GLENDALE.
The eastern part of Jackson county, the western part of Lafayette,
and down southward through Cass county, constitute the very
center of the field of operation chosen by the old Guerrilla
leaders--Quantrell, Todd, Anderson, Younger, Pool, Clements, and
the Jameses--during the war. The Sni hills and the timber-crowned
undulations bordering the Big Blue, afforded them excellent hiding
places when sorely pressed, and from their fastnesses in the
hills they could easily make forays into the very suburbs of the
garrisoned towns of Kansas City, Independence, Lexington, Pleasant
Hill and Harrisonville. They knew every pathway over the hills,
and every crossing place along the streams. Around and among these
forests were the farms and dwellings of their friends, and warm
sympathizers in their cause. Time has wrought some changes in the
country since those days; but the forest-crowned hills and the
deep, tangled thickets, and the sparkling streams still are there.
The face of Nature has changed but little among the hills of the
Sni, or along the banks of the Blue. It was meet that the bandits,
who are believed to be the same men who once were Guerrillas,
should come back to the scenes of their earlier adventures, to
consummate their latest and most daring robbery.
October 7th, 1879, was a beautiful, sunny, warm day. The woods
had not yet assumed the sober brown hues of autumn, but nature
was lovely in the rich ripeness of the summer's close. The great
tide of human life flowed on in its accustomed channels. Some
were engaged in the pursuit of pleasure; some were in search of
gain; others were toiling for bread; some were happy in having
accomplished their designs; others were wretched in realizing the
bitterness of disappointment; some were glad in the knowledge that
they had contributed to the happiness of their fellow-mortals;
others were miserable because they beheld the gladness of their
neighbors, and knew of the triumphs of their rivals; some planned
good deeds; others plotted dark crimes. These all go to constitute
the atoms of the mighty tide of human life; and their plans,
purposes and deeds all contribute to the production of the surges
and swirls of the stream as it flows through time to the gulf of
eternity.
There were always plotters. Since the world began men have
schemed, and until the end of time there will be the good and the
bad in humanity, sometimes one and sometimes the other quality
predominating. And so, while the autumn sunshine was golden, and
the wood-cricket's chirp was mournful, the schemers were prodding
their brain in the devising of a scheme to commit a grievous crime.
Glendale is a lonely wayside station in the western part of
Lafayette county, Missouri, on the line of the Chicago & Alton
railway, Kansas City branch. There is a water-tank, a little
station-house, and a few houses in a narrow vale, wedged in between
rugged hills, which are covered with lofty trees and tangled
thickets, a fit place for the rendezvous of a banditti.
Glendale is about twenty miles from Kansas City, and on the line of
the road between Independence and Blue Springs, in the very midst
of a region where many of the darkest crimes and deeds of blood
which marked the Guerrilla warfare of the border were committed
both by the Federal militia and the Confederate Guerrillas. The
country about Glendale is one of the wildest regions in Western
Missouri, and the hills and dark ravines afford excellent
opportunities for the concealment of both men and horses. A better
situation for a successful foray by brigands does not exist on the
line of the road between Chicago and Kansas City.
The night express train, bound from Kansas City to Chicago and St.
Louis, left the Union Depot in the first-named city on the evening
of the 7th, at six o'clock, and consequently was due at Glendale at
about seven o'clock--a short time after daylight had faded from the
west.
Now, as we have before intimated, Glendale is a place with a nice
name, but few inhabitants. Though perhaps it is not destined to go
down to history with the historic interest attached to Arbela,
Malplaquet, Shiloh, Kennesaw or Waterloo, yet so early in its
history Glendale has become famous. The incident which contributed
so much to this result occurred on the evening of the 7th of
October, 1879. In addition to the station-house, the business of
Glendale is represented by a post-office and a general store,
kept by the postmaster. The evening in question was very pleasant
outside of houses, and when the curtains of night were drawn,
and the store was lighted, the postmaster and four others, who
constituted the male population of the place, except the station
agent, Mr. McIntire, had gathered in front of the little store to
discuss the neighborhood's affairs. They were quietly interchanging
views. Suddenly a stranger joined the circle, and, walking quickly
to where the proprietor was sitting, he tapped him on the shoulder
and said:
"I want you."
"What do you want?" asked the other.
The new arrival did not deign to answer the question, but quietly
stepped away, and said:
"Here, boys."
In a minute--nay, a moment--half a dozen rough-looking men,
muffled and masked, stood by his side, armed with huge pistols and
wicked-looking knives. Their pistols they held cocked in their
hands. Then the leader, in a harsh, grating voice, said:
"Now, take care, make tracks out of this!"
The terrified citizens started to obey. As they were going, the
leader said:
"To the depot, do you hear!"
In great consternation, the little company of citizens filed
away to the depot. In the depot was the operator and agent, Mr.
McIntire, and Mr. W. E. Bridges, assistant auditor of the Chicago &
Alton railway company, already under duress. When the citizens were
all assembled in the room, the leader said:
"Now, sit down, act clever and keep still, or you will not have
heads left on you."
