A LAWSUIT IN BENT COUNTY, COLORADO--A BIG MURDER CASE IN BENKELMAN,
NEBRASKA--ERNEST BUSH SENT TO THE PENITENTIARY FOR LIFE.
Soon after arriving back in Denver I was detailed on a coal case to be
tried in Las Animas, Colorado. Our clients were the Colorado Matte and
Ore Co., and my work was against the Victor Fuel Co.
I was especially instructed to get in solid with the sheriff of the
county, Las Animas being the county seat. This I did in fine shape,
through playing myself off as a Texas cattleman who had a herd of
steers on the trail for Las Animas.
The case had been fought in this and other counties of the state
before, and the population were more or less divided as to which
company was right and which was wrong.
Mr. Delos A. Chapelle, the president of the Victor Company, was a
popular man and had many friends among the ranchers.
Judge Beaton, a noted fisherman, was the leading attorney on our side,
and he and Mr. Keeble, President of the Colorado Matte Company were
the only ones supposed to know me. But towards the last I heard that
the secret had been given away to District Attorney Ross of Trinidad,
Colorado, and other friends of our side.
In this way the Sheriff no doubt found out who I was, though he never
said anything about the way I had played him, except to give me a hint,
and to give me a wide berth.
One day he met me coming from an artesian well with a small
tin-bucketful of water, when he said: “Say, Mr. Le Roy, is that water
for your herd of cattle?” With a smile I answered “Yes,” and he
passed on. I knew then that he was “onto” me, but my work was already
finished. He was a nice fellow just the same, even though he did feel a
little “sore” towards me.
My next was a complicated murder case in Benkelman, Nebraska. The
county attorney Mr. Goodehart, in that sleepy little county-seat town,
wanted a good detective, as none other could make a success the way
matters stood. Gen. Supt. McCartney informed him that he had a cowboy
detective who would succeed if any one could. Therefore I was detailed
on the case.
Arriving in Benkelman, Nebraska, in cowboy attire, I met Prosecuting
Attorney Goodehart and County Commissioner, L. Morse, at night in a
secluded place. They explained the case of how Ernest Bush, a nineteen
year old boy had come into their county that Spring, broke, and asked
to work for his board at County Commissioner Morse’s ranch, a few miles
out of Benkelman, which request was granted.
Mr. Morse “batched” at his ranch, and had working for him an old Grand
Army man by the name of Baily. This honest old soldier who had fought
for his country took a deep interest in the poor homeless “kid,” and
let him sleep with him in his bed.
A few days later Mr. Morse drove to town in his buggy, giving Mr. Baily
orders to fix a hay rack that morning. On returning in the afternoon
Mr. Morse asked Ernest Bush where Mr. Baily was. He replied that he
hadn’t seen him since noon. That night Bush worked hard and fed the
stock himself.
As Baily didn’t show up by morning the whole country turned out to
search for him. The only clue found that day was the old man’s false
teeth on the trail leading to the river, about a quarter of a mile
distant. They had been broken and trampled into the mud by the cattle
going to water, where a hole had been cut in the ice for that purpose.
The next day Mr. Baily’s body was found lodged in a fallen tree a few
miles down the river. It was found through the ice having melted and
exposing one gloved hand protruding above the water. In the top of the
head were several buckshot wounds. This indicated to the angry men
that Baily had been cleaning the stable when shot from the loft window
above. Mr. Morse had a shotgun in the house, but no buckshot cartridges
for it.
Bush was arrested as the guilty party, but cool and unconcerned, he
protested his innocence.
Finally Bush had a preliminary trial and the court room was full of
people. When Prosecuting Attorney Goodehart cross-questioned the poor
boy too severely, some of the audience hissed. They thought it was a
shame for a big prosecuting attorney to impose on a boy whose face was
plastered over with a coating of innocence.
Bush’s parents in Council Bluffs, Iowa, had sent an attorney from
Omaha, and also hired a local lawyer to defend him.
When the Judge dismissed the case and freed Bush for want of evidence,
some of the ladies in the Court room threw their arms around the boy’s
neck and kissed him.
Of course this hurt the Prosecuting Attorney’s feelings and then he was
determined to prove the truth with the help of the Dickenson Agency
and the County Commissioners to back him up with funds, for it takes
cash to employ the big Agency, as they never work for rewards. They
must have a good guarantee to insure their pay of $8 per diem and all
necessary expenses. They rightly contend that a detective working for a
reward will often stretch the truth in order to convict, whereas, with
the per diem plan, there is no incentive for an operative to perjure
himself.
