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.
During the month of August, 1889, Superintendent McCartney called me
into his private office where I was introduced to Mr. Geo. Pelling of
the firm of Prinz & Pelling, of Tuscarora, Nevada. I was given the
outline of a case on which I was detailed to work.
It was explained that Mr. C. W. Prinz and Mr. Geo. Pelling were wealthy
mine and mill owners, and that on a certain night during the previous
spring, dynamite had been put under their residences and “touched
off;” that Mr. Pelling and his mattress went up through the roof and
landed right side up with care in the middle of the street. He was
still wrapped in the quilts and blankets, and the shock put him out of
business for awhile, but otherwise he was not hurt.
Not so lucky was Mr. Prinz. He was badly used up, but soon recovered.
He, too, was blown out into the street but not on a feather bed.
Knowing that they had an organized gang of desperate enemies to deal
with, they sent to San Francisco for two of the best detectives who
could be procured to ferret out the criminals. Two detectives from a
local detective agency were sent to Tuscarora to work secretly. In
addition, a large reward was offered through the newspapers, for
evidence that would convict. Several months’ work by the detectives had
failed to show up even a clue as to who were the guilty parties, and
the sleuths being suspected, they were called home, their chances of
success being doubtful.
Then it was decided that Mr. Pelling go to Denver and consult with Mr.
James McCartney, and if possible, get a man who could do the work.
At that time the Dickenson Agency had no branch office west of Denver.
Mr. Pelling explained to me that I was undertaking a ticklish job, as
their enemies were on their guard and watching for detectives.
I was instructed to take the Union Pacific Railway for San Francisco,
while Mr. Pelling would go by a southern route and stop off for a visit
in southern California. I was told to put up at the Palace Hotel in
Frisco and remain there until Mr. Pelling arrived.
For the next few days my time was spent in selling our furniture, and
starting Mamie and little Viola off for Springfield, Missouri, where my
wife’s father, H. Clay Lloyd, and her step-mother lived. Poor Mamie’s
health had begun to fail, and the doctors decided an operation for
pleurisy was necessary to save her life. Her father, when he heard
of it, begged that she be sent there to be operated on by his family
physician, one of the best in the land.
After seeing my wife and baby off on an eastbound train, I boarded a
flyer for the extreme edge of the Golden West. My trip would have been
a treat, as I had never been to California, if it had not been for
the worry of Mamie’s illness and the fact that she had to undergo an
operation without my presence to comfort her.
In Frisco I put up at the Palace, the swell hotel of the city. I was
there a week before Mr. Pelling arrived, therefore had an opportunity
to see all the sights, which were new to me.
I was furnished with $250 expense money by Mr. Pelling, and he then
departed for Tuscarora, Nevada. I soon followed dressed in rough cowboy
clothes.
At Elko, Nevada, I left the train and boarded a stage for a fifty mile
ride into the mountains. Phil. Snyder, an old-timer of Tuscarora, and
whose name had been given to me by Mr. Pelling as a possible friend to
the dynamiters who blew up Prinz’s and Pelling’s homes, was a fellow
passenger on the stage, and I won his applause and friendship by making
a crack shot with my old Colt’s 45 pistol.
We were sitting on the seat with the driver, when a coyote jumped up
about 100 yards distant. I made one shot while the stage was on the
move, and Mr. Coyote quit business by tumbling over dead. It was an
accidental shot of course, but no one but myself knew it.
In Tuscarora, a lively mining camp, Snyder pointed me out to his
friends as a cowboy just from Texas, who was a crack shot with a
pistol. This gave me a standing in the lower crust of society. Soon
after my arrival, I was out in the hills with Tim W., one of Prinz and
Pelling’s most bitter enemies. He told me that Snyder and the stage
driver had given me a big send-off as a crack shot. He asked me to show
him what I could do. He pointed out a pine knot in a board on a fence
about 50 yards distant, and asked me to hit that. Here was a chance to
make myself solid with one of Prinz and Pelling’s enemies, providing I
could make another accidental shot. It was worth trying, so I cut loose
off-hand, and out went the pine knot, which was the size of a silver
dollar. He begged me to try again at another mark, but I had sense
enough to let well enough alone. My reputation was made and I decided
to take no more chances.
In order to be away from town for awhile, I got permission from a
butcher named Morrison, to live on his ranch a few miles out. I bought
a horse and saddle and used to ride into town once in awhile.
