ON TRAIL OF UNION PACIFIC TRAIN ROBBERS THROUGH UTAH, COLORADO, NEW
MEXICO, KANSAS, INDIAN TERRITORY, ARKANSAS, TENNESSEE, MISSISSIPPI,
MONTANA AND THE REPUBLIC OF MEXICO.
After the Bush operation, I was detailed on several small cases in
nearby towns, and also did some city work in Denver.
Finally I was put to work for the Colorado Matte & Ore Co. on a long
operation to find out the feeling of their coal miners. This was not
pleasant work, as my associates were coal miners of every nationality.
I started in at Trinidad, Colorado, and worked all the coal towns
tributary to that city. Then I changed to Florence, and worked the coal
camps around there.
Finally, during the early summer, I was detailed with my friend W. O.
Sayles, who had just returned from South Africa, to go on trail of
train robbers for the Union Pacific Railroad Company. One of their
passenger trains had been held up at Wilcox, Wyoming, and a large
amount of unsigned money stolen, and in a fight which followed, Sheriff
Hazen was killed by the robbers.
From the best information obtainable, the Hole-in-the-wall gang had
committed the robbery.
In Denver, Sayles and I bought a “30-40” smokeless powder Winchester
rifle each, also blankets and camp outfit. Supt. John S. Kaiser
instructed us to go to Salt Lake City, Utah, and there buy horses and
saddles and ride into Brown’s Park, Colorado, just over the line of
Utah which is a haven for criminals. In Wyoming some of the robbers had
been seen driving a bunch of horses south, headed for Brown’s Park.
These were the particular men we were going after, but anyone who
looked suspicious of ever having robbed a train, was to be “spotted.”
A 500 mile ride over the continental range of mountains on the D. & R.
G. Ry. brought us to the Mormon Capital. The first thing we did was
to hunt up our friend “Doc” Shores, special agent of the Rio Grande
Western Ry., and tell him of our proposed man hunt, for he was in a
position to help us.
Sayers and I then bought a good saddle horse apiece, and a pack animal,
also saddles, grub, etc., and a good supply of rifle and pistol
cartridges.
Just as we were ready to start “Doc” Shores received a letter from
one of his confidential men in Hanksville, Utah, stating that two men
supposed to be Union Pacific train robbers had just passed there going
south; that they were driving thirteen head of good horses. Shores let
us read the letter and we felt confident these were the men we were
after, as they had the same number of horses as seen in Wyoming.
We arranged with Mr. Shores to furnish us a stock-car on the narrow
gauge D. & R. G. Ry. so that we could ship our horses and outfit to
Marysvale, Utah, and from there we could make a fast ride and reach
Dandy Crossing on the Colorado river about the same time as the
robbers. The letter had stated that they were headed for the Dandy
Crossing ferry. We telegraphed in cipher the contents of the letter and
our intentions to Supt. Kaiser, and asked for his advice. Soon we got
an answer to follow our first instructions, which meant to “hit the
trail” for Brown’s Park.
We selected our route through Emigration Canyon to Park City, a large
mining camp, thence to Heber and east over the range of mountains to
the head of Strawberry Creek on the Duchesne Indian Reservation and
down that stream to the Duchesne river. On Strawberry Creek we had
good fishing, although Sayles didn’t enjoy the sport on account of the
mosquitoes. They had his face and hands chewed to pieces. His face was
swollen so badly that he looked like a breweryman. I was too tough
for common mosquitoes, as I had been hardened with Texas gallinippers
chewing on me from the cradle to early manhood. A gallinipper is larger
than two northern mosquitoes.
On arriving at Ft. Duchesne, a U. S. Military post on the Indian
Reservation, after a five days’ hard ride, we found a telegraph message
from Supt. Kaiser in Denver, stating that the two men and thirteen
loose horses seen in Hanksville en route to Dandy Crossing were
undoubtedly the train robbers that we were after, and for us to give up
the Brown’s Park trip and turn south on trail of these men.
It was evident that someone had made a blunder by not letting us ship
our stock to Marysvale and thereby reach Dandy Crossing the same time
as the robbers, if not before, and also have saved us a tiresome 500
mile horseback ride. We were not mad but the cuss words hurled over
towards Denver left a sulphuric taste in our mouths for a week.
From Ft. Duchesne we headed south for Price, Utah, on the Rio Grande
Western Ry. En route to Price I learned from a rancher that my Wyoming
friend Tom Hall, who had so kindly prevented a rope being placed about
my neck, and who made the crutches for me to walk with, now lived in
Price and ran a saloon there, although he was now going by his right
name, Tom Nichols, the old murder charge in Texas having been canceled.
Not knowing that I was acquainted with Tom Hall, this rancher gave
me his history. He told me of how he and his two brothers “Mid” and
George Nichols, had conducted a saloon at “Hogtown” on the edge of Ft.
Duchesne, and of how George had killed a man and skipped out to wear
the brand of an outlaw.
A ride of three days brought us to Price early one afternoon. My
first desire was to get a good look at Tom Hall, to see if he had
changed from of old. I didn’t dare enter his saloon for fear of being
recognized by him, in which case my work might be spoiled by our
identity being made public. Furthermore, I didn’t know but that our
meeting might end in a fight, for the chances were a bitter feeling
against me existed on his part, and in that case he wouldn’t hesitate
to use his gun.
When directly opposite the Nichols saloon, Tom walked out in his shirt
sleeves and seated himself in a chair facing me. He was the same Tom,
tall and good-looking, but a little older and fleshier.
I stepped into the newspaper office at my back and asked for some
exchange papers to read. These were furnished and I sat looking out
through the glass-front at Hall, and wondered what his life had been
since we held the Irish wake over the corpse of poor Mrs. Howard.