After the trial Bush’s local attorney took charge of him and cautioned
him against talking to strangers or picking up with any one, as
detectives were liable to be put on his trail to get a confession. His
attorneys also advised that he not leave the country, as that would
look as though he was trying to run away. He was also told to keep in
touch with his Benkelman attorney. Our clients had found out the above
through a friend of the boy’s. Therefore I was told that my work would
have to be pretty slick in order to make friends with the boy, as being
a stranger he would naturally be suspicious of me, and if he were not,
his lawyer would be.
The lawyer had got the boy a job with a Mr. Scott across the river, two
miles distant.
To make a long story short, I won the boy’s friendship in a hurry, and
persuaded him to run away with me and not even let his lawyer know what
had become of him.
About a week after my arrival in Benkelman, Bush and I were on the way
to New Mexico.
In riding through town on our horses on the morning of our departure, a
fat boarder at the hotel, who no doubt had a large criminal bump in his
makeup, called the boy off to one side and told him that I might be a
detective trying to get a confession out of him. I was told this after
we got out of town.
I had played myself off as an ex-outlaw and chum of the noted train
robber and desperado, “Black Jack,” who, at the time was in his glory,
though a year or two later he was hung, at which time the rope pulled
his head off. I had told of owning a ranch in New Mexico at Santa Fe,
and of having quit the outlaw business. But I had promised to get him
into “Black Jack’s” gang.
On this operation I used my own name.
On arriving in New Mexico I kept Bush hid out at my ranch near Santa
Fe, by telling him that as he was going to become a member of “Black
Jack’s” gang it was best that no one in Santa Fe make his acquaintance,
or see him with me; and furthermore, that it would be best for him to
lay low for fear the Nebraska officials should try to locate him.
I had an old man by the name of Atwood working on my ranch and taking
care of my pets, and of course I posted him to not tell anyone that the
boy was there.
Bush and I made several trips out into the mountains on my pet
horses, and on two occasions it was all I could do to prevent him from
murdering poor Mexicans for what money they might have. He would beg
me to ride on and let him do the job alone; that he would hide the
body and overtake me. He had bought a pistol and was anxious to try it
on a man, but I argued that it wouldn’t do for me to allow a murder
committed so near my home. I told him that he would get his fill of
murdering when he got in with the “Black Jack” gang.
I had told Bush that one of “Black Jack’s” main chums was now at Bland,
New Mexico, in the Cochiti mining district, and that I would have him
come and meet him (Bush). Therefore, I wrote to my friend “Cunny,” the
Texan whom I followed in the Bill Blank case, and who had worked on my
ranch about two years. “Cunny” was then mining in the Cochiti district.
I wrote him that I would want him to visit me on the ranch soon, and I
wrote a letter for him to copy and mail to me in Santa Fe. In this fake
letter, he agreed to take my “kid” friend with him when they started on
their next big raid. Of course Bush read this letter, and after that
he kept me busy buying pistol cartridges so that he could practice
shooting. He was then a happy boy.
One day a gentleman named Goeble, said to be a brother to the murdered
Governor Goeble of Kentucky, who was a guest at Attorney Thomas B.
Catron’s residence in Santa Fe, rode out in a buggy to see our fine
poultry. Bush thought he might be an officer from Nebraska after him,
so he loaded my double-barrel shotgun with buckshot cartridges, and set
it in the bedroom clothes closet, to be used in case of an emergency.
When the visitor drove up to the gate and alighted, I raised the trap
cellar door in the kitchen and advised Bush to hide there until the
fellow left. He did as directed. I then went out into the yard to talk
with the man, and while we were standing talking, a large hawk began
to soar overhead. I ran in to get the shotgun, but found the closet
locked from the inside. I began pushing to force the door open, when
Bush said: “If you push open this door I’ll let you have both barrels
of this gun. What in the h----l do you want?”
I explained that it was me, and I wanted the gun to shoot a hawk. When
he opened the door he had both barrels of the gun cocked and pointed
towards me. He said he thought I was the other man. He hated to give
up the gun though, for fear I was putting up a job to capture him. But
I laughed at him for losing confidence in me so easily. On reaching
the back yard the hawk was gone and I returned the gun to Bush. This
cheered him up and he begged my pardon for doubting me.
