A MINING CASE IN KELLY, N. M.--BIG ROBBERY IN PRESCOTT, A.
T.--INCENDIARY CASE IN WYOMING--MRS. SHAW KIDNAPPING CASE IN PUEBLO,
COLO.--CHASE AFTER “BAD” MAN IN SONORA, MEXICO--CATTLE CASE IN WYOMING
AND MONTANA--“FRENZIED FINANCE” OPERATION IN ROSWELL, N. M.
Soon after my return from the Dr. Wentz case in Kentucky and Virginia,
I was hurried south to Magdalena, New Mexico, on the A. T. & S. F. Ry.
From there I went to the mining camp of Kelly to meet Mr. Cochran, the
manager of the Kelly mine, on a stagecoach.
Mr. Cochran started me to work on certain mining men of the camp to
gain certain information for the benefit of him and his associates.
My name here was Chas. T. Lloyd. I remained over a month and did the
work successfully.
En route back to Denver, Colo., I stopped off a few days in Santa Fe
to visit my pets at the Sunny Slope ranch. Two of my pet horses, Lulu
and “Glen” had crossed over to the happy hunting ground where, if the
Indians’ religion is correct, they may be ridden by the noble red men
on buffalo hunts. I felt grieved over their death.
A few days spent in Denver and I was off for Cheyenne, Wyo., to meet
U. S. Marshal Hadsell and his deputy Joe LaFors, and the client who is
a high-up statesman.
The Warren Live Stock Company had had their home ranch on Pole Creek,
twelve miles north of Cheyenne, burnt along with a lot of stock,
causing a loss of about $40,000.00. It was known to have been set
afire, but there was no clue as to who did it. Joseph LaFors had worked
on the case and found suspicious circumstances connected with an
ex-convict named Bert H. Hence it required that I win the confidence
of cowboy Bert H. and get a confession from him if he committed the
crime. Bert H. was known to be somewhere on the Laramie plains about
seventy-five miles north of Cheyenne.
In order to hail from the adjoining state, Nebraska, I went there on a
U. P. Ry. train, and from Sidney, Nebraska, I took a B. & M. train to
Torrington, Wyoming, near old Fort Laramie, where years before I had
attended dances on crutches. Here I bought a horse and saddle and rode
west for the Laramie Plains, several days’ ride distant.
Bert H. was found at the Jim K. ranch. He had a contract to put up some
wild hay for Jim K. He did the hay-cutting all alone in the gulches and
low places far from the ranch, the country being wild and unsettled.
Bert H. and I became fast friends and we made trips into the
settlements. He told me all about himself and we planned big
horse-stealing raids into Nebraska. He had been sent to the Wyoming pen
for stealing horses, and he now kept a small band running on the range
as a nest-egg to draw on.
During this fall of 1904 while working on Bert H. I took in the great
cowboy tournament at the Frontier Day Celebration in Cheyenne, and
while there I was kept jumping sideways to avoid running into Bert C.
of “Wild Bunch” fame and others whom I knew.
This cowboy tournament was a great treat to me, especially the
“bronco-busting” contests. The riders did fine, but in the roping
contests the ropers, as a whole, were “on the bum,” which would have
been considered disgraceful to the early-day cowboy. But this can be
accounted for by the fact of the present-day cowboy not getting much
every-day practice.
One day when Bert H. and I were five miles from the Jim K. ranch we saw
a streak of flying calico in the air. As it drew nearer, we discovered
it to be Mrs. Jim K. sitting clothespin fashion on an old horse who was
running his best. As soon as the frightened lady could get her breath
she informed us that her only child, a twelve-year-old boy had shot
himself in the leg with a pistol.
She and the boy were the only ones at home, as her husband had gone
away on a week’s trip and their hired man Joe Cruelty would not be back
until night.
As the wounded boy had been left lying on the kitchen floor alone, I
put spurs to my horse and galloped to the ranch while Bert H. followed
with the team and wagon, so as to take the boy to Chugwater station on
the Cheyenne Northern Railroad about twenty miles west.
The boy was found on the floor badly frightened. I discovered that the
bullet was lodged deep down in the calf of his leg. After bandaging the
wound with wet towels, first cleansing it with diluted carbolic acid,
I began to cheer him up, by laughing and telling him of the value of
bullet-marks in the making of a good cowboy. He had a great desire to
be a wild and woolly cowpuncher.
By the time Mrs. K. arrived I had the boy laughing.
Then I explained the foolishness of making the trip to Cheyenne, just
to have the bullet cut out, at an expense of at least $200.00, in the
face of the future honor to be derived from carrying lead in his flesh,
as in old age he could tell his grandchildren that he was packing lead
shot into him by wild Indians when the Laramie plains was a howling
wilderness. I assured the mother that the boy would be well and on
his feet in two weeks, whereas in Cheyenne hospital he would be kept
just as long as she could be grafted out of the doctor’s fees. The
result was, when Bert H. arrived there was no need for the team, as the
proposed trip to the railroad had been given up.
I finally decided beyond a reasonable doubt, that Bert H. had no hand
in the burning of the Pole Creek ranch; therefore, I went near the line
of Nebraska to work out another clue which had been given by Senator
Warren and Joe LaFors.
On leaving the Laramie plains the wounded boy, who was on crutches and
out of danger, sold me one of his half-starved Russian wolfhound pups.