Of course, obedience to such an order was just then regarded by all
the parties as a great virtue, and they therefore obeyed.
The masked men, who had now assembled to the number of twelve,
according to one account--fourteen by another witness--tore away
the telegraphic instrument and went out and cut the wires. The
instrument was smashed.
"Now," said the leader, whose only mask was a long dark beard, "I
want you to lower that green light!"
"But," said the agent, "the train will stop if I do."
"That's the alum! precisely what we want it to do, my buck, and
the sooner you obey orders the better. I will give you a minute
to lower the light," said the bearded leader, at the same time
thrusting a cocked pistol to the face of the agent.
The operator could see the long, bright barrel of the pistol,
and the dark, cavernous interior of the tube had a forbidding
appearance. He looked up into the face of the long-bearded man. He
saw a cold, fixed look, and every indication, so far as features
could reveal intentions, that the robber chieftain meant just what
he said, and he lowered the light. Of course the position of the
light was an order to the conductor to stop at Glendale and receive
fresh instructions, according to the code of signals in use among
railway men.
But to be perfectly sure of the expected plunder, and in order to
destroy even the possibility of the train passing without making
a stop, the robbers heaped a pile of cross-ties, fence rails and
other lumber across the track. Having completed their preparations,
the robbers quietly awaited the coming of the train.
It was a little after seven o'clock. The prisoners in the
station-house were wondering about what would happen next, and
especially were they concerned and anxious respecting what should
happen to them. Then the distant rumbling of the train was heard;
louder and louder it fell upon the ears of the listeners. The
engineer saw the signal displayed which commanded him to stop. He
sounded the whistle and ordered the brakes on. The train stood
still on the track, with the engine at the tank.
The conductor, with lantern in hand, sprang upon the platform ere
the wheels had ceased to revolve, and was about to proceed to the
little station-house to receive his orders. But he had made little
progress in that direction, when a man rushed up to him with a
cocked revolver, which he held out as if about to fire. This man
was speedily joined by another, who was also armed in like manner.
Both the men wore masks. Mr. Greeman, the conductor, was of course
powerless to resist such odds, and with mingled feelings of alarm
and disgust was compelled to await the pleasure of the strange men
whom he now knew to be robbers. Two men rushed up to the cab of the
locomotive and made prisoners of the engineer and fireman by the
presentation of pistols, and the stern declaration that instant
death would certainly follow a failure to obey, or an attempt at
resistance. One of the robbers, addressing the engineer, called out:
"Hand me that coal hammer of yours!"
"What do you want of it?" asked the other.
"Hand it here very quick, or you'll never have use for another,"
was the emphatic command of the robber, accompanied by a very
significant movement of the pistol arm.
Thus appealed to, the engineer obeyed. The large hammer used by
stokers to break coal was handed to the masked desperado.
Then a group of the masked men, with the long-bearded man at their
head, gathered at the door of the express car. One of the men with
the coal-hammer then commenced beating in the door of the car. The
messenger, who was in charge of a large sum of money--more than
$35,000 in currency, and much other valuable property--was inside,
but had refused to open the door. The messenger, Mr. William
Grimes, could hear the blows of the ponderous hammer, and knew
that his place would soon be open to the marauders. The door was
already yielding--it was falling to splinters, and a minute later
the car was broken into by the masked and armed robbers. Grimes, in
the meanwhile, had formed a hasty plan to escape with the money.
While the robbers were beating in the door, he opened the safe,
took therefrom a large amount of money, hastily deposited it in
a satchel, re-locked the door of the safe, and was in the act of
attempting to escape by the other door.
He was too late. The robbers sprang into the car before he was
ready to leave it. In any event, escape was rendered impossible by
the fact that the other door of the car was guarded. He could only
have escaped a part of the band to fall into the hands of their
comrades.
When the robbers rushed into the car, after having broken the door
open, one of them cried out to the messenger:
"Here, you! Give me that key!"
"I will not. You may take it," answered the messenger.
The words had no more than escaped his lips, when one of the gang
in the car dealt him a terrible blow with the butt of a heavy
revolver, which felled him to the floor. They took the key, opened
the safe, and rifled it of all its contents which were of value
to them. They then took the packages from the messenger's satchel,
and the great railway and express robbery at Glendale was an
accomplished fact.
During the time occupied by a part of the robber band about the
express car, a patrol was distributed along the sides of the train,
and these were discharging fire-arms at intervals, for the purpose,
as is supposed, of intimidating the passengers.
The whole time occupied in completing this great robbery probably
did not exceed ten minutes. The whole amount of booty secured was
probably fully forty thousand dollars. The passengers were greatly
alarmed during these proceedings. Valuables were hastily concealed
under seats, about the persons of the owners, and wherever else
a place not likely to be examined by the robbers could be found.
After concluding the work which brought them to Glendale, the
brigands, amid the reports of pistol shots, set up a shout which
echoed among the hills for a long distance around, sought their
horses, mounted, and rode away through the gloom. They had locked
the citizens in the little station-house. These waited until
everything seemed still about the place, for the train had moved
on, and then they broke down the door and walked out of their
temporary prison-house.