Soon after this my friends, Mr. Alois B. Renehan, one of the prominent
attorneys of Santa Fe, and his pretty young wife, came out to the ranch
to visit me, and I wanted Bush to meet them, but he wouldn’t hear to
it, though they got to see him from a distance, while he was skulking
in a hollow amidst the growing corn and sorghum.
Bush and I slept together in a separate room from Mr. Atwood, and one
night, after the boy had gone to sleep, he began dreaming and talking
to himself. He finally climbed upon me with both knees on my stomach,
and both hands clutched about my throat. He was strong for his age,
and to prevent him from cutting off my wind, I ran the fingers of one
of my hands along my neck under his hands. Then I waited patiently for
developments. Soon he released the hold about my neck, and looking and
pointing up to the ceiling said: “Oh look, look, see him, he’s got
wings!” Then he collapsed and fell over on his side, asleep.
Next morning I told him of what he had said in his sleep and asked what
he meant by it. He laughed and said: “Why, I was dreaming about that
old ---- Baily, who is now pushing clouds in hell. I could see him just
as plain, and he had wings too!”
Here I got a full confession of how he murdered poor old Baily, which
was as follows:
After Mr. Morse had driven away from the ranch, Baily began working
on a hay rack out in the cattle yard. Then Bush made preparations to
carry out his plan to murder the old man for his money. He had noticed
that the old soldier carried a large fat pocketbook in his vest pocket.
He had loaded a shell with buckshot for the purpose. While Baily was
working on the hay rack Bush got Mr. Morse’s shotgun and placed the
buckshot shell in one barrel,--the other barrel already contained a
shell, loaded with birdshot. Bush then crawled into the hogpen and
stuck the gun through a hole in the fence. Baily was facing him,
but had his face turned down, as he was sawing a two by four inch
scantling, which caused the top of his head to be pointed towards the
concealed gun.
The distance was about thirty yards, more or less. Both barrels of the
gun were fired at the same time. Baily gave a scream and fell over.
Then Bush ran to the house and got two cartridges loaded with birdshot.
These he put in the gun and then ran to where Baily lay struggling with
death. He asked the old man if he was much hurt, intending to fire both
charges into him, in case he had life enough to answer. But he only
groaned a few times and was dead. Then Bush went through his pockets
and found a few five and ten dollar bills and a little silver. The fat
pocketbook contained nothing but mortgages and pension papers. Then the
young murderer put a harness onto his own horse in the stable and tied
the tugs together behind the animal. Then one end of a rope was tied
to the tugs, while the other end was fastened to the old man’s neck.
Now the horse was mounted, so as to drag the body to the river, but the
horse became frightened and bucked all over the corral, dragging the
corpse behind his heels. Finally he ran out of the open gate and Bush
headed him towards the river, a quarter of a mile distant, over the
cattle trail made in the deep snow. At the river the body was thrown
into the hole, cut in the ice where the cattle watered. It drifted with
the current under the ice and was soon lost to view.
In going back over the trail the boy picked up one of Baily’s mittens.
This he burned in the stove.
Then the cattle were rounded up and put in the corral and driven
to water over the trail, so as to obliterate all signs of the body
dragging in the snow.
After the horse was put up, Bush put away the saw, which he had had
great difficulty in getting out of the corpse’s hand, and he hid the
scantling which was partly sawed in two. Then he found some buckshot
and birdshot holes in a post which stood directly behind Baily, in
line. These shot had missed the old man’s head. With his knife he made
the buckshot holes look like spike holes, and the marks of the small
shot were scratched and obliterated.
The money he hid by burying it at the foot of a telegraph pole in
the pasture. Later its hiding place was changed to the lining of his
clothing, where a few bills still remained. These he ripped out and
gave to me, so that they could be spent in the natural course of
business. He said I could just give him credit for the amount and pay
him back later.
While I was in the kitchen getting breakfast and Mr. Atwood was out
milking the Jersey cows and feeding the stock, Bush imitated to me how
the murder was committed. He got the shotgun and had me put a stick on
a chair, then put my knee on it and use the fire poker for a saw. Of
course I made sure the gun was empty. When he pulled the trigger I gave
a scream and fell over on the floor groaning. Soon he stood over me and
asked if I was hurt much. A few more groans and kicks and I was dead.