He was all legs and hair, and had never had a square meal, as the eight
dogs on the ranch were fed once a day on mush by the hired man, Joe
Cruelty, who only fed them half enough, the few table scraps all going
to his own two shepherd dogs and Mrs. K.’s pet cats.
I named the pup “Jimmie Long-legs,” as a name should always be founded
on facts, and the fact of Jimmie having long legs was a reality.
On leaving the ranch one morning to make a hard ride without water,
Jimmie played completely out and couldn’t navigate.
I was uncertain as to whether the bronco which I had just traded
for, would consent to carrying double, but it was a case of
“pushincy,”--something had to be done to get Jimmie to water.
Riding up by the side of the pup I reached down and caught him by the
nape of the neck. Then swinging him across the saddle in front of me,
the bucking contest began. Here was a bronco-busting contest going
to waste on the desert with no one to see but the Lord, and if His
all-seeing eye gathered in any fun from this free show He failed to let
it be known by slapping me on the back and saying: “Well done thou good
and faithful bronco and dog buster.” The pup was being “busted” too,
or at least would have been had his stomach contained anything but the
lingering memory of his last mush supper.
Every time the bronco came down on his front feet with his hind parts
up in the air, my whole weight was thrown against the pup’s empty
mushbasket, and of course the air was full of yelps. I wanted to smile
but didn’t have time.
On reaching the creek where there was a small lake, I shot a mudhen for
Jimmie. Then I had to pull off my boots and pants and wade out into the
muddy lake to get the hen. While ripping the mudhen open preparatory to
skinning the feathers off, the “purp” which was sitting on his long
tail eyeing the operation, smelled the blood and made a grab for the
hen. I tried to take it away from him but he held on, so turning my
hold loose I told Jimmie to pick his own duck; but bless you, he ate
feathers, bill, feet and all. It was filling that he was after, and not
dainties.
Here I changed Jimmie’s name to “Eat ’Em Up Jake” and he retains that
name to this day.
Later in Cheyenne City, I put E. E. U. J. in a crate and expressed him
to Santa Fe, New Mexico, there to join my other pets.
My next few weeks’ work solved the fire mystery. The secret was locked
up in the brains of two wealthy brothers who had cattle on a thousand
hills. They were bitter enemies of Senator ---- and his company. I
became quite chummy with one of them and he told me enough to satisfy
me as to their guilt.
I spoiled one scheme which the brothers were using against the ----
Company. They had an extra ’phone instrument which was used to get the
secrets passing between Senator ---- and his manager, Mr. Willson in
Cheyenne City, and the foreman of the Pole Creek Home ranch. A wire
would be attached to this private telephone line and then fastened to
the extra receiver on the ground. My informant told me in confidence of
how after the fire, he lived on this telephone line catching all the
secrets of Joe LaFors’ sleuthing work.
In Cheyenne city I met Senator ---- at his home and the case was
discussed. We decided that it would require a long siege at great
expense to secure evidence enough to convict, more so, as the secret
was locked up in the heads of two “foxy” men who had money to fight
the case to the bitter end.
The senator said that he would read the “riot act” to these brothers so
as to let them know that he knew of their guilt and how they had stolen
his secrets from the telephone line, and how they used to kill and
cripple his fine range horses by running them into barbed wire fences,
one of their favorite schemes being to raise the wires which fenced in
a windmill and trough, so that the thirsty Warren horses could crawl
through to the water. Then the wild animals would be stampeded through
the wire, many being ruined and some killed. On the strength of this
information from me, the senator disposed of his range horses.
It was agreed that the operation be discontinued, therefore I returned
to Denver.
My next operation out of the city was to Salt Lake, Utah, to do secret
work on a son of Banker O’Gormley of that city; also on his friends,
all young “bloods” and “high rollers.”
I passed myself off as a mining man and secured the information wanted,
relating to a copper mine and new smelter in one of the southern
territories. Then I dropped out of sight and returned home.
Soon I was hurried off to Prescott, Arizona, to work on a big robbery
which had just taken place.
Jim S. was the treasurer of Yavapai County, Prescott being the county
seat, and on the morning after election, his party being defeated, S.
was found by his daughter bound and gagged, and locked in the vault of
the court house. All the cash, many thousands of dollars, was gone.
Jim S. claimed that two strangers overpowered him after midnight and
locked him in the vault, after which they took the cash and skipped.
But his bondsmen had a suspicion that he did the job himself, hence the
Dickenson agency being called into the case.
I arrived in Prescott, Arizona, about 10 P.M., and after securing a
room strolled down “Whisky Row” fronting the court house, and there on
the street my friend Joe Hobbs in company with the county treasurer Jim
S. was met. Of course I was introduced to S. and we three went into a
saloon to “irrigate.”
This illustrates how good luck often helps a detective, though it would
have been an unlucky meeting had I not previously played my cards right
with Joe Hobbs. He and I had been partners in a mine when I was working
on the Jersey Lillie mine-salting case. He had been used then as a
cat’s paw to pull my chestnuts out of the fire, and now I intended to
use him again for the same purpose, as he and S. were bosom friends.
Joe Hobbs knew me by the name of Lee Roy Davis, therefore that name had
to be used.
After midnight I invited Mr. Hobbs and S. to have a feast with me, and
while we were in a cafe eating, two officers came in and arrested S. on
a warrant sworn out by his bondsmen.
Hobbs and I accompanied the Texas gentleman to jail and saw him safely
put to bed behind cold steel shutters.
