TO WHITE RIVER AS AN OUTLAW--THE UTE INDIAN WAR--RIDING AND ROPING
UNDER NAME OF “DULL KNIFE” AT A DENVER COWBOY TOURNAMENT--OFF FOR
WYOMING AS AN OUTLAW.
A rest of a few days in Denver, and Supt. A---- instructed me to get
ready for a trip among the Ute Indians who were then reported to be on
the warpath.
It was the fall of 1887. The work was to be done for a wealthy widow
by the name of Mrs. Tice. She and a Mr. C---- owned a small cattle
ranch in western Colorado. She suspicioned that she was being robbed by
their foreman and her partner. So, for there I started out in my cowboy
rigging.
In Rifle, on Grande River, I left the Denver & Rio Grande train and on
the upper deck of a civilized pony I started north over the mountains
for Meeker, on White River. A moderate ride of a day and a half brought
me to the town made famous by the “Meeker Massacre.” On my arrival in
Meeker the excitement of a late Indian war had subsided. A week or ten
days previous, a battle had been fought on the head of White River,
a day’s ride from Meeker, and on leaving Denver I was instructed to
investigate this battle for an official of the U. S. Government, after
finishing the cattle operation.
From Meeker, a day’s ride down the river brought me to the cattle ranch
owned by Mrs. Tice and C. With the foreman and cowboys I played myself
off as an outlaw Texan, and by being an expert with a lasso I soon won
their friendship.
In the course of two weeks I had secured sufficient evidence to show
that our friend, Mrs. Tice, was being robbed.
I then returned to Meeker and from there went to the head of White
River to investigate the killing of some Ute Indians by the sheriff and
a crowd of ranchmen.
Before leaving Meeker I wrote a letter to Mr. Geo. L. Golding, of
Denver, asking that my name be put on the list of wild-horse riders
and steer ropers, in the grand Cowboy Tournament soon to take place.
I signed myself “Dull Knife,” with Meeker as my home, so that no one
would know me.
The name “Dull Knife” was selected on account of it once having been my
nickname on the cattle ranges of Texas. It was given to me by cowboy
companions who were in the habit of borrowing my pearl-handled bowie
knife, and always finding it dull, from having killed so many rattle
snakes. Through years of practice I had become an expert in throwing
the knife from my horse’s back. By holding the point between my thumb
and forefinger I would throw it at the snake’s neck and seldom failed
to pin his snakeship to the earth by burying the blade through his neck
or head into the ground. Often the blade would sever the snake’s head
from his body. Of course the knife was kept dull from being stuck into
the earth so often.
On the head of White River I visited the few ranchmen and hunters and
was shown the battle ground where the Ute Indians were murdered by
the bloodthirsty Whites. From what I could learn from eyewitnesses,
it was cold-blooded murder. The fight was started by the long-legged,
wild and woolly sheriff of Garfield County, who soon after absconded
with the county’s funds. The excitement of the “Great Indian Uprising”
caused the militia to be called out, and made fat pocket-books for the
ranchers who had horses, hay and grain for sale. Besides, the sheriff
lined his pockets with free silver at the county’s expense.
This was my first peep behind the curtain of a great Indian war, as
illustrated by glaring headlines in the daily press. We wondered who
are the real savages, the Whites or the Reds.
On leaving the head of White River for Denver, I concluded to take
a short cut across the Flattop mountains, a distance of sixty miles
between ranches.
The start was made from the cabin of a hunter at the head of White
River. From him I had bought an extraordinary fine pair of elk horns.
These I undertook to carry on my pony by holding them up in front of
me with the skull resting on the saddle-horn. In traveling that lonely
sixty mile stretch over the old Ute Indian trail, I had plenty of
leisure to ponder over that wise saying: “What fools these mortals be.”
Crossing the “Flattops” I saw more deer than I ever expect to see
again. There were hundreds of them in sight at all times and they were
very tame. Often they would stand by the side of the trail and allow
me to pass within fifty paces of them. I saw one herd of elk, but they
ran into the heavy timber near by before I could get out my Winchester
rifle and shoot. I would have followed on their trail, as I had never
killed an elk, if it hadn’t been for the pair of elk horns. I pitched
camp about sundown and killed a fat buck for supper. I had brought with
me some salt and cold biscuits. The venison was broiled on a stick over
the fire.