He said my part was played to perfection. Then we both laughed and I
complimented him on his courage and said he was made out of the proper
stuff for a member of the “Black Jack” gang.
He then told of how slick he played County Attorney Goodehart, and of
how nice it was to have the ladies kiss and caress him in the court
room.
During the next few days Bush told me of all the crimes committed by
him. They were many, and some of them heartless. His first crime was
stealing a lot of money from his own mother, and the next was earning
$50 from his uncle for setting fire to the uncle’s residence, while the
family were absent on a visit. The uncle got the $3,000.00 of insurance
money and afterwards became well-to-do.
One of his crimes was, where he and two men in northern Nebraska, made
a raise of a lot of money, then went out into the woods and played
cards to see who should have it all. One of the men won the “boodle.”
Then Bush and the other loser put up a job and killed the lucky player
and buried his body where it no doubt remains to this day.
In the course of a week after confessing to me, I noticed for several
days that Bush was sullen and seemed to be brooding over something.
Finally one evening, when I returned from town, where I had gone to
get meat for supper and to write a report, Bush was in a good humor.
He showed me a key which he had made to unlock my valise. It was a
good piece of work. He then confessed going into my valise and reading
the letters, etc., therein. I had put these letters into the valise
for just such an emergency. I asked why he wanted to read my letters.
He said: “Now Charlie, I’m going to confess to you that I have been
worrying for several days, because I told you that I killed old Baily.
I was afraid you might be a d----d detective, so today I made a key to
fit your valise, for I thought if you were a detective you would have
something in there that would give you away. If I had found anything
that looked suspicious, I was going to kill you tonight and then get
on Lula and hit the road. I might have killed old Atwood too, but I had
it all fixed how you were to be killed so as not to wake up Atwood.”
I asked if he had intended to kill me quick so I wouldn’t suffer. He
replied: “Yes, I had a hatchet sharpened for the purpose.”
Then he went and pulled a sharp hatchet from its hiding place and
showed me just where he had intended to split my head open, as I slept.
He said he was going to play he was asleep until he knew for sure that
I was not awake.
I asked if he was out of the notion of carrying out his plan; if not, I
wouldn’t let him sleep with me any more. He replied: “Oh you needn’t be
afraid of me now, Charlie, for I have made up my mind that you are all
right. What convinced me the most after I got to thinking the matter
over was the way you always leave your pistol where I could get hold
of it. Often when you and I were here alone you would walk down to the
well, or to the garden, and leave the pistol lying on the table or bed.
I concluded a detective wouldn’t do that.”
From now on, I carried out the Dickenson Agency motto: “We never
sleep.” Previous to this I had been sleeping with part of one eye open,
figuratively speaking.
As I wanted a witness to the boy’s confession, I wrote to my friend
“Cunny” in Bland, to come over at once.
When “Cunny” arrived Bush was happy, as I had told him that “Black
Jack’s” chum was coming and I advised him to try to make a good
impression on him, so that he could go on their proposed raid.
I went to town and left “Cunny” and Bush together the first day.
“Cunny” put in his time “loading” the “kid” with the bloody deeds of
“Black Jack” and his gang, and of the money they made.
On my return I found Bush happy and in love with “Cunny.” I asked if he
had told “Cunny” of how he had made his killings. He said no, and asked
me to tell him about it as it would look too much like bragging for him
to tell it. I agreed to start the subject and then he could go on and
finish it. So after supper I got the boy started and he repeated the
whole story of Baily’s murder, and next morning while Atwood was doing
the outside work, I had Bush get the shotgun and show “Cunny” how it
had been done. I played Baily by sawing the scantling with the poker.
As this was all the evidence needed, I put up a scheme to get Bush to
Denver before making the arrest. I had a letter come from our office in
Denver purporting to come from a Wyoming horseman who had arrived in
that city with some cheap horses. In the letter a price was given on
fifty head, with a promise that he would hold them until I could get
there. Of course this letter was shown to “Cunny” and Bush, and “Cunny”
told Bush that he would have plenty of time to help me drive the horses
to Santa Fe as the “Black Jack” raid would not start for a month yet.