The next morning Sayles and I pulled out for the south in a driving
rainstorm, which had been falling since midnight. About five miles out
we came to a raging creek which couldn’t be crossed without danger to
ourselves and horses. Therefore we started back to Price only to find
ourselves cut off from that place by another swift creek which had
risen over its banks in the past half hour. There was nothing for us to
do but wait in the rain for this creek to go down. This it did towards
night. On arriving back in Price, we put up at the same hotel where we
had stopped the night before, and while in our room upstairs, a knock
came at the door, which was opened and the visitor invited to enter. He
introduced himself as the editor of the local paper, and explained to
us that we were virtually under arrest as Union Pacific train robbers;
that he had been sent up by the sheriff of the county to advise us to
surrender peacefully. Of course we laughed and told him that we were
prospectors on the way to the Henry mountains south of Hanksville. The
editor then told us that the sheriff and a posse with Winchester rifles
had the hotel surrounded, and to verify his assertion we were told
to look out of the window. This we did, and saw men with rifles. The
editor told of how the sheriff had been fixing to go on our trail, when
we rode back into town.
We gave a history of how we had outfitted in Salt Lake for a
prospecting trip and that we had pick and shovel, gold pan and other
prospecting tools in our pack. He said there was no doubt in his mind
but that we were all right, and he would so report to the sheriff. Thus
the matter ended, and the “dogs of war” were called off.
The next morning when ready to make another start a photographer took
our pictures.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR AND W. O. SAYLES.]
For the next three or four days we had a wet ride, swimming creeks
and traveling in sticky mud up to our horses’ knees at times. We went
through several Mormon towns to Emery, thence over a desert to Dirty
Devil Creek, and up that stream to Hanksville, where the two supposed
train robbers had been seen.
In Hanksville we made the acquaintance of Charlie Gibbons who ran the
only hotel and store in the place. In a general talk with him and his
brother and other men, we found out that two suspicious characters
with thirteen head of horses had crossed the Colorado river at Dandy
Crossing about ten days previous, and that nearly a week later, a third
man with five head of horses crossed. He made inquiry for the first
two men. Charlie Gibbons’ brother helped this last man swim his horses
across the river, and from the description given us he was evidently
the notorious “Kid” Curry. He told Gibbons and Johnny Hite, who had
charge of the ferry, that he would go where the grass was good and camp
until he heard from his friends.
After Sayles and I crossed the river, we trailed this man up White’s
Canyon. We found where he took his horses up a rocky bluff several
hundred feet high, which looked like an impossible feat. By this time
it was late in the evening so that one of us had to return to Dandy
Crossing after some grain for our horses. It was agreed that Sayles go
back and follow till dark. It was all I could do to get my horse up the
steep bluff.
When on top of the mesa the country was level. I followed the trail to
a wide rocky arroyo where all traces of the horses’ tracks were lost.
They had evidently gone down this rocky canyon. I searched the canyon
for two miles down and then gave up the chase to get back to camp
before it became too dark to see my way down that steep bluff.
A year later I found out through Mr. John Duckett, of Bluff City, Utah,
that I was within half a mile of this lone outlaw’s camp when I turned
back. Duckett was working a mining prospect across White’s Canyon and
could see every move made. Duckett said the fellow camped there two
weeks. They were only a couple of miles apart, but couldn’t visit
each other without traveling ten to twenty miles, owing to bluffs and
canyons. So, the chances are I came very near running into my game. In
that case there would have been “something doing.” And it is possible
that this outlaw saw me trailing him. In that event he would have had
the best of the fight.
All is well that ends well.
Owing to the fact of my losing the trail of the lone outlaw on the
rock-bottom bed of the canyon, Sayers and I concluded to follow the
tracks of the two men and their thirteen head of loose horses. The
tracks still showed plainly in the valley of White’s Canyon, as there
was no travel to speak of in that country.
To recite our ups and downs in finding water and keeping the dim trail
and of having our pack horse killed by a rattlesnake bite, would
require too much space. Suffice it to say that we reached Bluff City,
a little Mormon settlement on the San Juan river, in good health, the
distance being about 120 miles with not a habitation on the route.
In Bluff City we learned of the two U. P. robbers being there two
weeks ahead of us; also two of our operatives. Alvin Garman and Alvin
Darkbird had arrived a couple of days ahead of us and had taken up the
trail of the robbers who were headed east.
By this time we knew they were Union Pacific train robbers, as they had
passed some of the unsigned bills stolen in the Silcox, Wyoming, train
holdup. They had passed one $20.00 bill with a merchant in Thompson’s
Falls and another with Charlie Gibbons of Hanksville.
Darkbird and Garman had been sent by Supt. Kaiser to Flagstaff,
Arizona, there to buy outfits and cut across the country to Bluff City,
Utah, so as to assist Sayles and me, or to intercept the robbers in
case they headed south for Arizona.
Sayles and I figured that we were born leaders of men, hence we didn’t
like the idea of bringing up the rear, three days behind the other
two operatives. Therefore, in Mancos, Colorado, on the Denver & Rio
Grande railroad we put our jaded horses in a pasture and stored our
camp outfit, taking our saddles along with us, and boarded a train for
Durango. Here we overtook Garman and his chum. From Durango, Sayles and
I led the chase by riding on trains, in buggies, and on hired saddle
horses. We left the other two boys far in the rear, and they finally
lost the trail entirely and returned to Denver.
In Lumberton, New Mexico, my friend J. M. Archuleta, who was one of my
chums in the Archuleta, Colorado, uprising, had seen the two robbers
and the thirteen head of horses, two of them being very noticeable,
one being a pretty cream color and the other a large dapple iron-gray.
After leaving Lumberton we lost the trail, but we heard of two men and
a bunch of horses headed south towards Bland, New Mexico. It was agreed
that I follow this clue, while Sayles searched the country around
Pagosa Springs, Colorado.
By riding on a Denver & Rio Grande train about 500 miles, I landed in
Santa Fe, New Mexico. There I went out to my ranch and saddled up Glen
Alpine, Jr. He was fat and bucked like a wolf.