By daylight next morning the horns and I headed south. We got off on
the wrong trail and were lost part of the day, but by hard swearing
and a little patience we managed to get down over the rim-rock of the
“Flattops” into the Grand Valley about half way between Newcastle and
Glenwood Springs. On the road in the valley a boy leading a bronco
overtook us. The boy was persuaded to allow me to make a pack horse
out of his bronco, so Mr. “bronc” was blindfolded and the horns put
astride of his back. When securely fastened with a rope the blind was
raised and Hades broke loose. The bronco began bucking and running and
the rope which was fastened to the horn of my saddle broke. Then the
horns had a swift ride for quite a distance, but as the run was made
towards Glenwood Springs no time was lost. The boy and I caught the
bronco after he had become exhausted. Then the horns were strapped onto
my civilized pony and I rode the uncivilized brute. It was long after
dark when we landed in Glenwood Springs. Next day the horns were crated
and expressed to Denver, and after selling my pony and saddle I took
passage on the same train with the antlers.
On my arrival in Denver I secured permission from my superintendent to
enter the Cowboy Tournament at River Side Park. It was to take place in
a couple of days and I had no time to lose.
After making a search of all the livery stables in the city I finally
found a small white cow-pony which I thought would answer my purpose.
He was quick and active, but too light in weight for such work. I also
secured an old Texas saddle, as I couldn’t get used to the high horn
kind in use by northern cowboys. This old Texas saddle was the cause of
my losing the steer roping prize, as the horn flew off when the weight
of the steer and pony went against it. I feel confident that I would
have won the prize, as the best time made was many seconds slower than
the time made by me at a Caldwell, Kansas, fair several years previous,
at which time I won a silver cup; and in the Kansas contest I lost
valuable time by having to throw the steer twice.
In the wild-horse riding contest luck was also against me. After
throwing the big bay bronco in quick time, I sprang off the white pony
onto the bronco’s head. Then to prevent him from choking to death,
I cut the rope, knowing that he was in my power with both my knees
on his neck and a good hand hold on his nose. But when I reached for
the hackamore (a cowboy halter) and the leather blind which had been
carried under my pistol belt, I found they were gone. They had slipped
out from under the belt when I leaped out of the saddle. I saw them
lying on the ground just out of my reach. According to the rules, no
one could hand them to me, therefore I could do nothing but free the
bronco and lose my chance at the prize. In reporting the matter the
newspaper reporters had failed to comprehend my situation: They were
green and didn’t know why I held the struggling bronco by the nose
for several minutes before turning him loose. Of course my cowboy
opponents realized the cause of my predicament and cheered with joy, as
it made their chances of winning more secure. I had been told that they
feared the “dark horse,” “Dull Knife,” from Meeker, and had made much
inquiry as to my identity.
This is what two of the leading daily papers of the City--The Rocky
Mountain News and the Republican--had to say about “Dull Knife” the
next morning. One paper stated:
“None knew who the next man was who rode out on a white pony. They
called him Dull Knife, and he was from Meeker. That was all the
information obtainable. But Dull Knife was a daisy. With new white
sombrero, Mexican saddle, leather-fringed chaparejos, flaming red
’kerchief, belt and pearl-handled revolver and knife, he was all
that the eastern imagination of the typical cowboy could picture. As
a bronco breaker, however, he wasn’t a brilliant success. A bay was
pointed out to him and away they flew. It didn’t take that cunning bay
bronco more than a minute to find out that he was wanted. With all the
natural cussedness of his breed it didn’t take him more than a second
to determine that he would fool somebody. Dashing here and there, with
flashing eyes and streaming main and tail, the animal was a pretty
picture. The white pony was too cunning for him though, and soon put
his rider in a position where the rope could be thrown and the arched
neck caught in the running loop. The captive was thrown by twining the
rope around his limbs and then Dull Knife made a skillful move. He cut
the rope loose and held the struggling animal by the nose. But while
he was subduing the horse, the man had gotten too far away from his
saddle and couldn’t get back to it. The judges at length called time
and the pretty bay was free.”