Therefore, next day Bush and I got ready to start on the A. T. & S. F.
train at 11 o’clock in the night. I suggested to Bush that he and I
walk from the ranch to the depot, which was about two miles, so as to
save hitching up a team so late in the night. “Cunny” sat up with us
until we started at 9:30 P.M.
The night was dark and on going half a mile Bush balked and wouldn’t
budge another step. Said he: “Charlie, d----d if I feel right. I am not
going any further.”
I laughed and told him to come on, that he must be crazy. He continued:
“I’ve got a hunch that you are a detective and have got officers hid
between here and the depot to arrest me. Now I want to tell you one
thing, if you do turn out to be a detective and I have to go to the
‘pen,’ you can figure that your life will end just as soon as I get
out. If I go up for five years or ten years, you can figure on living
just that long and no longer.”
I laughed and told him that I would want to die if I was low down
enough to be a detective. I assured him that there were no officers
hid in the arroyos between there and town. Then he said: “All right,
we will see. You take the lead and I’ll walk behind you with my pistol
cocked ready to shoot. Then if any one shows up on the trail I will
empty my pistol into you.” I told him to go behind and if he saw any
suspicious men to cut loose at me, but to make a death shot so that I
wouldn’t suffer. He then got out his pistol and carried it in his hand.
He walked about twenty feet behind me.
After going half a mile he stepped up to my side and slapped me on the
shoulder saying: “I reckon you are all right, Charlie. If you were a
detective you wouldn’t take such chances of being shot by me. I could
have killed you and got your money, then slipped back to the ranch and
got on Lula and hit the trail for Mexico.”
He put up the pistol and we walked side by side the balance of the way
to the depot. There we boarded the train.
At Lamy, the junction of the main line, I telegraphed to my horse man
in Denver, stating at what time we would arrive there. We arrived in
Denver during the afternoon and went to a restaurant to eat a square
meal. Just then a couple of our men and a city officer came and
arrested Bush. I protested and they threatened to arrest me if I didn’t
keep quiet.
Bush was taken to a room in the St. James Hotel, where County Attorney
Goodeheart and one of the County Commissioners from Benkelman,
Nebraska, were waiting. In about half an hour I went to the St. James
to see if I couldn’t go on Bush’s bond till morning.
Bush hated for me to leave when I bade him goodby. He didn’t seem to
suspect me of having a hand in his arrest.
Next day he was taken back to Benkelman and a surprise sprung on his
lawyer, who never knew what had become of the “kid.”
Shortly after, I had “Cunny” meet me in Denver and we went together
to Benkelman, Nebraska, to appear against Bush in the District Court,
which was in session there. Bush’s same two lawyers were on hand to
defend him, and a noted criminal lawyer from Lincoln, the Capital of
the State, was there to assist Mr. Goodeheart in the prosecution. He
was a large man with a very large bump of self-importance sticking out
of his head. But he made the mistake of bumping up against my stubborn
bump. He tried to force me to be drilled as to my testimony. He
said he had had lots of experience with railroad detectives and they
generally made a bad impression on the jury, so for that reason, he
wanted to put me through a drill. When he demanded it, then my stubborn
bump got to working and I read the riot act to him. I informed him that
I was going to tell the truth, and that truth needed no drilling, and
that I held the winning hand in this game, hence he couldn’t make me do
anything. His dignity then got down off its high horse and collapsed.
The scantling which was sawed partly in two was found where the boy
said it was, and the buckshot and small shot were cut out of the post.
After I had testified the Lincoln lawyer was so pleased that he advised
against putting “Cunny” on the stand for fear of weakening my evidence.
Therefore “Cunny” was not used.
Of course Bush’s attorneys gave me an awful “roasting.”
The court house was packed with people from the whole county. The jury
were out a short time and brought in a verdict of murder in the first
degree. There was no kissing in the court room this time. Bush looked
daggers at me. He received a life sentence in the penitentiary, and it
was sustained by the State Supreme Court.
Naturally I was quite a hero in the little town of Benkelman, and had
many invitations out to dine.
I had hard work pulling “Cunny” away from a pretty little corn-fed girl
who was waiting on our table at the hotel.
The chances are that Ernest Bush will be pardoned out of the
penitentiary before he is an old man. Then he will choose a wife from
his own class and go to breeding degenerate criminals like himself.
Thus the devil work will go on while society sleeps.
Oh, what fools we mortals are to allow it.