Of course, my friend Hobbs was “hot under the collar” over the arrest
being made at night when bonds could not be given for his friend’s
release.
At 8 P.M. next day, in Lawlor’s office, I met the bondsmen who had
employed the Dickenson agency. They were: Mr. James Wardner, Mr. Tony
Motts, Mr. John Lawson, Mr. Robt. Howe and his partners in the Palace
saloon and theater, Messers Smith & Belcher. They gave me all the facts
in the case, of how Jim S. on the morning after the election had been
found by his daughter who was the assistant treasurer, locked in the
vault and all the county funds gone.
My visits at the home of Mr. Hobbs were enjoyed, as Mrs. Hobbs was a
nice little soul and had three sweet little children. Besides, she was
a good cook and gave me an opportunity of testing her culinary art. She
was a sister of my friend Joseph LaFors, the deputy U. S. Marshal of
Wyoming. On this account I disliked using her and her hubby as cat’s
paws.
Of course it was impossible for me to stay in Prescott without being
recognized by my old friend Johnny Kinnie, who still owned mining
interests there. After we had come together, I found that he still
loved “red licker,” “all same” twenty-five years previous, when he and
I went to a swell Mexican wedding in La Mesilla, New Mexico, and got
“loaded” on champagne.
As Kinnie was a good Democrat, same as Mr. Hobbs and Jim S. and knew
the inside workings of the Arizona brand of political whisky-soaked
corruption, I used him also as a cat’s paw, though with his consent.
Johnny Kinnie and I went to the strong Miners’ union camp of McCabe
where I did some secret work among old Coeur D’Alene, Idaho,
dynamiters, who knew me well, but who failed to recognize me. Kinnie
was fearful lest one particular rabid dynamiter from the Coeur
D’Alenes might know my face and voice; for only a few weeks previous
he had told Kinnie of that Dickenson detective “Allison--Siringo” who
had joined the Gem union and turned traitor. He said he would know me
should we ever meet, but the fellow drank at my expense many times
and told me all about the prospects for a man of wealth like myself,
investing money in that camp.
Before court sat I made a trip to Phoenix, the capital of the
territory, and to Tempe and other places. On these trips I was
gathering evidence to be used against the schemes which Jim S.’s
friends were manufacturing to clear the county treasurer.
Finally the day of trial arrived, and after the jury were selected I
informed our clients that the defense would “fix” a few of the jurymen
so as to be assured of a “hung jury”; and later our clients were given
the names of the “fixed” jurymen, as I had got the information from
headquarters, but it was too late now to remedy the evil, as the case
had started.
During the trial a Catholic priest did a little stunt on a court
official to save one of his church members of wealth and influence who
might be sent to the penitentiary in case Jim S. was convicted.
As soon as the jury were dismissed the four “fixed” jurymen met Hobbs,
Jim S. and myself in one of the saloons. Then drinking began, and these
jurymen told of how they had worked for an acquittal. One of these
“fixed” jurymen said he wouldn’t have brought in a verdict of guilty
had he been at an upstairs window in the court house and seen Jim S.
carry off the county funds.
Thus is Arizona justice blind-drunk sometimes.
Of course Jim S. was put under bond for a new trial, he being convicted
at the fourth trial, and sentenced to the penitentiary for four years.
The next day I bade my friends goodby and pulled out for Denver
stopping en route at Santa Fe, New Mexico.
I found a wonderful change in Eat ’Em Up Jake. He had grown to be
almost as large as a young colt, and his ribs were covered with good
solid fat. Mr. and Mrs. B. C. Volk who had charge of my ranch kept him
filled up as per my request. E. E. U. J. knew me and seemed to take
great delight in showing how easily he could pick up a jackrabbit. The
pleasure of seeing him outrun a swift jackrabbit in a few hundred yards
race amply repaid me for the trouble and expense of getting him to
Santa Fe. Besides, he was a beautiful specimen of the Russian wolfhound
breed, and it was a satisfaction to know that I had “brought him up”
from a lanky half-starved pup to his present lordly state. His hair was
now long and curly and as white as snow, with the exception of a few
cloudy spots. It was also a pleasure to think back to the time when he
and I slept together and “busted” broncos on the sagebrush flats of
Wyoming.
[Illustration: EAT ’EM UP JAKE.]
Soon after returning to Denver I was sent to Mt. Carbon, a coal mining
camp in Gunnison county, Colorado, to investigate a fire which had
destroyed a “tipple” and other buildings.
I found Mt. Carbon to be a desolate place on the snowy crest of the
great rocky mountain divide. Here at midnight, with the snow from two
to ten feet deep, I walked out into the hills and with old Colts 45
shot out the old year 1904, and ushered in the new year of 1905. It was
a single handed New Years celebration at a height of over 10,000 feet
above sea level, with the whole face of nature wrapped in her purest
robe of white, and with the large flakes of snow falling thick and
fast. My mind naturally drifted back twelve months to when old Colts 45
and I smoked in the new year just dead, among the “moonshiners” of “Old
Kintuck.”
I finally decided that the fire which destroyed the tipple was an
accident caused by defective electric wires.
Then I “hiked” back to Denver to await a new operation.
For the next few months my work was on short operations in the city or
the nearby towns.