The other paper gave this account:
“When Dull Knife rode in armed with pearl-handled pistol and knife,
a gold embroidered Mexican sombrero on his head and mounted on
a beautiful, quick-reined, white pony, he was such a perfect and
graceful type of a Texas cowboy that the audience gave one spontaneous
Ah-h-h! of admiration. The little white was a daisy and ran up on
Dull Knife’s bronco easy. Dull Knife was the only man this day to
rope and throw his bronco on horseback. But the rope had fouled in
the bronco’s mane, and it was choking to death, so Dull Knife cut the
rope, mercifully, freed the bronco and lost his time to ride. Dull
Knife assayed roping and tying, but luck was against him. The horn
of his light Texas saddle broke off close to the fork. Regaining his
rope he tied it in the forks of his saddle and tried it again, but
his beautiful little cut horse was too light and tried to hold the
big burly steer which dragged it all over the corral, so Dull Knife,
chafing with chagrin, had to give in to hard luck and call it a draw.
“Dull Knife and E. A. Shaeffer next stretched a steer in quick time.”
Several days after the tournament George Golding and Mr. B. G. Webster,
while riding in a buggy, happened to see me on the street. Hailing me
as “Dull Knife” they called me to them. They said they had been trying
to find me but no one knew who “Dull Knife” was or where a letter would
reach him. I was then informed that the judges had voted me $15.00 for
skillful cowboy performance and that a check for that amount awaited
me at headquarters. Of course I went after the check and still retain
it as a relic, as it states that it was presented to “Dull Knife” for
skillful cowboy work.
For many years afterwards, and even up to the present time, I meet
men who call me “Dull Knife,” from having seen me at this Cowboy
Tournament. It was several years after, before Geo. Golding--who is
still proprietor of the City Sale Yards and Stables, and has since
served as Denver’s Chief of Police--learned of my identity.
In the course of a week or two Mrs. Tice brought suit in a Denver
Court to annul her partnership with Mr. C---- or for damages, I have
forgotten which. I was the star witness, and on the strength of my
testimony as to the way cattle were being stolen, Mrs. Tice won.
The foreman and one of his cowboys who were present in court, were
surprised on finding that I was a detective instead of an outlaw.
A few days after ending Mrs. Tice’s case I was off for Wyoming as a
cowboy outlaw.
Kalter Skoll, the Cheyenne, Wyoming, attorney, who has lately won fame
through the conviction and execution of Tim Corn, the stock detective,
had written my superintendent to send him a cowboy detective who could
make friends with a gang of tough characters on the Laramie River.
Before starting, my superintendent informed me that I was going up
against a hard proposition, as Gen. Dave Cook, head of the Rocky
Mountain Detective Agency, had sent three of his men up into Wyoming to
get in with this gang, but had failed, they being on the lookout for
detectives, hence wouldn’t allow strangers to enter their camp.
On my arrival in Cheyenne I called on District Attorney Skoll. He
explained the case on which I was to work. He told how Bill McCoy had
shot and killed Deputy Sheriff Gunn in Lusk, Wyoming, and of McCoy
being sentenced to hang for the crime, but that he broke jail in
Cheyenne just before he was to be executed, and was trailed up to the
Keeline ranch, which was run by Tom Hall, a Texas outlaw and his gang
of cowboys, who were supposed to be ex-convicts from Texas. He felt
sure that McCoy was in hiding at the Keeline ranch, but he said it
would be a difficult matter to get in with them as they were on their
guard against officers and detectives.
I boarded the Cheyenne northern train and went north to its then
terminus. There I bought a horse and saddle and struck out, ostensibly
for Fort Douglas, about 100 miles north.
The second day out I stopped for dinner at “Round Up No. 5 Saloon.”
This place was run by Howard, an ex-policeman and saloon keeper from
Cheyenne. His wife was an ex-prize fighter and dance hall “girl” during
the palmy days of the Black Hill excitement in Cheyenne. She was now
getting old, but could still hide large quantities of liquor under her
belt. After dinner I proceeded to get drunk so as to kill time. Mr. and
Mrs. Howard drank with me. In telling of my past I told just enough to
lead them to believe that I was a Texas outlaw headed for the north.
About 4 P.M. I saddled my horse and made a start for Fort Douglas, but
on shaking hands with Mr. and Mrs. Howard, they being the only people
beside myself present, and bidding them goodby, they persuaded me to
have one more drink at their expense. Then, of course, I had to treat
before making another start. This program was kept up for half an hour.
I had never mentioned the Keeline ranch, which I knew lay over a small
range of mountains five miles east. As winter had set in, there was
very little travel on this Fort Douglas road, and the cowboys had
all gone into winter quarters. Howard depended on the summer cattle
round-ups for his business. He said he and his wife merely existed
during the winter seasons. His saloon was located at No. 5 round-up
grounds.