A forty-mile ride brought me to Bland in the Cochiti mining district,
where lived my friend “Cunny.” He had seen the two men and bunch of
horses, and they proved not to be the robbers.
While I was riding in the heavy timber on the head of Peralta Canyon,
I ran onto a sister of the Polk brothers. She was alone in a new cabin
just built, and recognized “Glen” before she did me. We had both put up
at their place in the Wichita mountains, Indian Territory, when on the
Bill Blank operation. They had lately moved out into this wild country.
No doubt the lady thought “Glen” and I were inseparable, and that I had
been riding him ever since she last saw us. I was in a great hurry and
couldn’t give an account of myself.
On returning to Santa Fe, I received a telegram from Sayles, saying
that he had found the right trail, going through Pagosa Springs, and
over Mosca Pass into the Wet Mountain Valley. Shortly after rejoining
Sayles south of Canyon City, Colorado, we lost the trail again. He then
went to Cripple Creek on a false scent, while I went east and picked up
the trail by tramping afoot ten miles from a little railroad station
where there was no horse to be hired. In Cucharas Junction the trail
crossed the railroad and headed for Rattlesnake Buttes, towards the
Arkansas river.
Of course I kept the Denver officials of our office posted by wire.
Sayles was called in and sent to Montana to work on a clue as to where
some of the stolen money which had been sent to the City of Washington
had come from. I continued to follow the trail down the Arkansas river.
In Lamar, Colorado, I met my friend Newt Parrish who was in a bank
there. He and his lovely wife and I had become acquainted out in the
Wet Mountain Valley several years previous, when I was chasing a tough
character for Henry Tompkins, the hardware merchant prince of Colorado.
I had spent two months on that operation playing outlaw, cowboy, and
miner, but I overlooked giving an account of it in the proper place
herein.
Finally I landed in Dodge City, Kansas, and found that my men and
horses had passed through there on their way down the Arkansas river;
but I concluded to lay over a half day and note the changes in this the
toughest of all early-day western cattle towns.
In looking over the prosperous town I found many old landmarks in the
way of buildings, etc., but only one live one, the live one being old
“Dog Kelly,” the early-day mayor of Dodge City. He was nicknamed “Dog
Kelly” because in the early days he always had a pack of greyhounds
following at his heels; and the strange part of this story is that the
dogs were still with him, though not the same dogs, of course.
After Kelly and I had a few drinks we began to “hark back” to 1877 when
my friend Jim Kennedy, son of the Texas “Cattle King” shot at the Hon.
“Dog Kelly” and killed his “lady” companion, and how Bat Masterson and
a gang waylaid Jim Kennedy by hiding behind an old well dump at Mead
City and shot him as he rode by.
This brought to my mind how near I came to being put out of business
by this afterwards noted Bat Masterson. It happened in July, 1877.
Dodge City was then one year old, and she had a graveyard with 81 men
sleeping their last sleep. One of these had died a natural death and
the other 80 with their boots on, in other words, were killed. A fine
record for a year old town.
I had landed in Dodge City with one of the Littlefield cattle herds
from Texas. One night “Wess” Adams, a cowboy chum, and I rode into town
to have a good time. There were several dance halls in full swing, but
we settled on the Lone-Star dance hall as the “girls” there seemed
better looking and the name had a Texas flavor. Bat Masterson was the
night barkeeper.
About 11:00 P.M. “Wess” Adams called me outside and told me how he had
been insulted by a big long-haired buffalo hunter by the name of Jim
White, and he said this fellow ought to be taught a lesson to show him
that the killers of buffalo are not in the cowboy class. He then asked
if I would stay with him in a fight. Being a fool boy, and realizing
the disgrace of a cowboy quitting a chum in time of danger, I told him
to go ahead and start the ball to rolling; that I would stay with him.
Our horses were taken out of the livery stable and tied in front of
the Lone-Star dance hall. Of course we both had on Colts 45 pistols.
The hall was filled with cowboys and buffalo hunters. When the fight
started, Bat Masterson, who was behind the bar, gathered a lot of heavy
beer glasses together and began throwing them in the direction of my
head. One glanced from the side of my head and hit the wall nearby.
Pieces of the broken glass struck me in the face, drawing blood. This
was the only blood lost by yours truly. When Bat had no more glasses
to throw, he came running from behind the bar with an ice mallet. He
started in on a big dutch cowboy who had no hand in the fight, which
was then raging between a dozen cowboys and buffalo hunters. It was a
shame the way that poor Dutchman got his face mashed. The blood flew
every time Bat struck with the ice mallet. I was too busy helping my
chum, to go to Dutchy’s assistance, though I would have liked to.
There wasn’t a shot fired, but in two instances pistols were used as
clubs to knock men down.
After long-haired Jim White was lying on the floor apparently dead,
with blood flowing from wounds in the head, and I had seen a buffalo
hunter stab my partner in the back, I dragged “Wess” to the door and
out to the sidewalk where we both mounted our horses. Just as we did
so, an officer, I think Joe Mason, ran up and demanded our arrest, but
we didn’t surrender worth a cent. We just jumped our horses towards the
sidewalk and with drawn pistols made the policeman get back into the
little hallway from whence he had come.
We then put spurs to our horses and rode east out of town on the run,
and yelling cowboy fashion. Of course we were both half drunk on the
poisonous liquor passed over the bar by Bat Masterson, now one of
President Roosevelt’s pet revenue officers of New York state.
On reaching the stock yards a mile east of town, we dismounted and went
into the little board shanty to examine “Wess” Adams’ wound. Laying
him on his stomach I pulled his shirts over his shoulders and found
a horrible knife-wound under the right shoulder blade. The knife had
been thrust in and then brought around in a semi-circle in the shape
of a large horseshoe. The open part of the shoe is where the flesh was
not cut, and the other part of the wound the flesh stood out several
inches from the body. The clothing was saturated with blood. Lighted
matches had to be used in order to see. I told Adams that the wound was
serious, and for him to lie there until I could ride back to town and
get some medicine and a needle and thread to sew up the wound.