During this time I made one “big catch” in the person of Joseph Adams,
alias many other names. He was a member of the noted Knox-Whitman gang
of check forgers and had been chased all over the United States and
Europe. In the crowded postoffice one Sunday morning I recognized him
as resembling the Adams photo which was carried in my pocket. After
this “foxy” gentleman had gotten a letter at the general delivery
window he went out into the rainstorm and tried to cover up his tracks
by going through out-of-the-way streets and alleys. On turning a corner
he would stand concealed to see if any one were following him. Here
my early training in “shadow” work came in play. He finally went to
his room on 14th street. Then I stepped into a nearby drug store and
’phoned to Assistant Supt. Geary that I had the muchly wanted bank
forger located, giving the number of the street where his room was
located.
Soon Asst. Supt. B. and operative “Dick” H. were sent to assist me.
When Asst. Supt. B. and one of the city officials arrested Adams in the
afternoon, when he had finished a meal, I dropped out of sight, as we
poor operatives are compelled to do in order to hide our identity. But
not so with the assistant superintendents; they can swell up and look
wise as though they are the whole “cheese.”
Next morning the daily papers came out with glowing accounts of the
great detective ability of our Asst. Supt. Mr. B. in the running down
of this great criminal. Of course Mr. B. didn’t “load” the newspaper
reporters. He merely looked wise and they did the rest. I mention this
to illustrate how an operative in the Dickenson institution is a dead
duck so far as the public are concerned. Adams was sentenced to a long
term in the penitentiary, so I was told.
During the early spring I was sent to Leadville and Cripple Creek to
make an investigation on mining matters.
On returning to Denver I was sent to Pueblo, Colorado, to work on the
Blanche Haws kidnapping case.
Mrs. Haws was the principal witness against Republican officials in
recent election frauds in Pueblo, and she had just been kidnapped and
spirited away to parts unknown.
On reaching the city of Pueblo I met our clients, District Attorney S.
H. Grave, Geo. E. Lord and J. A. Boothly, both of the Daily Chieftain,
the leading newspaper of the city.
A couple of days later Mrs. Haws was found in a wagon, being in the
hands of her kidnappers en route to Canyon City.
Mrs. Haws and several men were thrown in the county jail. I had found
out enough to convince me that Mrs. Haws “stood in” with the “play” and
had been kidnapped by her own consent.
She was a good-looking young woman of the free and easy kind, and
swore by all that was holy that she had been kidnapped by force. A
few days later in the same jail where I had been a prisoner with the
cold-blooded murderers Dick Manley and Anderson, many years previous, I
broke Mrs. Haws down and she made a full confession. Undersheriff Tim
O’Leary assisted me.
While on the Haws case in Pueblo I had the pleasure of inspecting
President Roosevelt’s teeth without his knowing it.
He was returning to Washington from his noted bear hunt. He made a
short speech from the rear of his private car. The chief of police,
McCafferty, who knew my business, had given me a “tip” as to where the
President’s car would stop. Therefore the widow, on whom I was working,
and who thought I was a rich mining man, and I, secured a choice place
to stand. We stood within a few feet of “Teddy” the Great, and I could
look into his mouth while he was talking, and see every tooth in his
head, and a finer set of teeth I had never seen before. Every one
seemed to be perfect, and they were set into jaws that were built for
wear and tear.
While making his heart-to-heart talk to the great audience, the
President showed his regard for the safety of others, and also the
activity of his massive brain.
On the rear end of the coach dozens of children were hanging. The
engine backed up to the train and the jolt knocked some of these “kids”
off onto the track where they would have been run over had the coach
moved a few feet further. With outstretched arms ready for action, the
President sprang forward and grabbed at some of the urchins who were
still hanging onto the car. The coach came to a standstill before any
damage had been done, and quicker than a flash the President’s whole
countenance changed, and with a smile he said: “Look out boys, little
apples always go to the bottom of the barrel!”
Of course this put himself in the big apple class, which caused a roar
of laughter. But the point which struck me forcibly was the quick
action of both thought and speech.
I had seen “Teddy” Roosevelt once before at Trinidad, Colo., when on
his way to the Rough Riders’ Reunion at Las Vegas, New Mexico. This
was before he became President. At that time too, I stood near the end
of his car, though dressed as a coal miner and being in company with a
gang of striking miners.
Finally I returned home after doing all that could be done against the
“Grand Old Party” of President Lincoln and Ben Butler.
I had found out enough to satisfy me that the Republican party had
corrupted decency and the sacred franchise in the city of Pueblo, but
that is not saying that the Democrats wouldn’t have done the same had
they been in control of the political machinery.
In Denver, where the Democrats had been in power for many years, they
had carried corruption with such a high hand that even a Pattersonian
anarchist of the sic-em-tige kind ought to hang his head in shame, and
blush every time he sees a statue of the Goddess of Liberty.
At one of these corrupt elections in Denver, I was instructed to put
on “bum” clothes and join the hobo gang in the slums, so as to secure
evidence. I only voted a few times,--eight in all,--three times before
the same judge of election. Others of my hobo chums voted all day as
they needed some “easy” money.
The notorious Jack Hall of the old Clifton Hotel had charge of the
Democratic slush fund, where I did my voting that day. My earnings for
the day only amounted to $1.75, at 25 cents a vote, as the paymaster
skipped out with the funds after my last vote was deposited, just
before the polls closed. On finding out that the “money-guy” had
vanished, there was much swearing and gnashing of teeth among these
poor downtrodden American citizens who help make our laws.