Finally, I mounted and made another start, pretending to be drunker
than I really was. As I rode off, Howard wished me well. Checking up my
horse I remarked that I would be all right if I could run across some
Texas boys up at Douglas. Then I asked if he knew of any Texas boys in
that part of the country. He replied: “There are several Texas fellers
not far from here, but they are in trouble and won’t let strangers into
their camp.” At this I wheeled my horse around and rode back. I asked
where they could be found. He replied: “No use going there, for they
would run you off and perhaps kill you. The officers have been trying
to get detectives in with them. They swear they will kill the next ----
that looks suspicious.”
I answered: “If they are from Texas I’m not afraid of them. Just tell
me where they are and I’ll take chances on the killing part.”
He pointed out a bridle path around a high peak and said I would
find their camp on the other side of this on the edge of a clump of
cottonwood timber. We then went into the saloon and had two more drinks
and I bought a quart of his best whiskey, which was the same as his
worst, though labeled differently.
I explained that the boys could drink with me and then run me off if
they wanted to; but Howard plead with me not to go.
On mounting I buried the spurs into my horse’s flanks and gave a cowboy
yell and away we flew through the heavy grove of cottonwood timber.
There was no trail, and my horse had to jump fallen logs and trees and
I dodged projecting limbs. I wanted to prove to Howard that I was a
reckless cowboy who had no fear of danger. Looking back I saw Howard
and his wife watching me. The saloon was finally lost to view and then
I rode slowly and began to lay plans, though it was quite an effort as
the whiskey had gone to my head.
Howard had told me that there were fourteen men at the Keeline ranch,
but he wouldn’t tell me what kind of trouble they were in.
On reaching the foot of the high peak I struck the bridle trail which
had been pointed out. This I followed over the range. When on the
opposite side, my horse was made to gallop in the most dangerous
places, for I figured that my horses’ tracks would be examined. In a
rocky place where the trail went around a point and where a horse on a
gallop could hardly keep his feet, I stopped. Here I knew the horse’s
tracks couldn’t be seen. At this point I got above the horse and gave
him a shove over the rocky bluff. He landed on his side in the soft
sand in the dry arroyo, twenty feet below. The fall knocked the wind
out of him, but he soon recovered and jumped to his feet. I held one
end of the rope so that he couldn’t get away. The impression of the
horse and saddle showed plainly in the sand. Climbing down on the rocks
I fell on my left side, leaving the impression of my body in the sand
where it would have been had I fallen with the horse. I then jumped
up, and dragging my crippled left leg through the sand, led the horse
to a place where we could get back to the trail. Here I pulled off my
left boot and ripped the seam of my pants’ leg nearly to the knee. Then
I rolled the knit woolen drawer’s leg up above the knee. This made a
tight roll which checked the flow of blood, causing the knee to become
red. It also had a tendency to shove the flesh downward and make the
knee look swollen. I then rubbed the knee with dry grass and poured
some of Howard’s “rattlesnake juice” on. After tying the left boot
to the saddle I mounted and headed for the large grove of cottonwood
timber on the bank of the Laramie River.
Just after the sun had set I came in sight of a group of log houses on
the edge of the grove. Not a breath of air was stirring and a column
of smoke from a chimney pierced the lead-colored clouds above. I was
riding slowly across an open flat. Soon I saw a man come out of the
large log house. Then others followed until there were about a dozen
lined up against the yard fence. I wondered what kind of a game I was
running up against and where it would end. It was a case of forward
march, with me, even though it led to death “all same,” a fool soldier
who marches up to the cannon mouth to have his head shot off so that
posterity can weep and plant flowers on his grave.
As I drew near my body reeled as though drunk. My left leg was kept
stiff and out of the stirrup. When within sixty paces of the yard gate
where all the men stood, a fine-looking six-footer, who proved to be
the boss, Tom Hall, asked: “What in the h---- are you doing here?” I
replied that my leg was broken and I needed some help. Hall sprang out
of the gate and running up to me asked in a soft, sympathetic voice,
how it happened. There was a wonderful change in his looks as well as
voice, when he found I was crippled.