Getting on my pet horse, Whisky Pete, I rode fast, but on nearing town
I became “foxy” and thought possibly the officers might be watching
for our return, and this “foxy” part of my makeup saved my bacon. For,
about fifteen years later, Supt. Jas. McCartney, in Denver, introduced
me to Bat Masterson, and in telling him of my part in the fight at
the Lone-Star dance hall, he told how he and a gang of officers had
followed us to the edge of town and there on each side of the road,
concealed themselves from view, thinking we would take a notion to
return. He said they were armed with rifles and shotguns and intended
to make angels of us if we returned. He said they stood guard till
morning. They were no doubt anxious to increase the size of the
cemetery, at that time the pride of the town.
By riding south in a deep arroyo, I struck the railroad track and
followed this into town. Riding up to the rear of a drug store I kicked
on the door till the angry old Dutchman in his night-shirt opened the
door. After purchasing needles and thread, sticking plaster and a
candle, I returned to the stock yards the same way I had come.
I found poor Adams groaning with pain, but he kicked like a bronco
steer when my knee was put on the wound to force the swollen flesh
back in its place so that it could be sewed up. The horseshoe shaped
protruding flesh could not be pushed back in place on a level with the
rest of the body, therefore I had to discard the needle and thread and
use sticking plaster.
We had an 18 mile ride to make to the Bates & Beals cattle camp, and
towards the last part of the ride I had to hold Adams on his horse, he
was so weak from loss of blood. We arrived in camp long after daylight.
We had both hired out to this firm to drive a bunch of steers into the
wild Panhandle of Texas, and there help to establish a new ranch.
From “boys” who went into Dodge City next day, we learned that
long-haired Jim White, who was the boss of a large gang of buffalo
hunters, was not dead, though very low. His skull was cracked in
several places and a lot of sewing had to be done on his many wounds.
He finally recovered. It was one of White’s men who had stabbed Adams.
Our “boys” reported that the officers had no suspicion as to who Adams
and I were.
In the course of a couple of weeks, Adams was able to ride.
This little scrape illustrates what fools cowboys were after long
drives over the trail. Had a shot been fired that night in the dance
hall as a starter, the chances are several new mounds would have been
added to that fat graveyard.
I continued on the trail of my two train robbers, on horseback, in
buggies and on trains. They passed through the outskirts of Wichita,
where I spent one night visiting old friends and acquaintances. Among
them were Bedford Wood, ex-city marshal of Caldwell, Kansas, now a city
detective in Wichita, and “Dynamite” David Lahey, a brilliant newspaper
writer of early border days; also Jack Davis, proprietor of a white
bull dog and the swell Club Saloon of Wichita.
After retiring for the night in this prosperous little city of 25,000
people, my mind naturally drifted back to a summer night in 1876 when
I entered the place, then a village of the wild and woolly kind with
about 2,000 population.
I had just arrived from a three months’ cattle drive up the Chisholm
trail from Southern Texas, and during the night I was arrested by
policeman Mike Meagher, who afterwards became town marshal of Caldwell,
Kans. and was shot and killed in the bloody Talbot cowboy raid on
Caldwell, when the streets were made red with human blood. But Mike
Meagher was a kind-hearted officer and on account of my youth liberated
me after a few words of friendly advice.
Another cowboy and I had tried to play smart by scaring the old fellow
who kept the toll bridge across the Arkansas river, and at the same
time beat him out of the toll which was 25 cents each. We cared nothing
for the money as our pockets were bulging out with a summer’s wages.
We were on our way from the town proper, to the Red Light dance hall
across the river. When the bridge man came out of his shanty to collect
the toll we both put spurs to our horses and pulling our pistols began
shooting into the air. The old man jumped into his shanty and came
out with a double-barrel shotgun. By that time we were nearly across
the bridge and our pistols were empty, but the old fellow turned both
barrels loose at us and we could hear the buckshot rattling along the
bridge at our horses’ feet. One shot struck me in the calf of the right
leg, leaving a mark to this day as a reminder of the hurrah cattle days
of Wichita, where the noted “Wild Bill” Hecock made his first record as
a man-killer, while marshal of that town.
From here I followed the trail south to Caldwell, Kansas.
In this former hurrah cattle town, where I once made my home for about
two years, I met many old-time friends, too numerous to mention. Among
them were only two ex-cowboys, Jay Willis and “Dick” Malone, and a
solitary ex-cattle king, Sol. Tuttle.
My friend “Dick” had drifted to bleeding Kansas with a herd of
long-horns from Southern Texas. And his inclination then was to help
paint towns red. But now he does his painting with a brush instead
of with “red licker” and a six-shooter. He is following his trade of
painting houses and ceilings sky blue, and in living happily with a
pretty wife and sweet little daughter, Katherine.
From Caldwell the robbers followed the Indian Territory and Kansas line
to Arkansas City, Kansas. Here I continued on the trail to Winfield,
thence to Coffeeville and into the Indian Territory through the towns
of Wagner and Tahlequah to Ft. Smith, Arkansas.
Before reaching Ft. Smith I was joined by operative Darkbird who had
been sent from Denver to assist me. We trailed the men and horses
through Pine Bluff and to Hot Springs, Arkansas. Here we lost the
trail. We split up and searched the surrounding country. Soon I
received a telegram from Darkbird in Tennessee telling me to meet him
in Nashville, the capital city of that state, as our men had got rid
of their horses and boarded a train for there. I hurried to Nashville
by way of St. Louis, Missouri, where I spent one night with my sister
and her family. In Nashville I met operative Darkbird and found he
had followed a wrong trail. The men he had followed were evidently
desperadoes, but not the ones we wanted.
Here Darkbird became sick with malaria and returned to Denver.