Here was a new experience for me, living with a Chinaman who could only
talk a few words of English. He and I were the sole occupants of the
ranch except when Mr. Morrison came out to butcher stock. Mr. Pigtail
and I sat at the same table, but ate different kinds of food. He used a
couple of chop-sticks to throw the rice, etc., into his mouth. It would
have been fun for a man up a tree to look down and see us joking and
trying to talk to each other.
Finally, after I had become well established in the mining camp, I
moved into town, and soon after, I received a letter from Mr. C. W.
Prinz requesting that I meet him in an old abandoned mine about half a
mile from town on a certain night. A diagram of the incline-shaft which
I was to go down was enclosed in the letter. He explained that he would
go around through the main workings of the mine so as not to be seen.
It was a dark night, but I found the mouth of the old shaft from the
description given in the letter. But to descend into the bowels of
the earth through a dark hole 5 by 7 feet, that I knew nothing about,
required a lot of fool courage, and therefore I was quite awhile
getting started. It was a great relief when I reached the bottom of the
rotten ladder which had not been used for several years. The distance
to the bottom was about 200 feet. On the way down, pieces of rock
became loosened and rolled to the bottom, making a lonesome noise which
sent cold shivers down my back. The ladder was damp and slippery and
some of the rounds were missing. A walk of a few hundred feet through a
drift brought me to Mr. Price, who had arrived on time. About midnight
we separated, each going the way we had come. On reaching daylight, I
vowed never to meet another client in a hole that I knew nothing about.
During the fall, Phil. Snyder and I went out into the mountains to hunt
deer and grouse, and we bagged some of both. We were gone a week. On
returning, I rode out to “Wild Bills” camp on Lone Mountain, a distance
of about twenty-five miles. I had previously made friends with “Wild
Bill” who was an enemy of Price and Pelling and stood in with the gang
who had blown them up.
“Wild Bill” was a genius when it came to working with steel. He was a
counterfeiter and made his own plates to print counterfeit paper money.
He made me a steel candlestick with half a dozen instruments combined,
which I still keep as a souvenir.
After this, I made many trips to “Wild Bills” camp. We lived on nice
fat calf-meat which we would steal from bands of range cattle.
From “Wild Bill” I learned some valuable pointers as to who blew up
Prinz and Pelling. I finally selected Tim W. as a good subject for me
to work on to get a confession from. I made a confidant of him and told
him that my father in Texas was rich and that I had got into a killing
scrape and had to skip out. I explained that my father sent money to me
through two friends, Smith and Long, of Reno City, Oklahoma; that these
friends had money now of mine in their possession, but I didn’t want to
take chances on having it sent direct to me at Tuscarora, even though I
was under an assumed name. I was using the name of Chas. T. Leon.
Poor Tim W. bit at my bait and agreed that the money could be sent to
him and then he would hand it to me on the sly. He promised to keep the
matter secret, and he did so. He felt honored at being trusted with my
liberty and money.
I then wrote to Superintendent McCartney and had him send $150 to my
friends Smith and Long in Reno City, with instructions that they send
it to Tim W. I also wrote Mr. Smith a letter on the subject. In due
time a money order for $150 came to Tim W. through the Post Office. He
cashed the money order and handed me the money. That night he and I got
on a big “hurrah” and I spent money freely with his friends who were
all enemies to our clients. After this, all the money which I spent
came through Tim W.
Tim was working as a miner for the Smith Bros. on their rich gold mine.
He would fill his pockets with some of the rich ore worth about $10 a
pound, on coming off shift. Of course he made a confidant of me as I
had trusted him.
Tim had a sweetheart, a Mrs. B., who was a widow and owned a small
lodging house. He and I roomed in her building, but we were not in the
same class when it came to burning midnight oil and basking in the
sunshine of her sweet smiles.
Late in the fall I put a hungry man on his feet by helping him “salt” a
mine.
One day I saw a man standing for hours in one place without moving.
His features showed worry. I stepped up to him and invited him into
a saloon to have a drink with me, my object being to cheer him up.
