelt when
his companion lit the match to light the fuse; that then Shnoebelt
threw the bomb into the squad of policemen, whose commander, Bonfield,
had just ordered the mob to disperse. Albert Parsons was standing in a
wagon making a speech at the time. The next day Shnoebelt was arrested
for the throwing of the bomb, though a couple of days later it was
claimed that he was liberated for want of evidence to hold him. Still
later, they claimed to have positive evidence of his guilt, but too
late, as he had skipped for Germany. My own opinion is that Shnoebelt
was murdered in jail by angry policemen, and his body put out of the
way. At least, I received hints to that effect from men who were on the
inside.
A million dollars had been subscribed by the Citizens’ League to stamp
out anarchy in Chicago, and no doubt much of it was used to corrupt
justice. Still, the hanging of these anarchists had a good effect
and was worth a million dollars to society. Now, if the law-abiding
people of the whole United States would contribute one hundred times
one million dollars to stamp out anarchy and dynamiting, the coming
generation would be saved much suffering and bloodshed, for we are
surely playing with fire when we receive with open arms anarchists from
foreign countries and pat them on the back for blowing up Russian and
English Royalty. These chickens will come home to roost in our back
yard some day.
I had talked with Policeman Degan, a fine officer, before his death, as
his beat was near where we lived, and knowing the man, I couldn’t much
blame his brother officers for losing their heads and wanting to wreak
vengeance on all who upheld anarchy.
After the anarchist case was finished, I did all kinds of small jobs,
such as “shadowing” bank clerks and officials, down to looking up a
lost jewel or child. During this time I had to study the rules and
regulations of the Dickenson Agency, which were in book form.
The next important case that I was put on was against the Irish
National League, for the English government. About half a dozen of
us “sleuths” were put on the case under the direct supervision of
assistant superintendent John O’Flyn. This being such an important
operation, Supt. Jamieson, a kind-hearted old man, called us all into
his office and explained the importance of doing our best and not
getting together when working around the Irish League headquarters.
I was on this case over a month, and learned many new lessons.
Operative Jakey Teufel and I went to Cincinnati, Ohio, with two Irish
would-be destroyers of the English crown.
During the next couple of months I had many operations in the city of
Chicago. They were of every class, some lasting for weeks, and others
only for a few minutes or hours. A good share of the time was spent in
the slums, or what should be called “Hell’s Half Acre.” Here I learned
some valuable lessons in human nature and saw many eye-openers.
I had one operation which was a picnic. It was easy, “all same” getting
money from your wife’s relatives.
I was put to work “shadowing” a long-legged, redheaded banker. He had
to be in the bank most of the day, but at night he showed me a touch
of high life. He would go into tough places and drink wine with the
inmates. I had to do likewise so as to find out how much money his
Royal Nibs was blowing in. This was my first experience in having a
“good time” at some one else’s expense.
We were glad when fall came and Mr. W. L. Dickenson called me into his
private office to tell me to get ready and move to Denver, Colo., there
to join the force of their new office which was opened for business a
few months previous.
Our friends in Chicago were bidden farewell, and Mamie and little Viola
were put into a Pullman sleeper and we turned our faces back toward the
setting sun.
My work was of all kinds during this first winter in Denver. I had
quite a lot of investigating to do, as well as helping to run down
city crooks and law breakers in general. I helped break up a gang of
crooked street car conductors who had duplicate punches to ring in on
the company and thereby make from ten to twenty dollars a day each for
himself. Horses were the motive power then.