A couple of years later in looking over correspondence on this
operation, I found one of Mr. W. L. Dickenson’s letters to Gen. Supt.
McCartney. It was dated Chicago, Dec. 22nd, 1899, and stated:
“I note that operative Siringo has picked up the trail of these men at
Benton, Arkansas, and that operative Darkbird has returned home, being
very sick with malaria. I am very sorry to hear of operative Darkbird’s
illness. The swamp country through which he passed has evidently
knocked him out. I fear it may do the same with Siringo, but he is as
tough as a pine knot and I never knew of a man of his size who can
endure as much hardship as he does.”
It gave me much satisfaction to know that I was considered tough, in
more ways than one.
In Nashville I saw more pretty girls to the square inch than I had ever
seen before or ever expect to see again. I sat at a dinner table with
about a dozen college girls and each one was a beauty of the first
water, and on the streets my neck was almost disjointed looking around
at pretty young women. I was glad to get away so as to give my eyes and
neck a rest.
Arriving back in Hot Springs, Ark., I hired a saddle horse and searched
the mountains for a trace of my men. This brought me among a queer
class of people, some of them moonshiners. One old moonshiner assisted
in putting me on the right trail of the robbers. Their trail led
through Little Rock, the capital of the state, thence down the Arkansas
river through the swamps to a wild unsettled country 25 miles south of
Stuttgart. Here the loose horses were turned over to a long-haired old
man, who had outlaw sons, by the name of La Cutts, who lived in De
Witt, not far from the mouth of the Arkansas river.
The robbers mounted the pretty cream colored and the dapple iron-gray
horses and headed north to White River, thence down that stream to
Clarendon, then due east to Helena on the Mississippi river. Crossing
the “Father of Waters” they passed through Glendale and Lula,
Mississippi, thence east one hundred miles through the “Black Belt,”
where in some places negroes are thicker than flies on a syrup keg in
August. They then rode one hundred miles south, thence back west to the
Mississippi river at a boat landing above the town of Rosedale. Here
both robbers hired a man to ferry them across the Mississippi to the
mouth of the Arkansas river, after their horses and saddles had been
turned over to a strange negro man who disappeared in the swamps.
At the mouth of the Arkansas river one robber, whose name I had reason
to believe was Owens, and who was a desperate outlaw, went up the
Arkansas river in a skiff, while his companion boarded a little tramp
steamer and went down the “Father of Waters.” They had agreed to meet
in two weeks, but I couldn’t find out where. This put me up a stump
with no chance to proceed.
I went to the City of Vicksburg, Miss., and posted officers to be
on the look out for my men; also did likewise in the large towns of
Indianola, Greenville and Cleveland.
While trailing these men through the swamps of Mississippi among the
negroes, I had more fun than a bushel of monkeys over the comical
antics of these green black men and women and their kinky-headed
pickaninnies.
Often I had to walk through the deep mud when a horse or vehicle
couldn’t be hired. And my feed was mostly corn bread, sorgum syrup and
fat bacon.
Finally I received orders to give up the chase and return to Denver, as
my services were needed in Montana on the same operation.
On quitting the chase I was about three weeks behind the two train
robbers.
In Denver I was informed by Asst. Supt. “Rank” Curran, who had charge
of the U. P. Ry. train holdup operation, that W. O. Sayles had run into
a brother, Loney Curry, and a cousin, Bob Curry, of the noted outlaw
“Kid” Curry, in Harlin, Mont.; that Loney and Bob owned a saloon there
and had sent some of the unsigned bills stolen in the Silcox, Wyo.,
robbery, off to be cashed. In this way they were located, but sold
their saloon and skipped out before Sayles had a chance to arrest them.
They had become suspicious of Sayles, so for that reason he could not
work on their friends secretly.
Sayles had found out that the right names of Kid and Loney Curry were
Harvey and Loney Logan and that they were born and raised in Dodson,
Mo., near Kansas City, and that for years they had been making their
headquarters in the Little Rockies, a small range of mountains 50 miles
east of Harlin, the railroad station where Bob and Loney had owned
the saloon. Therefore, I was instructed to meet Sayles in Helena, the
capital of Montana, and then buy a horse and saddle at some point and
ride into the Little Rockies and get in with the friends of the Logan
brothers.
So finally, with several hundred dollars in my pocket I started
for Helena, Mont. I took along instructions for Sayles to hurry on
direct to San Francisco, Cal., there to start in as Asst. Supt.
of the Dickenson office in that city. There was to be a change of
superintendents in the San Francisco office, and they wanted Sayles to
learn the office work by starting in as an assistant. He was appointed
superintendent soon after arriving in San Francisco.
General Supt. of the Western Division, Jas. McCartney, had tried to
induce me to accept the position of Asst. Supt. of the San Francisco
office before it was offered to Sayles, but I refused it. I told him
that if he should ever die and the Dickensons should offer me his
position I might consider it, but wouldn’t promise that I would accept
it. The truth is, I didn’t want to be tied down in an office, even with
an advance in salary and a chance to swell up with self-importance.
In Helena, Mont., I visited with W. O. Sayles and detective M. B.
Wilmers a couple of days. Sayles gave me much information about the
Little Rockies, although he had not been there himself, but he had
talked with many men who had.
It was thought best for me to outfit in Great Falls and ride about two
hundred and fifty miles across the “bad lands,” to Landusky, the small
cattle town in the Little Rocky mountains.
Bidding Sayles goodby I boarded a train for Great Falls, Mont., where
I bought a bucking bronco mare and started east for Lewiston, Mont.,
about three days’ ride. In Lewiston a severe blizzard was raging, it
being about the latter part of February. I waited two days for it to
moderate, but it seemed to grow worse. Therefore, a start was made one
morning when the thermometer registered about 20 below zero, and with
the wind blowing a gale. The people at the hotel advised me not to
start, and I wished before night that I had heeded their advice.