Denver has made great strides though, in the matter of buying votes,
since the time that Wolcott put up his good hard cash to become a
Republican senator of these glorious United States, where every man is
a king, with the sacred right to vote. At that time the Republicans
had control of the city, it being about sixteen years ago. But at that
time they had no “scab” voters; they paid union prices,--a new two
dollar bill for each vote.
My next operation was trying to run down a hard case in the State of
Sonora, Old Mexico.
Operative J. V. Marke, now one of the Asst. Supts. of the Denver
office, had just worked up a big steal in Colorado City, Colorado, and
this man was wanted in connection with that case. He had been seen by a
traveling man at a _fiesta_ in the town of Magdalena, Mexico, and had
told of owning a placer mine out in the La Briesa mining country, about
100 miles east of the railroad town of Magdalena. But as to the name
he was using down in Mexico we were ignorant; therefore I had only his
description to work on.
In Magdalena, a small city, I failed to get a trace of my man, as at
the time he was seen there the city was full of strangers attending the
_fiesta_.
From here I went overland by stage, private conveyances and on
horseback to the La Briesa mining camp owned by Col. W. C. Green. From
La Briesa I scoured the wild mountain regions for fifty miles around,
wherever gold had ever been found. I did this on horseback and had
some trying experiences with the half-starved Mexican ponies breaking
down.
I concluded that my man had never been in this La Briesa country.
On returning to Magdalena I boarded a train for the south and scoured
the country through to the city of Guaymas on the Gulf of California.
In Hermosillo, the capital of Sonora, I enjoyed life for a week, and
also took in the dives and tough places where my man would naturally
hang out, as he was a gambler by profession.
There was great excitement throughout the State of Sonora over the
Yaqui Indian war, Indian prisoners were being brought into the capital
and shot, then their bodies hung up to trees to rot down, it being a
crime to remove a corpse from its necktie swing. I could have seen
five of these warriors shot and hung up about five miles north of
Hermosillo, but I had no desire to witness the scene.
In Nogales, Arizona, on the Mexican border, I found a hotel
proprietress who had seen my man as he was leaving Mexico. He had
stayed at her hotel while waiting for the northbound train.
From here I went to Naco on the train, thence back into Old Mexico to
the large mining camp of Cananea; thence back to Bisbee and Douglas,
Arizona. In Douglas I met my old cowboy friend Jim East and his good
wife.
After putting my case in the hands of the Arizona Rangers, I returned
to Denver, stopping off a few days at Santa Fe, New Mexico.
Soon after my arrival in Denver the Captain of the Arizona Rangers
wrote me that they had my man located and asked if they should arrest
him. This letter was turned over to our clients in Colorado Springs so
they could make their own terms with the Arizona Rangers. This ended my
connection with the operation. I had gone under the name of Chas. Tony
Lloyd on this trip.
I reached Denver just in time to see the State Legislature seat Peabody
in the Governor’s chair for a second term, in spite of the protests
that his opponent Alva Adams had been elected and was entitled to the
seat.
It was predicted that Governor Jas. H. Peabody would be assassinated if
the legislature confirmed his election; therefore the Dickenson agency
was called on to furnish two bodyguards for the governor, who could
shoot straight and were not afraid to die. Yours Truly and old Colts 45
were selected as one of these bodyguards and we were itching to plant
six 45 caliber bullets where they would do the most good for society.
Mr. Pace, one of Capt. John Howard’s patrolmen, was the other bodyguard.
After the legislature had seated Governor Peabody, a big reception
was held at night in the Peabody mansion on Capitol Hill, and there I
experienced a touch of high life, and at the same time had a couple of
years added to my life by the governor’s pretty daughter, Miss Jessie,
pinning a carnation to my coat and smiling her sweetest while doing so.
In order to keep peace in the Republican household, Governor Peabody
resigned his office later, and the legislature appointed Jesse
McDonald, a good Republican from Leadville, as the new executive. Thus
did I lose my job and the chance of high living, also the opportunity
of killing members of Western Federation of Dynamiters, or the spilling
of my own Texas blood for the benefit of society and the corrupt
politicians.
A few days later I was en route to Sheridan, Wyoming, to work on
cowboys and cattlemen to secure secrets of a “Frenzied Finance” nature
for a live stock commission trust of the east.
I was given a letter of introduction to Chas Long, a cattle inspector
and deputy sheriff at Sheridan. Mr. Long was a cowboy of the old
school, and assisted me in my work.
In Sheridan I made the acquaintance of an old Texas cowboy by the name
of George Carroll. He was now a prosperous cattleman. I went with
him and his young son to their cattle ranch on the Rosebud river in
Montana, and while on this trip I lived my old cowboy life over again
by eating fine fat beef stuck on a stick and roasted over a camp fire.
After about a month spent in and around Sheridan, I secured the coveted
sworn affidavit from the McKinley brothers, cattlemen. But I sweat
blood until the affidavits were in my pocket, as the “boys” didn’t
want to mix up in the affair as it was no fight of theirs, they being
honorable men.
I then returned home, wondering what the next operation would be.
After a short stay in Denver I was detailed on a case in Colorado
Springs, which turned out to be a two weeks’ pleasure trip in that
noted summer resort. The tourist season was then at its height, it
being midsummer; therefore my stay in that clean little prohibition
city was a pleasure indeed.
The work was in the nature of an investigation to decide who had stolen
a big lot of street car tickets, though only a few of them had been
used.