Turning round and facing me he said:
“Partner, I would die before I would beg, but if you will give me
the price of my drink I will get something to eat with it. That will
do me more good than a drink.” He then informed me that his name was
Harnihan, or a name similar to that; that he had come from Angels Camp,
California, where he worked for the millionaire mine owner Lane; that
he had paid his last dollar for a stage ride from the railroad and that
he hadn’t tasted food since leaving Elko the morning before, and that
he had hoped to get work but had failed. I slipped a dollar into his
hand and told him to call for more when that was gone. He thanked me
kindly.
When a boy, I had read the Bible a little, and recalled a passage
therein about there being no harm to shear a lamb for the benefit of
mankind. I either read this in the Bible or dreamed it. At any rate,
I concluded to do a little shearing act, so as to give Mr. Harnihan
a lift in the world, as he seemed to be a nice fellow with a proud
spirit.
Morrison, the butcher, and his partner in the saloon business, were
selected as the lambs to be shorn.
I had never salted a mine, but had received valuable lessons from Jacky
in the Mudsill mine-salting case.
These two men owned a mining claim with a 30-foot hole in the ground,
which they called a mine. I induced them to give Harnihan a working
bond on this mine. Harnihan, who was a fine-looking, healthy man,
agreed to follow any instructions that I might give. After working
in the shaft a short time, he asked Morrison to have some of the ore
assayed so as to see if it was improving. Morrison agreed to go up and
sample the vein next morning and have an assay made of the ore. I gave
Harnihan some of the rich ore which Tim W. had been stealing from the
Smith mine, and told him to sprinkle it moderately over the bottom of
the shaft that night. I had previously pulverized this ore into fine
powder.
The next morning Morrison went to the mine in the edge of town, with
Harnihan. He took a sample from the small vein in the bottom of the
shaft and then returned to town. I made it my duty to watch Morrison
take the sample to the assay office, and I saw him go there in the
evening after the assay certificate. He came out in an excited manner.
I stepped into his saloon ahead of him to watch proceedings. He called
his partner into one corner and showed him the assayer’s certificate.
It would require too much space to record these men’s monkeyshines up
to the time Harnihan came from work at 5 P.M.
I met Harnihan and informed him that the lambs were tied on the block,
ready for the shearing, but advised him not to accept their first
offer.
Morrison told Harnihan that the ore had improved just a few dollars
per ton. He offered to pay for what work had been done on the mine at
regular wages, and release Harnihan from his interest, but Harnihan,
as per my instructions, told him that he would work another week and
then send a sample of the ore to Burlingame of Denver, for a good test.
This did the work. At 9 P.M. Harnihan had $600 in gold in his pocket.
He insisted on my taking half of it, but I refused to accept “tainted”
money.
That night Harnihan got on a glorious drunk, and next day I sold him
my horse and saddle at a fancy price and he “hit” the road for a lower
altitude. I advised him to cut across country for fear the cat might
get out of the bag; but it didn’t for several days. Then the air was
blue with curse words for a whole month.
On riding away, Harnihan threw me a $20 gold piece and told me to take
a drink on him. I have never seen or heard of him to this day. Thus the
world moves and we all act our little part on the big stage.
I found out from Morrison, between curse words, that the salted sample
showed a value of $1,500 per ton of ore, and that he supposed he was a
millionaire; that the sudden fall to poverty was what hurt the worst.
He never suspected me, and if he sees this the air will be impregnated
with oaths again.
On Christmas day I took my first sleigh ride, and for a few minutes I
was “going some.”
The liveryman had just received a brand new sleigh. I hired it and a
spirited team of horses and took Miss Aggie Dougherty for a ride. We
drove ten miles out on the stage road and then turned back. The stage
and freight road was a mass of packed snow. On each side the soft
snow was from 5 to 10 feet deep. On one side of the road about every
hundred feet the stage company had a willow stuck into the snow so
that on a stormy night the driver could keep on the road. One of these
slender poles was bending over and the team ran into it. The end flew
up and caught one of the horses in the flank. Then there was “something
doing,” and we began to “go some.” If I had had the use of both hands
the team might have been stopped before they got under full headway. My
left arm was around the girl’s waist, to keep her from falling out, as
the sleigh had no side-boards. Before my left arm could be disentangled
and put back in its proper place, the team of flying broncos made a
sharp turn off the road and went out of sight into the deep snow. The
sleigh naturally went over them, high up in the air, upside down.