Soon the whole gang, all heavily armed, were around me and I was taken
off the horse and carried into the house where I was seated before a
blazing log fire in the large fireplace. Then Hall got down on his
knees before me to examine the wound. I took pains to roll up the
pants’ leg which was only ripped part way to the knee, so as to hide
the roll of knit drawers, this being the secret of my swollen knee. I
had previously been shot with a large caliber bullet through this knee,
and there was a large scar where the bullet entered, and another on the
opposite side where it was cut out by the doctor. This helped to brand
me as an outlaw in their minds.
After pressing the swollen flesh with his hand, Hall asked me to move
my toes. I did so, as I didn’t want the leg to appear broken for fear
they might haul me off to a doctor. On moving my toes he said my leg
was not broken. I asked how he could tell by the moving of the toes,
and he explained. Then he asked me to bend my knee and also to twist it
around, but this I couldn’t do on account of the pain. He decided that
my leg was badly sprained or out of joint. He ordered hot water and a
towel brought and my knee was bathed and the hot towel bound around it.
Then he demanded an explanation as to how I came to leave the Douglas
road to visit them. I explained matters fully, and told the place where
my horse fell over the bluff. He asked why I left Texas to come up to
such a cold country so late in the season. With a smile I told him
that the people of Texas tried to get me to stay, and even followed me
to Red River on the Indian Territory border; in hopes of overtaking
me so as to compel me to stay. This caused a laugh, as it meant that
officers of the law had chased me to the State line.
Here I looked over towards a sullen, dark-complexioned young man whom
I had recognized as Jim McChesney, a boy raised in Southern Texas, and
I asked him what he had done with his old sweetheart Matilda Labaugh.
He was surprised and asked who in the h---- I was, that I should know
he courted Matilda Labaugh over twenty years previous. I wouldn’t tell
him, but did say that he could call me Charlie Henderson. He then asked
if I knew his name. I told him, yes, that it ought to be Jim McChesney.
This was another surprise, and he wanted to know when I left the part
of Texas where Matilda had lived. I told him that I pulled out one
night in 1872 when a boy, but that I had slipped back to see my friends
many times since then. His face brightened, and walking up to me he
shook my hand, saying: “I know you.” Then he whispered in my ear and
asked if I wasn’t one of the Pumphry boys. I told him that my name was
Henderson now. I had chosen the year 1872, for at that time two of the
Pumphry boys, mere children, had committed murder and left the country.
McChesney felt sure that I was one of these boys, and that suited me.
Finally, all left the room to hold a consultation. Two men were
dispatched with a lantern to examine the place where I said my horse
had fallen over the bluff, and to ride to Howard’s saloon to find
out if I had told the truth. Another man was sent in haste to a small
ranch three miles down the river, after some linament. Supper was then
brought in and set before me. In the course of an hour and a half the
man returned with the linament and Hall applied it to the supposed
wound, and he bound up the knee so tight with bandages that it pained,
but the tight bandages did good in preventing me from thoughtlessly
bending my leg and thereby giving myself away.
About 10 o’clock the two “boys” returned from Howard’s. Then all went
outside and held a long consultation. Next day Jim McChesney told me
confidentially that Howard had confirmed the truthfulness of my story
and had told of the reckless manner in which I had run through the
woods. He said he was not surprised at hearing of my being hurt, that
he expected to see me killed before I got out of his sight.
Several days later McChesney told me of their long council of war,
after the two “boys” had returned from Howard’s. He said most of the
“boys,” especially the three escaped convicts from the penitentiary
in Huntsville, Texas, were afraid that I might be a detective and
insisted that I be taken out to a tree and hung up by the neck, just to
frighten me into a confession in case I was a detective; but said he
and Tom Hall argued against it as they felt confident that I was all
right. Hall argued that it would be a shame to take advantage of a poor
crippled man. He said if I was a detective that I couldn’t help from
showing it before many days and then I could be hung for “keeps.”
All the men slept on camp beds spread on the floor, except Hall. He had
a private room cut off from a corner of the kitchen, and in it he had a
single bedstead. This he kindly turned over to me and he slept with one
of the “boys” on the floor.
It was after 1 o’clock A.M. when I went to bed, as I pretended that my
leg was paining so that I could not sleep, any way. After being put to
bed by Hall I took off the bandages from my leg so that I could rest my
knee by bending it. I retired with my Colt’s 45 pistol in the shoulder
scabbard under my overshirt, and my bowie knife was swung to my waist
by a small belt under my drawers. Therefore no one had seen my gun and
knife. The cartridge belt containing my supply of ammunition was in my
“war-bag,” and this I put under my head. I slept very little during
the night. Before daylight next morning, I fastened the bandages back
on my leg so as to keep it stiff while hobbling about the house. After
breakfast, Hall and McChesney made me a pair of crutches.