My route lay over a flat country north to Rocky Point on the Missouri
river, a distance of about 80 miles, and only one ranch on the route.
It was this ranch that I aimed to reach before night. After traveling
against this cold wind about 15 miles I could stand it no longer. My
mare could hardly be kept headed towards the blizzard. I had a woolen
hood over my face and head and even then my nose and ears were about
frozen. I could see the mountains off to the east where I had been
told the mining camp of Gilt Edge was situated, so for there I headed,
not caring to return to Lewiston. About night I struck the wagon road
between Gilt Edge and Lewiston, and then I was happy.
A long climb over this mountain range brought me into the live camp
of Gilt Edge about four hours after dark. I felt like a half frozen
fool for ever having undertaken such a journey. But after I had gotten
on the outside of a large porterhouse steak and the trimmings, which
included two hot whiskies, I began to thaw out and felt better.
Next morning I concluded to take a different route to the Rocky Point
crossing of the Missouri river. Therefore I obtained a sketch of the
route to the “Red Barn” on the south border of the “Bad Lands.” A hard,
cold ride brought me to the “Red Barn” ranch, where I found a crowd of
cowboys congregated waiting for the weather to moderate. From here it
was 30 miles across the “Bad Lands” to Rocky Point, and I was advised
to lay over a few days and wait for a “Chinook” wind to melt the snow
so that the dim road could be followed. I did so, and while waiting,
I gained some information about the “Kid” Curry gang. Loney Curry had
stopped here before and after the Silcox train robbery on the U. P.
Railway.
I started one morning after a “Chinook” had been blowing all night, so
that the snow was almost gone, but the sticky mud on the “Bad Lands”
was something fearful. It would stick to the mare’s feet till the poor
animal could hardly gallop. I had seen many kinds of sticky mud in my
life, but nothing to equal this.
The warm wind was blowing a gale, and soon after leaving the “Red Barn”
I had a race after my broad-brim cowboy hat which made me swear and
laugh by turns. The country was level, and when my hat blew off the
wind took it “a sailing” across the country. It went like a wheel, on
edge, and I tried to keep up with it, but my mare was handicapped in
the race on account of the balls of mud sticking to her hoofs. After a
mile and a half run I outwinded the hat and caught it, but in getting
off in the mud to pick it up after I had made the mare step on it, I
found I couldn’t get my foot in the stirrup, owing to the mud which was
stuck fast to it. Here my early cowboy training in the art of fancy
swearing came in play, as it seemed to relieve my mind, while the mud
was being scraped off my foot with a knife.
I had been told of the many dim wagon roads leading in different
directions, which were liable to lead me astray, and this gave me much
worry when I came to the forks of a road. The thoughts of a blizzard
striking me on these “Bad Lands” where there is no wood or habitation,
caused cold shivers to run down my back whenever the dim trail seemed
to be bearing away from a north course. It was a cloudy day so that I
couldn’t tell for sure which was north.
Just as night was approaching I found a piece of glass from a telegraph
pole. This satisfied me that I was on the right road, hence I was
happy. I had been told that in the early days the government had a
telegraph line on the road to Rocky Point, but that the line had been
moved away years before. I still keep that piece of green glass, as it
had brought good cheer to my drooping spirits.
I arrived in Rocky Point on the south bank of the Big Muddy river three
hours after dark. Here I found old man Tyler and his son running the
ferry and keeping a small Indian trading store.
My mare had only traveled 30 miles, but she had carried about 75 pounds
of mud across the “Bad Lands,” hence she was almost played out on
arriving at Rocky Point.
I had often heard of the “Bad Lands” and wanted to visit them, but now
that desire has vanished.
Before reaching the Little Rockies, I learned that outlaw Harvey Logan,
alias Kid Curry, had a half interest in a horse ranch with one Jim
T.; that they owned about 500 head of good horses which ranged in the
Little Rockies.
As luck would have it, on reaching Landusky, the small village in the
Little Rockies, I made the acquaintance of Jim T. through an accident.
In riding by the saloon in front of which were a crowd of rough
looking men, my mare shied and I spurred her in the flanks. She began
bucking and old Colts 45 flew out of the scabbard, striking a rock
in the street. When the mare quit bucking, Jim T. gave me the pistol
which he had picked up. This meant a treat for the crowd, and I became
acquainted with the partner of “Kid Curry,” the slickest and most
bloodthirsty outlaw of the age.
To recite all my ups and downs and the valuable information about
outlaws and tough characters secured for my agency would take up too
much space. Suffice it to say that I played myself off for an old
Mexico outlaw and became “Solid Muldoon” with the worst people of the
community. I had adopted the name of Chas. L. Carter.
Harvey Logan had killed old Pike Landusky, the man for whom this town
was named, several years previous, which first started him on the road
as a genuine desperado. Jim T. informed me that he advised Harvey to
kill Landusky, and for that reason he will always be his friend through
thick and thin.
Pike Landusky’s widow, Julia, still resided on their ranch two miles
out of town. The family consisted of two boys and three girls. One
of these girls, Elfie, 20 years of age and good-looking, had a
three-year-old son by Loney Logan. They had never been married by law,
which seemed no disgrace here.
In trying to capture Loney Logan at Dodson, Missouri, where he was in
hiding with his aunt, Mrs. Lee, mother to Bob Lee, alias “Bob Curry” by
officials of the Dickenson agency (my friend Tom F. Kipple being at the
killing) he was shot through the head and killed.
I had made myself “solid” with Elfie Curry, as she was called, hence
read all of her letters and was told all of her secrets. She had stacks
of letters from her husband, as she called Loney, and also from Mrs.
Lee and her daughter, and during Bob Lee’s trial in Cheyenne, Wyo., she
received letters from the lawyers whom Mrs. Lee had sent from Kansas
City, Mo., to defend her son. As I had free access to Elfie’s trunks I
could read these letters at any time.