While standing on my head in the air, I could see my old Colt’s 45
pistol, which had been carried loose in my hip pocket, flying through
space. At this place the snow was about 10 feet deep. I found poor
little Aggie standing on her head in a hole that she had made in the
snow. I had made a hole of my own, so it took me quite a while to reach
Aggie. By the time I got her on her feet into the hard road the team
was a couple of miles away, going like lightning. They had floundered
back into the road.
In order to find my pistol I had to swim out to the small hole where it
had disappeared in the snow, and then do some fancy diving.
A three-mile walk brought us to where the team lay tangled up in the
harness. Both were on their sides. We had passed pieces of the sleigh
scattered all along the road. Therefore, there wasn’t much of it
attached to the team. After the pretty sorrels were on their feet, we
started for town afoot, leading them. They had never been ridden, so we
had to walk the five or six miles.
On reaching town a large crowd greeted us and made me treat.
The liveryman let me off lightly, by only charging me $50 for the half
day’s sleigh ride. He said the experience was worth something to a
beginner. I thought so too, for in future, I vowed that side-boards
would have to be put on the sleigh to hold the girl in place before it
could be hired to Yours Truly.
The fact that I was out riding with an 18-year-old girl while my sick
wife was just recovering from a successful operation, may seem naughty
to you, gentle reader, but you must bear in mind that there are tricks
in all professions but ours, and they are all tricks. The truth is, I
was working on old man Dougherty, and Aggie was only a side-issue to
win points in the game.
In the spring, Tim W. and I made preparation to leave for the Wichita
Mountains in the western part of the Indian Territory, on a prospecting
trip for gold. I had told Tim wonderful stories of gold being found in
these mountains by soldiers and hunters.
I had concluded that the best way to get a confession out of Tim would
be to get him in a strange country where he could talk with no one but
myself.
When his gang found out that he was going to the Indian Territory with
me, they became frightened for fear I might be a detective. They had
heard that Mr. Prinz said he would spend $150,000 to find out who the
dynamiters of Tuscarora were. For several days and nights previous to
our start, the gang held secret meetings in Mason’s drug store, trying
to persuade Tim to give me the “shake.” They said it was positively
known that I was a detective, but Tim insisted on their producing the
evidence.
Among the gang was a hard character by the name of “Black Jack,” and he
made it hot for poor Tim. He swore that he should not go. Mrs. B. also
worked on Tim to dissuade him. Finally, everything was ready for an
early start on the next morning’s stage. That night they held another
secret meeting in Mason’s drug store, and Tim got very little sleep. As
a last resort they told Tim that they had positive evidence that all
the money which I had spent in Tuscarora came from Prinz and Pelling’s
agents in San Francisco, and that if he would wait over another week
they would produce my signature to the receipts for the money received
at different times. Here’s where the gang fell down. Tim told them that
they were d----d liars, but he wouldn’t tell them how he knew. He told
me all about their meetings later, when we were on the road.
Next morning we boarded the stage for Elko, and most of the gang were
at the Post Office to see us off, and to make one last effort to change
Tim’s mind. The faces of some of the gang appeared pale and care-worn,
and “Black Jack” looked daggers at me.
The whip was cracked and away we went.
In Elko, Tim and I boarded a train for Denver, Colorado. We kept the
sleeping car porter busy furnishing us with drinks while en route.
Tim’s wealth consisted of $600 in cash and several hundred dollars
worth of rich ore that he had stolen from the Smith Brothers’ mine,
which he had taken along to sell in Denver.
A few days were spent in Denver, where I was under a strain for fear of
meeting some one who might call me by my own name in the presence of
Tim. I was indeed glad when we boarded the Denver & Fort Worth train
for Wichita Falls, Texas.
In Wichita Falls I went to see my old friends Charlie Word, Liash
Stephens and Tom Jones, cattle men, to tell them of my new name, and to
caution them so they wouldn’t address me by my own name where Tim W.
might hear it.
About ten years previous I had “bossed” a large herd of long-horned
cattle “up the Chisholm trail,” from southwestern Texas, for Charlie
Word.
On my arrival at Wichita Falls I left Tim at the hotel while I went
to spend the evening until bed time with Mr. Word and his family. I
had last seen Mrs. Word in San Antonio, Texas, in 1879, when she was a
beautiful black-haired young woman with a first-born in her arms. Now
this first-born was almost a young lady.