A few of the “boys” seemed suspicious of me, especially Johnny
Franklin, a bowlegged Texan, who had escaped from the penitentiary in
that State, so McChesney told me.
During the day Hall played “foxy” and tried to find out more about me.
In speaking of Texas cowboys he asked if I ever knew Bill Gatlin. I
told him yes, that I had worked with him in the Panhandle country until
he got into trouble and had to skip and change his name again. I told
him that Bill Gatlin was a name he had adopted after coming to northern
Texas. These were facts, as I had known Gatlin well, but I never
dreamed that he was the Bill McCoy I was now trying to locate.
A few days later, after I had convinced Hall that I was all right and
was really acquainted with Gatlin and many of his Texas friends, he
confided in me and told me how Bill Gatlin, under the name of Bill
McCoy, had killed Deputy Sheriff Gunn, and was sentenced to hang, and
that he (Hall) and others paid a slick jail breaker from the East $500
to commit a petty crime in Cheyenne so as to be put in jail. The result
was that he sawed the bars and liberated McCoy and the other prisoners.
A horse was kept in hiding for McCoy and he came direct to the Keeline
ranch where they had kept him hid out in the hills until a few days
before my arrival, when he was mounted on Hall’s pet roan racehorse
and skipped for New Orleans, there to take a sailing vessel for Buenos
Ayres, South America. For a pack animal McCoy used a large-hoofed bay
horse that he had stolen from the sheriff’s posse who were searching
for him. Later, Hall and McChesney told many incidents of how they had
fooled the sheriff’s posse of 100 men who were scouring the hills for
McCoy.
A week later we all rode 40 miles to attend a dance at John Owens’
ranch, a mile above the “Hog ranch” (a tough saloon and sporting house)
at Fort Laramie. I was still walking on crutches, therefore couldn’t
dance. The crutches were tied to my saddle en route. Late at night
when the “boys” were pretty well loaded with liquor I rode to Fort
Laramie and secured a room at the hotel where my first reports were
written. About daylight my reports were mailed to Denver, and then I
rode back to the dance. The crowd had simmered down to just a few
ladies and many drunken cowboys who kept the air outside full of smoke
from their revolvers. My friends, McChesney and Franklin, were the
worst. I finally succeeded in getting my drunken friends into a room to
lay down, but McChesney raised such a racket breaking the windows and
furniture with his pistol, that we had to abandon sleep and start back
to the Keeline ranch. As I was sober, it fell to my lot to get them all
on their horses and headed for home.
Hall and the cook had not come with us.
A supply of whiskey was taken along, and my life was made miserable
keeping the men from fighting. To prevent McChesney from killing some
one, I slipped the cartridges out of his pistol without letting him
know it. Soon after this, McChesney and one of the “boys” got into a
fuss while riding along, and McChesney pulled his pistol and began
snapping it at the fellow, who pulled his loaded pistol and would have
killed McChesney if I hadn’t shoved my cocked revolver into his face
just in time. I made him ride on ahead while I kept McChesney behind
with me. We arrived at the Keeline ranch before night, and were a
hungry, sleepy crowd.
Our next excitement came a few days later, when Howard came running
over on horseback one evening to tell us that his wife was dying.
He had left her alone while he came after help. All of us, Hall and
the cook included, rode over to Howard’s and spent the night. What
happened would have made angels weep. Howard turned the saloon over to
us and the liquor was free. Whiskey was poured down the poor woman’s
throat up to the last breath. She died before midnight and then the
“Irish wake” began in dead earnest. Poor Howard, a large fine-looking,
middle-age man, cried as though his heart would break. Between drinks
he “harked back” to the time when he first met the corpse. Then he was
on the police force of Cheyenne, and she was a beautiful young woman
who made a living by boxing and singing on the saloon stages.
Until morning, whiskey and wine flowed like water, and my friend
McChesney was in clover. Cowboy songs, both nice and vulgar, were sung
over the corpse. Tom Hall was the champion singer of the crowd.