The Kansas City lawyer came to Landusky after evidence to prove an
alibi for Bob Lee, and while he was working with Elfie and Jim T., I
was introduced to him, and learned all of his secrets. Jim T. would
meet him at Elfie’s house in town.
During the round-ups and horse branding trips I showed my skill in
throwing a rope. This made me solid with Jim T. who lived with his
common-law wife on a ranch a few miles south of Landusky. They had a
bright little three-year-old boy named Harvey in honor of the outlaw
Harvey Logan. This little fellow felt at home with a small pistol
buckled around his waist,--then he would go wild. A high picket fence
had to be built around the house to keep him from running away.
One evening during the past winter when the thermometer was hovering
about zero, little Harvey struck out for “tall timber” with his pet
dog, a large yellow cur. They tramped the hills all night. Next morning
the whole population of Landusky, in the male line, about twenty-five
men, were out searching for the child’s corpse, as it was thought
impossible for a boy of his tender age to endure the bitter cold night.
But the little fellow proved to be tough like his daddy. He was found
in the afternoon many miles from home, huddled up by the side of his
pet dog, fast asleep. The warmth from the dog’s body had no doubt saved
his life.
[Illustration: LITTLE HARVEY T. AND HIS DOG.]
This boy is pretty good material for a future train robber. He says
that will be his occupation, and his father encourages him, as he says
he would like to see him prove as brave a man as his namesake, Harvey
Logan.
“Like begets like” is a true saying. There is no doubt but that Jim T.
was a hard case and landed in Montana under an assumed name.
Mrs. Julia Landusky gave me many inside facts of Jim T. and his actions
when he first landed in the Little Rockies as a slender young man. Now
he is a middle-aged, large, heavy man.
Judging from the time he came to the Little Rockies and his description
as given by Mrs. Landusky, Mr. W. L. Dickenson is confident Jim T.
is no other than “Dad” Jackson of the noted Sam Bass gang who robbed
the Union Pacific train near Ogalalla, Nebraska, in the early ’70s.
Most of this gang were killed or sent to the penitentiary for this
holdup, “Dad” Jackson being the only one who made his “getaway.” Mr.
Dickenson, who was then an operative in the agency, worked on the case.
Shortly after my arrival in the Little Rockies I received a ducking in
the cold icy waters of a branch of Milk river. I was going to Harlin on
the Great Northern railroad, with Puck Powell, the ex-cowboy postmaster
of Landusky. We were the only passengers in the open stage coach drawn
by four horses. On reaching the swollen stream which was full of broken
ice, we persuaded the kid driver to swim the team across. When out in
mid-stream the large chunks of ice struck the stage coach, carrying
horses and all down stream. The spring seats were all that showed above
water, and Puck, the driver and I, were upon these. We were having a
free ride with the poor horses trying to swim up stream. Something had
to be done to save the horses from drowning, so with all my clothes on
I jumped into the icy cold water. On reaching the bank in a bend of the
creek the driver threw me the lines. The lead horses were pulled ashore
and the vehicle swung around against the steep clay bank, so that Puck
and the driver could step off without getting wet.
Undressing in the cold wind to wring the water out of my clothes, gave
me a taste of old-time cowboy life. We didn’t reach the stage station
until dark.
During the month of June, I came within an ace of losing my breath,
which would have put me out of business for all time.
I was at Jim T.’s ranch and he got me to drive a bronco team to
Rocky Point on the Missouri river twenty-five miles. This team of
four-year-old browns had only been hitched up in harness a couple of
times. The broncos were hitched to an old buckboard and a bottle of
water put under the seat, as the weather was hot and no water en route.
Before starting at 7:30 A.M. Jim T. cautioned me to be careful as this
team had run away and smashed up a vehicle the past fall, since which
time they had been running wild on the range.
The twenty-five mile drive to Rocky Point was over a broken, rocky
country, with a very dim wagon road to follow, and there was not a
habitation on the road.
Jim T. opened the gate and I started with the browns tugging at their
bits. For the first few miles the horses made several efforts to run,
though I managed to get them checked up, but when about five miles
out, business started. As we flew over the rocky road as fast as the
horses could run, I remember seeing something black, which must have
been one of the tug-straps, hitting the broncos on the hind legs. I
also remember seeing a deep gully ahead, and to avoid it, I threw my
weight onto one line to turn the team around the head of the short
gully. I cannot account for my not jumping and letting the outfit go to
the d----l, for I’ve been in runaways before, and I generally sprout
imaginary wings and fly out of the rig. I am all right on a horse’s
back, but a rank coward in a vehicle.
When I woke up the sun was about two hours high, it being about 5 P.M.
I was lying flat on my back with the hot June sun shining in my face. I
couldn’t move or open my eyes, and I wondered what was wrong. Finally,
by making a strong effort, I got my right hand up to my eyes,--the
left arm couldn’t be raised. I discovered that my face and eyes were
covered with a baked coating of some kind. This was scraped from my
eyes when they opened. Still, I couldn’t think what was wrong. Soon I
became deathly sick at my stomach and started to vomiting. I managed
to turn over on my left side so as to vomit on the ground. Then I
discovered that I was throwing up blood. Raising up my head I saw the
hind wheels and the bed of the buckboard upside down, and only a few
yards from me lay my Colts 45 pistol and the bottle of water which was
put in the buckboard on starting. Then it all came fresh to my mind of
the runaway, but I didn’t remember of the vehicle turning over. The
last that I could recall was turning the team around the head of the
gully.
As I was dying for a drink of water after lying in the hot sun for
eight or nine hours, every nerve in my body was strained to crawl to
the bottle of water.
A little of the water was used to wash the blood out of my eyes. In
vomiting, while on my back with my head slightly down hill, the blood
had run over my face and eyes and when dried, had formed a hard crust.