The operation was being conducted by Mr. G. A. Carpp, the president of
a principal national bank. I was assisted by Mr. O. J. Lewis, Mr. Wm.
Boyd, Dr. Tice and Supt. Latham of the street railway system of that
place.
While in Colorado Springs I visited my old friends, Postmaster Dana,
Chief of Police Alex. Adams; the cowboy author, Andy Adams, and last
but not least, C. W. Kurie, the mining man, and his lovely wife and
sons.
Mr. Kurie and his eldest son gave me my first automobile ride in their
brand new $4000.00 “Red Devil.” I enjoyed it immensely.
As the result of my work a high up employe of the Electric Ry. Co. lost
his job. I felt sorry for the poor fellow when I accused him of being
the guilty man. The blood rushed out of his face and he became as pale
as a ghost. His ears became so transparent after the blood had left
them, that I could almost see through them. But the head officials had
no disposition to prosecute him.
I had previously confronted other trusted employes on whom a slight
suspicion rested, and accused them of the theft as though I had good
proof, but they looked me square in the face and showed their innocence
by every look and action. Among these were Mr. Carpp’s young nephew and
an old Union soldier eighty years of age. It was comical to see this
old hero of bloody battles climb upon his dignity when accused.
I then bade my friends goodby and returned to the Queen City of the
Plains, Denver.
Supt. J. S. Kaiser at once detailed me on an operation in Roswell, New
Mexico, just the place I wanted to visit, as I hadn’t been there for
twenty-three years.
Although my instructions from Asst. Supt. “Hank” Geary who had charge
of the case was to do nothing to retard justice, as the agency couldn’t
afford to work against his “royal nibs,” Uncle Samuel; still, knowing
my failing, I felt sure that once in the battle I would fight to win,
even though my big Uncle did get his corns stepped on.
Before starting on my trip to Roswell, the manager of our six western
offices, Mr. Jas. McCartney, called me into his private office to
inform me that I had been promoted to the position of assistant
superintendent under Supt. John S. Kaiser of the Denver office; that
on my return from New Mexico I was to take the place of Asst. Supt.
Carver, who had just resigned to accept a place under Special Agent Ben
Williams of the A. T. & S. F. Ry.
I told Mr. McCartney that I didn’t want the position of assistant
superintendent, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He told me to
take a week to think the matter over carefully, and then to write my
decision to Supt. John S. Kaiser, so that my letter could be forwarded
to the eastern headquarters.
After reaching Roswell, New Mexico, I wrote a letter refusing the
promotion, under the pretense that I didn’t think office work would
suit my complexion after having led an active outdoor life so long;
though in truth I refused it because I didn’t consider my education
finished. For to accept the assistant superintendency, would be like a
pupil in a college taking a position as assistant professor. The facts
are, I started out in the Dickenson school to serve fifteen years. Then
the time was extended to twenty years, as I found there was much more
to learn of the world’s ways.
On starting out with the Dickensons, I had just finished “fifteen years
on the hurricane deck of a Spanish pony,” in the strenuous cowboy
school, and I concluded that another fifteen years in the equally
strenuous Dickenson College would complete my education; but this
school was found to be great and broad, so that a twenty years’ course
would be short enough.
Boarding a Colorado Southern Ry. train, I started for Amarillo, Tex.
There a transfer was made onto a Pecos Valley train of the A. T. & S.
F. system.
The journey from Amarillo, Texas, to Portales, New Mexico, an all day
ride in a railway coach, was over the level staked plains, and was a
rare treat to me. Over this same ground I had ridden horseback, with
not a single inhabitant between the L X ranch twenty miles north of
Amarillo, southwesterly to Roswell, New Mexico, a distance of about 200
miles. This was in 1877 and 1878. Now my train speeds along through a
country of fine white ranch and farm houses, with a windmill on nearly
every section of land. What a wonderful change in about twenty-seven
years.
On coming in sight of the Paloduro (head of the Red river) Canyon to
our left, I saw the once favorite camping place for Indian and Mexican
buffalo hunters. Here after the New Year in 1877, W. C. Moore (the
cowboy outlaw seen in Alaska) Jack Ryan, Vanduzan and myself camped,
down in the breaks of the Paloduro, where Vanduzan had killed a fat
bear. And that day I saw my first Indian buffalo hunt with lances.
Leaving my companions in camp, I had joined a band of fifty Apache
Indians and we rode out to a large herd of buffalo which were grazing
where my train is now gliding along. The herd numbered about 20,000
to 50,000 head. When within half a mile of the woolly beasts our
Indian chief placed us all abreast close together so as to fool the
buffaloes who couldn’t figure out what kind of an animal we were. They
would have stampeded from the sight of horsemen approaching them in
a haphazard fashion; but as it was, we were within 100 yards of them
before they broke into a run. Then the race of life and death began. We
were soon right in the midst of the herd at the tail end. For awhile I
did nothing but watch the Indians do their expert lancing. Each buck
would run up by the side of a buffalo and reaching over, stick the
sharp steel or stone lance, which were fastened to long poles, into the
animal’s loin. Down the poor brute would go, helpless, but not killed.
Then Mr. Buck would select another and another victim for slaughter.
One old grey-haired Indian buck on a large yellow horse, leaned far
over in his stirrup and drove the lance home, but his weight on the
handle broke it, and off he tumbled and rolled over and over in the
short buffalo grass. I happened to be following close behind. It was
comical to see this Indian, after he had gained his feet, dodging the
buffaloes which were bringing up the rear. They tried to keep out of
his way, but in his excitement he would run in front of them. One old
bull jumped almost over his head and knocked him down. Then he sat
still and the rest went around him.