Next day the body was put in a rough box and lowered to its last
resting place amid the drinking of toasts and the singing of “There’s
a land that beats this all to h----l, etc.” One of the songs which was
sung at the burial amused me. It ran thus:
“Oh, see the train go ’round the bend,
Goodby, my lover, goodby;
She’s loaded down with Dickenson men,
Goodby, my lover, goodby.”
When we took our departure the Howard saloon looked like a cyclone had
struck it. The walls were shot full of holes and the liquors were gone.
Howard left for Cheyenne when he sobered up. Of course, I didn’t have
as much fun as the rest, owing to the fact that I had to use one crutch.
With Mrs. Howard under the sod “Calamity Jane” had the field to
herself. These two women were noted characters in that part of Wyoming.
Finally my crutch was discarded and we made another forty-mile ride to
a dance at Fort Laramie. This time I danced, and pretended to fall
in love with a young lady who lived at the terminus of the Cheyenne
Northern Railway. I wanted to make the excuse of riding over to the
railroad station to see this girl when my work was finished at the
Keeline ranch.
Reports were written, and much liquor destroyed, the same as on our
previous trip.
Soon after, Hall received a letter from Bill McCoy in New Orleans.
He was ready to sail for South America. Hall had given him a letter
of introduction to a dentist in Buenos Ayres, South America. This
answered the purpose of a passport into a tough gang of outlaws in the
cattle country 1200 miles from this seaport, Buenos Ayres. Hall showed
me letters from one of the gang there. His name was Moore and he was
a Texas murderer. He wrote that they were over 100 strong, and that
double their number of officers couldn’t come in there and arrest them.
Hall had been reared at Austin, Texas, and had to skip out and change
his name on account of a killing. He also told me of his ups and downs
in New Mexico when he was a chum to the noted outlaw, Joe Fowler, who
was hung by a mob at Socorro, New Mexico. He told how Fowler, after
killing one of his own cowboys in Socorro, had placed the $50,000
received for his cattle and ranch to the credit of his sweetheart,
Belle, and that on the day when the mob was collecting to hang Fowler
that night, Belle drew $10,000 out of the bank and turned it over to
him (Hall) so that he could bribe the jailer and liberate Fowler. Hall
said he had the jailer “fixed” but when the time for liberating Fowler
came, the mob was collecting and the jailer backed out for fear they
would hang him, if Fowler was gone. Then Hall said he hit the “high
places” and came North. I didn’t ask if he brought the $10,000 with
him, but took it for granted that he did.
It happened that I was already familiar with Joe Fowler’s crimes. He
murdered Jim Greathouse, who was a friend of mine, and at White Oaks,
New Mexico, in 1880, I knew of his murdering a cowboy whom he had never
seen before. Two cowboys had a pistol duel in Bill Hudgen’s Pioneer
Saloon. One of them was mortally wounded when Fowler, who had heard the
shooting, came running in. He asked the cause of the shooting. Some one
pointed to the wounded cowboy on the floor. Then Fowler pulled out his
pistol and shot him through the head. The other cowboy was caught and
hung to a tree by Fowler and his gang, and by the rope route Fowler’s
life was ended.
Finally, I struck out from the Keeline ranch to see my girl at the
railroad station. There my horse and saddle were sold and I boarded the
train for Cheyenne.
The Grand Jury were in session and I appeared before them as a witness.
Hall and his gang were indicted. The sheriff and a large posse
surrounded the Keeline ranch at daylight one morning, and the Hall gang
were arrested. I was told that Hall remarked when arrested: “That ----
Henderson is at the bottom of this.” The fact that I did not come back
had created a suspicion.
They were all landed in jail at Cheyenne and I felt sorry for them,
especially for Hall and McChesney. My sympathy was overflowing for
Hall because he is a prince, and has a heart in him like an ox. The
sympathy for McChesney was on account of having known him when a boy,
and having known his father in Caldwell, Kansas, years later.
I lay in Denver waiting to be called as a witness against Hall and
his gang. But before the case was tried, District Attorney Skoll, who
at that time was trying to get away with all the liquor in Cheyenne,
had a row with the judge on the bench, McGinnis, and the cases were
nolle prossed by Skoll. At least, this is the story told by my
superintendent, who was in Cheyenne at the time. Thus my friends were
liberated to my great joy, as I didn’t want to see them sent to the
pen. I heard afterwards that three of the escaped convicts from Texas
were returned there, but as to its truthfulness I do not know.