Word and I sat up late “harking back” to the days of big herds on the
“Chisholm trail” between southern Texas and Kansas.
In the Word herd which I had charge of there were about 3000 head of
cattle with about ten cowboys, and five horses to the man, and last,
but not least, a cook to dish up the “grub” and drive the “grub-wagon.”
In “harking back” I thought of my first pistol duel, which died before
it was fought, but its dying was no fault of mine or my opponent’s, a
hot-headed Southerner by the name of Best, who was one of the cowboys.
He had loaned Mr. Word some money to buy cattle, and had agreed to make
a “hand,” that is, do full duty at regular wages on the trail. When
passing Fort Worth, Word, who had come around by rail on his way to
Kansas, stopped off to see how we were getting along. He drove out in
a buggy to where we were to stop over night. On his arrival Best and I
had a fuss over the way I made him do the full work of a cowboy all the
way “up the trail.” In the threats which followed I told Best to get
his pistol and we would shoot it out. He brooded over the matter for an
hour or so and finally told Word that he or I had to die before the sun
went down. Word tried to reason with him, but it was no use. He was mad
and meant it. He insisted that Word notify me that if I didn’t agree
to fight a regular duel that he intended to kill me any way before the
sun set. Word notified me and it was agreed that I wait until the sun
was setting and then stand back to back and walk forward ten paces, and
wheel and fire, until one or both were dead. We both began cleaning our
pistols, as the sun was only an hour high. Word put in his time trying
to persuade us to shake hands and call the duel off, but the stubborn
bump, which the phrenologist in Caldwell, Kansas, said was like a
mule’s, prevented me from backing out. I hoped though, that Best would
“crawfish,” that is, back out, for I didn’t want to die, even a “little
bit.”
When the sun looked to be only a few inches above the horizon, I
imagined that I could feel myself growing pale behind the ears, but
“praise the Lord,” here came Word from behind the wagon where Best was
sitting on a pile of bedding, with the good news that Best had agreed
to shake hands with me and do his duty the balance of the way up the
trail. Thus Mr. Word had won a bloodless battle.
Two days later Tim and I had bought a horse each, and started northeast
for the Wichita Mountains, a distance of two days’ ride. We crossed
Red River at the Burnett ranch and were then in the Indian Territory.
At night we camped on the plains, and the next evening we struck the
mountains and had an old Indian woman cook a turkey gobbler which I had
killed. She fried the breast of the turkey and made a batch of bread
for us. The old dame’s hands were black with dirt and she struck them
into the dough without washing them. We were too hungry though, to make
a kick.
From here we went to Quanah Parker’s camp on the head of West Cache
Creek. Quanah Parker was a big chief of the 7,000 Comanche Indians
scattered around the borders of the Wichita Mountains. They don’t like
to live in the mountains, therefore pitch their camps on the edge next
to the plains. Quanah Parker is half white, he being the child of
Cynthia Ann Parker, the white girl stolen in Texas by the Comanches
before the war. He is over six feet tall and sports a mustache which
can be seen with the naked eye. At this mustache he keeps tugging,
when talking in broken English with his white brothers.
Tim and I rode through the Wichita Mountains to Anadarko, the Indian
Agent’s headquarters. I made a confidant of Indian Agent C. E. Adams,
and he gave me a pass so that Tim and I could stay on the Reservation
outside the mountains. He could not give me a permit to go into the
mountains, as there was supposed to be gold in there and white men were
kept out by the Indian Police.
From Anadarko, Tim and I rode to Fort Sill, the army post on the east
side of Wichita Mountains, where we went to lay in such supplies as
could be carried behind our saddles as we had no pack horse.
For the next month Tim and I led a strenuous life in the mountains,
dodging the Indian Police who were trying to capture us, but our horses
were too swift. We would camp on the highest peaks from whence we could
watch them hunting us. We had a fine time killing game. Turkeys were
as plentiful as fowl around a Kansas barnyard. We could lie in bed any
morning and kill a gobbler for breakfast. They were not killed by the
Indians, as they regard them as evil spirits.
Tim and I named some of the highest peaks. One in the western part of
the range was named after me. We called it Mt. Leon, and up on its
highest point we planted an elk horn, around which was wrapped a copy
of the Tuscarora, Nevada, daily paper, also a slip with our names and
the new name of the peak on it. I often wonder if these elk horns have
been found since the opening of these mountains to white settlers.