At the windup I emptied my Colts 45 pistol and killed three bulls; my
aim being just at the lower edge of the hump. Here the bullet enters
the “lights” and does the work.
After the battle was over there were several hundred crippled buffalo
scattered along the trail. They were unable to rise to their feet, but
otherwise much alive.
I remained to see the several hundred bucks and squaws who had followed
behind, kill the wounded animals. Then I rode back to camp in time for
the bearmeat supper. Of course I had brought along the humps of the
buffalo killed by me.
Soon the train rounded the head of Paloduro Canyon, and here to the
right, a few hundred yards, stood the log cabin house built by the Dyer
brothers (brothers-in-law of Cattle King Charlie Goodnight) in 1878;
this being the first house built between the L X ranch and Roswell.
At that time Charlie Goodnight had his ranch at the mouth of Paloduro
Canyon about twenty-five miles further east. All around this old
Dyer log house now waived fields of ripening grain, and nearby stood
up-to-date farm homes.
Finally we crossed Running Water, thence past a large “dry” lake
which had looked good to me in the summer of 1881. At that time I was
returning with the remnants of my men from a raid after “Billy the Kid”
and his gang and the cattle which they had stolen and run into Lincoln
County, New Mexico, the winter previous. This raid had resulted in the
killing and capture of the whole gang.
We struck this “dry” lake with 2,500 head of famished cattle which had
had no water for two days and nights; hence were almost crazy. We and
our mounts were about dead for water, too. The bottom of this lake bed
contained about two feet of rainwater, which proved a godsend to us.
We had been lost, but wouldn’t give up the ship by turning the cattle
loose.
My cowboys were Frank Clifford (“Big-foot Wallace,” afterwards an
outlaw), Tom Emory and Lon. Chambers. The last two were in the battle
which put “Billy the Kid” out of business, and placed two of his gang,
Charlie Bowdre and Tom O’Falliard under the sod. They and Jim East,
another of my men, were with Sheriff Pat Garrett when the fight took
place.
On flew the train over familiar ground, finally stopping in the lively
town of Portales. Here at Las Portales Lake, “Billy the Kid” and his
gang had their headquarters in the early days, while stealing cattle.
At a fresh-water spring coming out of a cliff of rock they had a camp
and a stone corral.
From here the train descended from the staked plains down into the
Pecos Valley, and in the evening dumped me out in the beautiful little
city of Roswell, New Mexico.
Late that evening I walked down the main street of Roswell, and there
in front of a real estate office sat my old cowboy friend Tom Emory.
But seeing Emory so often in the weeks following brought back memories
of bygone days; for right here in this very spot in the spring of
1881 I had left him to guard the steers which we had recovered from
parties to whom they had been sold by “Billy the Kid,” while I took
Lon Chambers and “Big-foot Wallace” down the Pecos river to attend the
round-up on John Chisolm’s range, in search of other stolen cattle.
At that time, John Chisolm, whose home ranch was five miles below
Roswell, and which is now the beautiful home of millionaire J. J.
Hagerman, ranged 60,000 cattle, where now live nearly that many human
beings.
And within a stone’s throw of where Tom Emory now sits smoking, stands
the same adobe residence where Emory took his meals with the family of
Capt. J. C. Lea,--one of nature’s genuine noblemen, now dead,--during
my absence.
In those days Roswell contained two stores, one owned by Capt. J. C.
Lea and the others by a Mr. Cosgrove. There were not to exceed a dozen
houses in the town, and Emory used to graze his steers where the busy
streets now are, and watch them from the Lea store where he was wont to
sit and smoke in the shade, just as he is doing now.
During the forenoon the day after my arrival, I stepped into the
Citizens National Bank to make a deposit, and my old friend John W.
Poe, the president of the institution stepped to the window to wait on
me. I gave him my name as Chas. Tony Lloyd and this threw him off the
track. We met several times afterwards and he never recognized me.
Seeing John W. Poe brought back other memories, for I was the direct
cause of his first coming to New Mexico, where he has lived ever since
and accumulated an independent fortune by having the foresight to see
the future of Roswell and the Pecos Valley.
In the winter of 1880 I had followed a herd of cattle supposed to be
stolen, to Las Cruces on the Rio Grande river, and there from the
notorious desperado “Hurricane Bill” I found out their destination was
Tombstone, Ariz. Then I wrote to my boss, W. C. Moore in Texas, to send
a good man by rail and stage to Tombstone, Ariz., to investigate this
cattle herd, as I couldn’t go that far from my outfit, then in White
Oaks.
John W. Poe was a deputy U. S. Marshal in Mobeeta, Texas, with a name
for honor and bravery, so Moore employed him for the trip to Arizona;
but he reached there too late, the herd having been scattered over that
wild country and all trace of them lost. Then Moore ordered Poe to Doña
Ana and Lincoln Counties, New Mexico, to prosecute the parties who had
“stood in” with “Billy the Kid” in the stealing of L X cattle, as per
my reports.
Later when Pat. Garrett’s term of office expired, John W. Poe was
elected sheriff of Lincoln County, which then embraced a wild territory
almost 200 miles square.
After becoming settled in Roswell, I called on Attorney W. W. Gatewood,
then my operation was started.