The water and the crawling had revived me so that I could sit up. On
feeling the top of my head I found that my high stubborn bump had
overflowed and filled up the hole where the religious bump ought to
have been, according to phrenology rules. In fact, the top of my head
was badly swollen, which showed that I had landed on the ground wrong
end up. My back pained the worst, and it was like pulling a tooth to
try to get onto my feet. Therefore I started out to crawl back to the
Jim T. ranch about five miles. After crawling a few hundred yards I
managed to gain my feet. Several times en route I was on the eve of
giving up and lying down to rest, but the fear that I wouldn’t be able
to get on my feet again, kept me pushing ahead.
When within a mile of the ranch, after the sun had set, I saw a man
afoot running towards me. I was reeling from one side to the other like
a drunken bum, and this had brought Jim T. to my rescue. He saved me
from a fall by grabbing me in his strong arms just as I was falling. I
had given up and couldn’t have walked another step. I was carried to
the house and put to bed. Jim T. kept a good supply of horse liniment
in the house and he used this on me with a lavish hand as though it was
water. There was no doctor nearer than the railroad fifty miles, so I
wouldn’t consent to T. going after one.
Two days later the bronco team were found, still dragging the front
wheels of the buckboard.
While recovering, I had a good chance to get information about the
“Wild Bunch,” from Jim T., but he would never give a hint as to where
“Kid” Curry was, though I found out enough to convince me that they
kept up a correspondence through the post office in the prosperous town
of Chinook, on the railroad, not far from Harlin, but under what names,
I couldn’t tell. He informed me that his mail addressed to Landusky was
watched when it left the railroad station of Harlin.
In talking, Jim T. showed a very bitter spirit against the Dickensons
for killing his friend Loney Logan, and for sending Bob Lee, alias “Bob
Curry” to the pen.
Our agency had lately captured and convicted Bob Lee for his connection
in the Silcox, Wyo. U. P. train holdup. He was caught in Cripple
Creek, Colo., and convicted and sentenced to the pen for ten years, in
Cheyenne, Wyo.
Jim T. assured me that Loney’s brother “Kid Curry” would soon get even
with the U. P. railroad company and the Dickensons by robbing another
U. P. train; that the “Kid” was then in the south making preparation
for a deal of that kind.
It was three weeks before I had fully recovered from the runaway, and
even to this day I can feel the effects of the fall in my head and arm.
I had found out many secrets of past crimes in the west.
We knew that Flat Nose George Curry (who was not related to “Kid”
and Loney “Curry”) was one of the robbers of the Silcox, Wyo., train
holdup, and deputy U. S. Marshal Joe LaFors of Cheyenne, had written
the officials of the U. P. railroad that he had learned through a
reliable source that Flat Nose George Curry was with a tough character
named Henry Smith, somewhere in the northwestern part of the state of
Chihuahua in Old Mexico. Therefore I received orders by mail to meet
LaFors in Denver and go with him to Old Mexico in search of Flat Nose
George Curry.
We had decided that “Kid” Curry, Jim T.’s partner, would steer clear
of the Little Rockies where every one knew him, but in this we were
mistaken, for not long after I left he slipped back and killed Ranchman
Winters who had killed his brother Johnny.
Winters was a prosperous stock raiser and he told me that he expected
to be waylaid and killed by “Kid” Curry.
In the latter part of August I slipped out of the country on my
red-roan horse for which I had traded the bucking mare. No one knew I
was going but my supposed sweetheart Elfie Curry. I told her that my
partner was to be executed for a crime we had both committed in Old
Mexico, and that I feared he would confess and give me away; that if he
did she would never see me again as I intended to cut my suspenders and
go straight up, where my friends would never hear of me. Otherwise I
would return. She was given a certain address in New Mexico from whence
letters would be forwarded to me.
Nearly a year afterwards a letter from her reached me through
that address. In her letter she wrote that poor little Loney, her
four-year-old boy, was heart-broken over my long absence, and kept
asking: “Mamma when is Mr. Carter coming home?” The little fellow was
pretty and bright, and we had become greatly attached to each other. Of
course, the letter was not answered, and I heard no more of them.
In Harlin my horse and saddle were sold and I boarded a train for
Denver.
On reaching home Joe LaFors met me and we went to El Paso, Texas,
together. In El Paso LaFors located until I could run down Henry Smith
and his chum who was supposed to be Flat Nose George Curry.
It had been agreed by Mr. Morris Butt, the president of the West
Pacific Railway Company, that LaFors could stay in El Paso until I ran
the men down. Then I was to notify LaFors and he would come to me to
identify Flat Nose George Curry, whom he had seen.
In El Paso I boarded a train for Casas Grandes, Mexico, at the foot of
the Sierra Madre mountains. There I secured a horse and saddle and the
strenuous part of my work began.
About 100 miles northwest of Casas Grandes, in Janos, a large Mexican
town, I got on the trail of my men. But in the windup two weeks later,
I concluded that Henry Smith’s chum was not Flat Nose George Curry.
In the Mormon Colony of Dias I wired to Joe LaFors, in El Paso,
Texas, that we were on the wrong trail--hence he could return home to
Cheyenne, Wyoming.
Soon after this Flat Nose George Curry was shot and killed in Utah,
while trying to resist his capture. This confirmed my decision that
Smith’s chum was not the man wanted.
While resting a few days in the Mormon colony of Dias, Mexico, I saw
some queer sparking. The pretty eighteen-year-old hired girl at the
place I was stopping made love to the sixty-year-old proprietor, and
married him. This made his fourth wife, all living within a stone’s
throw of each other.
On this trip into Old Mexico I recognized several former cowboy chums,
but I didn’t make myself known. Among them was one who was outlawed
from Texas. He was going under an assumed name and was living with a
native woman. They had a house full of little half-breeds of all sizes,
from the cradle up into the teens. So, why disturb him when he was
faithfully assisting Mother Nature to improve the human race.
From Dias I rode on a stage coach to a station on the Sierra Madre
railway, and arrived back in Denver after an absence of over a month.