On two occasions I left Tim in the mountains while I rode the 25 miles
to Fort Sill after “grub,” and our mail. Poor Tim never received any
of the many letters sent to him by his friends and sweetheart, for I
started a little post office of my own and placed them in a pigeon-hole
under a rock.
The letters sent by Tim to be mailed by me were treated likewise. Most
of the letters warned Tim to “shake” me and come home, as they had
positive information that I was a Dickenson detective.
On my second trip into Fort Sill I found Tim’s sweetheart Mrs. B.,
there, but she didn’t get to see me. She had dropped about half a dozen
letters in the post office telling Tim of her arrival to save him
from the clutches of that Dickenson detective, Leon. I felt sorry for
the poor woman, but all I could do was to shed a silent tear over her
pathetic letters.
After this when we needed “grub,” I took Tim with me and we rode to the
little town of Navajo, Texas, across the north fork of Red River in
Greer County.
At one time old Quanah Parker had deputy United States marshals
searching for us.
We failed to find a gold mine, and as I had got a full confession from
Tim about the blowing up of Price and Pelling, we shook the dust of the
mountains from our feet and landed in Union City, Oklahoma, a boom town
on the South Canadian.
Finally, Tim and I arrived in the booming town of El Reno. We put up at
the Stanley livery stable. Here young Todd, whom I knew in Caldwell,
Kansas, a few years before, asked if my name was not Charlie Siringo.
When I told him no, he replied: “Well you look like Charlie, all right
enough.” Tim was present when the question was asked.
We picked up our “war-bags” and started up town, walking in the center
of the main street. Before reaching the hotel a large man standing
with a group of men in front of a saloon yelled out at the top of his
voice: “Well I’ll be d----d, if there ain’t Charlie Siringo!” He then
started across from an opposite corner to meet us. As he approached he
held out his hand, saying: “Well, Charlie Siringo, what in the h----l
are you doing here?” By this time he was facing me, but I didn’t put
out my hand. I said: “I reckon you are mistaken, partner.” He replied:
“Not by a d----d sight, Charlie. I would know your hide in a tan yard
in h----l.” Still I didn’t put out my hand, and pretending to be mad I
said: “Well, I must say you’ve got your gall whoever you are. I tell
you that’s not my name.” He replied in a contemptuous manner: “May be
it ain’t by ----.” Then he wheeled around and went back to the crowd.
I knew him well, though I hadn’t seen him for many years. He and I used
to be cowboys together in Texas. I remembered his name then, but it has
slipped my memory now. I was sorry for the poor fellow, as no doubt his
companions gave him the laugh at the way he got “turned down” by me.
Tim remarked that he believed the fellow really thought he knew me.
That night after Tim and I had gone to bed, I got up under the pretense
of going to a saloon to get a drink, and went in search of my cowboy
friend so as to explain matters to him. He was found at a dance, and
when I explained the situation we shook hands and talked of old times.
He was then in the butcher business.
Next day El Reno was lively, as the Rock Island Railway had just
arrived there and it was the first anniversary of the opening of the
Oklahoma Territory to white settlement. Oklahoma being just one year
old that day, the whole Territory turned itself loose to celebrate. Tim
and I did our share.
In El Reno I traded a lot there, which I owned, for a two-year-old race
filly named Lulu Edson. She had lately won a big race; but she proved
to be a costly piece of horseflesh, as I heard the lot sold for $5000 a
few years later. I had the consolation though of owning a two-year-old
that could run a quarter of a mile in 22½ seconds, almost world-record
time.
In order to get Tim back to Denver before making the arrest, so as to
keep it out of the newspapers, we started on horseback, using Lulu for
a pack animal, a distance of about 600 miles.
Just before entering the Cherokee strip, we camped one day for dinner.
While eating, an Oklahoma settler came galloping up on a black mare
bareback. He recognized me and jumping off the horse, he said: “Hello,
Charlie Siringo, what are you doing here?” I got up and shook hands
with him, as we needed some pointers about the road, but I said: “You
are the third crazy Oklahoma boomer who has called me that name, so I
am beginning to think that I look like him.” He replied: “Why Charlie,
you can’t fool me. I would know your hide in a tan yard.” He insisted
so persistently, that I had to make him mad. He finally mounted his
old nag and galloped off cursing. He and I had run cattle together in
Texas, years before, and I knew him well, but I forget his name now.