I made many new acquaintances here and was taken out buggy riding
often, among the flowing artesian wells and lovely farms and orchards.
It was indeed a treat to see the change from an untamed cattle country
to fruit and flowers. And a drive through “Lovers Lane,” the former
ranch home of John W. Poe, on a hot summer’s day is next to paradise,
especially if the girl is a “good-looker.”
In Roswell I became well acquainted with Gen. Sherman Bell, who dished
out to the Western Federation of Miners in Colorado, some of their
own bitter medicine. They made a great howl about being deported from
their homes, contrary to the Constitution of the United States; but
in these howls they failed to mention the hundreds of non-union men
termed “scabs,” dragged from the bosom of their families and set adrift
without food or shelter in dead of winter by them. I know whereof I
speak, for I helped them do it in the Coeur D’Alenes, and the only
crime committed by the poor “scabs” was trying to earn an honest living
by the sweat of their brows.
This is not meant to condemn all members of the Western Federation of
Miners, as that would be unjust. I venture to say that half of the
members of that great and powerful organization are kind-hearted,
law-abiding citizens who are deluded and led astray by rank,
bloodthirsty blatherskites.
Gen. Sherman Bell was in Roswell for his health, and to hobnob with
cowboy Charlie Ballard and U. S. Dist. Att. Maj. Llewellyn, who had
helped him and “Teddy” Roosevelt storm San Juan hill in Cuba.
I remained in Roswell over a month, and before leaving, our side came
out with flying colors, while poor old Uncle Samuel took a back seat.
But during this legal battle I learned some new lessons in high finance
and official trickery, which would have caused President Roosevelt’s
model teeth and massive jaws to snap together like a steel trap, could
he have peeped behind the curtains.
One day previous to my departure, I couldn’t resist the temptation
of making myself known to my old cowboy chums, Phelps and Tom White,
nephews of the old-time Texas Cattle Kings, George and Jim Littlefield;
the White boys being now wealthy.
Of course we had to “hark back” to old times, and in doing so, Phelps
White added a little new history to my cowboy life.
In the late Spring of 1877 at St. Joe, Texas, mounted on my pet
racehorse “Whisky Pete,” and wearing a satisfied smile decorated with a
sprouting mustache, I hired out to the boss of one of the Littlefield
trail herds numbering 3,700 head of mixed cattle, en route to Dodge
City, Kansas. I was given the job of horse wrangler,--taking care of
the “ramutha,” about 100 head of saddle horses.
In crossing through the ten mile belt of heavy blackjack timber near
Red River, which is the Texas and Indian Territory line, the boss
detailed Phelps White, who was then too young to support a mustache,
though old enough to “tote” a Winchester rifle and a Colts 45 pistol,
to help me through the “blackjacks.”
I was trailing the “ramutha” several miles behind the cattle herd,
taking my time, when young White and his heavy artillery appeared on
the scene. He was informed that his help was not needed as the horses
were no trouble. Still, he remained and helped me through the timber.
And now after keeping silent twenty-eight years he comes out with the
truth that I was suspected of being a horse thief, and they feared that
my Indian Territory pals might be in hiding in this “crosstimber” to
help me steal the whole “ramutha.” Hence the boss sending him back to
help me.
They could hardly be blamed for their suspicions, for I was a tough
looking kid and had spent the previous winter among the Chickasaw
Indians in the Indian Territory.
While with Tom and Phelps White they introduced me to my old friend Tom
Emory, and I found out that he had once recognized me down in Casas
Grandes, Old Mexico, but having heard that I was with the Dickensons he
thought it best not to speak to me.
I was also made known to my old friends J. S. Lea, now county treasurer
of this, Chaves County, and Andy M. Robertson, a prosperous business
man of Roswell.
Phelps White pointed out to me old “Uncle Henry” Stephens whom I knew
in my boyhood days when he was one of the largest cattle drovers of
the old Chisholm Trail, between southern Texas and Kansas. He now
represents a Kansas City commission firm, as his great wealth has taken
wings and “flewd” away.
In leaving Roswell on my return to Denver, I concluded to try J.
W. Stockard’s new automobile passenger line over the 107 miles of
unsettled country to Torrance, at the junction of the new Rock Island
and New Mexico Central railways. I did this so as to visit my pets at
Santa Fe.
Bright and early one morning we started with the big Red Devil and the
Little Red Imp loaded with gasoline and half a dozen passengers. It
was raining hard and the mud flew thick and fast. About night we had
reached Charlie Ballard’s cattle ranch fifteen miles out of Roswell,
and a few of us hired a rancher to take us back to the starting point
in his carriage. It was late in the night when we reached Roswell.
This was my second and last ride in an automobile. The trip was worth
something though, as I learned some new cuss words.
I thought of the story about the western farmer who had never heard
of automobiles and the green cowboy who had never seen a hay mower,
but had heard of automobiles. The angry farmer was on his way to the
crossroad town to get an unruly hay mower fixed, at a time when his hay
needed cutting. He met the cowboy whose hide was full of “red licker,”
who stopped him and asked:
“Say mister, is that a au-to-mo-bele?”
The hayseeder replied: “I dunno,--the d----d thing au-to-mo-hay, but it
won’t.”
That was the way with the Stockard Red Devils,--they au-to have landed
us in Torrance, but they didn’t, thus spoiling my chance of swapping
smiles with Eat-Em-Up-Jake.
Next morning I boarded a train for Denver, returning over the same
route that I had come.