That night we put up at a big cattle ranch in the Cherokee strip or
outlet. There were about twenty cowboys present. The next morning
it was raining hard and we concluded to lay over a day. As Lulu was
tender-footed I rode her back into Oklahoma, five miles, to get her
shod.
After I had left, a man with two pistols buckled around his waist
called Tim to one side and said: “Partner did you ever commit a crime?”
Tim asked why, and he replied: “Well if you did, you had better shake
that Dickenson detective you are traveling with. That’s Charlie Siringo
and he’s after some one down here.” Tim told the fellow that he must
be mistaken. He replied: “All right, go ahead if you think so; but my
advice to you if you have done anything, is to hit the road and hit her
hard, before he gets back.” The fellow then got on his own horse and
pulled out. He had just dropped in to eat breakfast before I had left,
and he recognized me.
On my return the cowboys told of the noted outlaw “Six Shooter Bill”
being there for breakfast. They said there were big rewards for him,
dead or alive. He had evidently not told any one but Tim, who I was.
Tim was sour and apparently worried for the next few days, but I never
surmised the cause until he told of it after his arrest. He said
he felt like killing me and skipping out, as he had already made a
confession to me, but he didn’t believe I was a detective.
On our arrival in Denver, after a hard ride, and before we had time to
wash and eat, Tim was arrested by Supt. James McCartney. He was taken
to our office and there confronted by Mr. W. C. Prinz who had come
all the way from Nevada to be at the windup. Poor Tim broke down, and
before a Notary Public he made a full confession, implicating all who
had a hand in the blowing up of Prinz and Pelling.
After getting his sworn confession down in writing and his signature to
it, he was turned over to me to keep under guard until Mr. Prinz could
get back to Nevada and have the leaders arrested. But we heard they
had flown before the arrest could be made. It was reported that “Black
Jack” had skipped for South Africa. I lost track of the case and never
heard how the matter terminated.
Tim W. had promised to testify in court when the time came, under
agreement that he be not put in jail. We had faith in him keeping his
promise. I guarded Tim a week or so in order to give Mr. Prinz time
to reach Tuscarora and swear out warrants. Then Tim was turned loose
and he went back to his grass widow, Mrs. B., to repent in sackcloth
and ashes for the letters “which never came,” after he had promised
so faithfully to write often. I never learned how long poor Mrs. B.
remained in Fort Sill nursing her grieving heart. Hers was a case of
sitting on the anxious seat with a vengeance, but such is often the
penalty of blind love.
Just two days after our return to Denver, I took Lulu Edson out to the
Overland Park where the big races were going on. I hobbled her two
front feet with a piece of new rope so that she could hobble around and
eat green grass. I hired a negro to watch her, but when the first race
started she saw them and joined in the run, she being on the outside
of the fence. In crossing a muddy slough, she went up to her ears in
black mud, so that she was a black horse with a sorrel head. When half
way around the mile track she jumped the five-foot fence and led the
bunch of trotting horses past the wire. Her hobble had broken before
she jumped the fence. She trotted up to the grand stand where sat many
thousands of Denver’s elite, and whinnied. The people cheered, for most
of them saw her jump the high fence. I was in the grand stand, but at
first, didn’t know her, as she was black.
This was Lulu’s last race, as I wouldn’t trust her to others, and I was
leading too strenuous a life to race her myself. I still own three of
her colts. She died at my expense fifteen years after falling into my
hands.
Thus ended the Prinz and Pelling operation so far as I was concerned.
It was May, 1890, when Tim and I arrived in Denver. I had been on the
operation nine months.
In his confession Tim told how the fuses were cut the same length and
touched off at the same time so that the two wealthy mine owners would
go up in the air and sprout angel-wings at the same time, their homes
being a block or two apart. Many men were connected with the plot and
for this reason Tim was set free after the sworn affidavits were made.
Mr. C. W. Prinz, the last account I had of him, was a prosperous mining
man of San Francisco with offices on Pine street. He and Pelling sold
out their interests in Tuscarora, Nevada. Mr. Pelling I heard, had
married millionaire Cox’s daughter of Sacramento, California, and was
now soaring high in society; quite a change from the time he soared
high in the air through the roof of a house, with dynamite instead of
$’s as the lifting power.