SLOWLY GAINING GROUND.
At the close of the month McKenna met Yellow Jack Donahue, who gave out
that he had nearly given up the Major job, for the present, and feared
his vengeance might fail of accomplishment, from treachery, some person
evidently having warned the Majors, as they no longer worked in their
accustomed places and were shy of going abroad alone at night. He
suspected John Slattery, who knew of the preparations made to kill
Thomas and the Majors, as the one giving them notice. In any event, he
would not wholly throw it up, only hold the matter back until a
favorable opportunity occurred. Donahue was by no means complimentary of
the men composing his division, saying there was not one in the number
to be trusted with an important transaction. He expressed himself freely
regarding the affair Alex. Campbell was trying to accomplish, wisely
concluding that he was quite foolhardy about it, too short a time having
elapsed since the Tamaqua murder. The breeze that stroke had started
should be allowed to subside before entering upon any fresh undertaking.
During this interview, the operative received from Donahue the fact,
confidentially communicated, that it was himself, the redoubtable
“Yellow Jack,” who shot Morgan Powell, the circumstances attending which
assassination have already been related in these pages. The deed was
done at Summit Hill, December the second, 1871, and in it Donahue was
assisted by two men, whose names he did not give. He said their escape,
after the shooting, was very easy, as they did not go ten yards from the
spot where Powell dropped, until the excitement cooled down, when, in
the darkness, they quietly departed for the bush, soon reaching their
homes in safety. The detective made mental note of this disclosure, his
subsequently written report throwing the first true flood of light upon
a dark crime, which had, for four years, baffled the best efforts of the
officers of justice. He wrote all about the conversation to the Agency,
that night. It was not politic to press Donahue for a description of his
accomplices, but from points he had already gathered, McParlan suspected
Campbell and the McKennas were at least interested. Donahue made himself
very friendly with the agent, praised him highly for the part he had
taken, as he supposed, in the Thomas matter; invited him to his house,
and, as he took his departure, swore that “those Majors should yet come
to their graves, even though he had to draw a bead on them, bowldly, in
open daylight!”
In Carroll’s saloon, the same night, my representative chanced upon an
old friend, Dan Kelly, known to be Manus Kull; _alias_ “Kelly the Bum,”
a hard case then as now, and open for almost anything outrageous. About
every crime in the great catalogue had been charged upon him, but he was
not understood as possessing a noticeably bad character previous to
attaching himself to the Mollie organization. In the same company at
Carroll’s were James, or Friday O’Donnell, and Kerrigan. The latter took
early occasion to tell McKenna he should “keep quiet about the Tamaqua
matter, as these fellows were too soft to intrust with anything
connected with so serious a subject.” He promised to obey, and upon that
topic consequently remained silent. The men were engaged in a wild
debauch, and all more or less mellow, but they took good care to have
every outsider away from the room before the Summit affair came up for
discussion. It was the intention to put some boss off his pins, and
Kerrigan volunteered to walk to Mt. Laffee and find some men to
accompany a detail of his own, so that the job might be concluded about
the middle of the week. Who the party was the agent did not then learn.
While escorting Kerrigan to his home, late that night, McKenna noticed
he was being clumsily shadowed by Barney McCarron, who, although very
drunk himself, acted as though he had a half-formed idea in his thick
pate that Kerrigan and McKenna were hatching some mischief, and
therefore sought to throw himself in their way, to learn the particular
business they were engaged upon. But his amateur detective work was done
so awkwardly that Kerrigan quickly saw through it. Then the two Mollies
made up a game to put the policeman to more trouble, and they led him a
wild-goose chase. Late at night, McKenna, still blunderingly traced by
McCarron, came to a halt at the Columbia House. He found the doors all
fastened and no porter up to admit him. Just then McCarron came along.
“What are you trying to do?” asked the hiccoughing and worn-out
policeman.
“Bedad, but I’m sakin’ for an admission to me boardin’-house!” responded
McKenna.
“Yes,” put in Kerrigan, “he’s shut out enthirely, an’ how he’ll get
within, is the question! It wor different wid me, when I wor in the
lock-up! I wanted a way out! He wants a way in!”
McCarron laughed, and suggested that McKenna might try a window.
“Perhaps some of them may be unfastened!”
“No! I prefer you’d do that job for me!” answered the agent, staggering
and leaning against the side of the house. “You know you are an officer,
an’ can safely go in! If I wor to do so, perhaps you’d jist arrest an’
take me to jail for an attempted burglary!”
Notwithstanding McCarron’s repeated assurances that he would do no such
thing, McKenna refused to touch a single shutter, or sash, and finally
prevailed upon the policeman to seek entrance to his hotel through a
casement and then unlock the front door for him. Kerrigan and the
detective enjoyed the fun, beholding the unsteady efforts the drunken
watchman made, raising the window and then ungracefully climbing into
the house. But they soon gained entrance and went upstairs, after
lighting a candle at the office counter, McCarron still following,
Kerrigan noiselessly bringing up the rear. Once in McKenna’s apartment,
the policeman was offered a chair and Kerrigan told that he could go.
The Bodymaster obeyed. And then McCarron set about the task of
extracting information from McKenna regarding the Yost murder. The
detective was acting the part of a drunken man to perfection, while
McCarron was really much intoxicated, but trying to appear very wise and
sober. Taking the flaring candle in his hand, he got down on his knees
and endeavored, with an owlish assumption of superior intelligence,
quite ridiculous in him at any time, to explain to his only auditor
precisely how and where certain acts had been done, the night of the
murder, illustrating his meaning by pointing out with uncertain finger,
on the irregular figures of the carpet, an imaginary map of the locality
and the proceedings. It was as much as the operative could possibly do
to refrain from laughing in McCarron’s face, to see the style in which
he performed this part of his unaccustomed work. Meanwhile McCarron was
trying his best to gain intelligence from his companion. He succeeded
indifferently, as McKenna was, to all appearances, as ignorant as the
man in the moon of everything connected with the Mollies. When the
policeman had nearly spoiled the bedroom carpet with the melted tallow
constantly dropping from his migratory candle, and exhausted himself in
making drawings of the Yost matter, giving the position he occupied, and
the places in which the murderers stood, over and over again, McKenna
put a stop to the proceedings by politely asking the fellow to leave, as
he wanted to obtain a little sleep before morning.
Seeing that he could gain nothing by his extraordinary efforts at
“roping,” the drunken guardian of the peace, after a while, took the
hint and went stumbling down the staircase, muttering to himself about
the “ignorance of some people.” He had been unable to impose upon
McKenna, and flattered himself that it was because of that person’s
stupidity. There was stupidity in the business, but it was in McCarron,
not with McKenna.
The Sunday following, after visiting church, in the forenoon, with Miss
Higgins, and subsequently taking her a pleasant evening’s walk, the
agent met Kerrigan again at Carroll’s, and the pair went to the scene of
the Yost murder together, the Bodymaster designating the vicinities
which McCarron, on a previous occasion, had tried so hard to explain to
the operative. Kerrigan marked the very spot on which McGehan and Boyle
had stood, under the shadow of the trees, where he was waiting, armed
only with a stone, to put in work if found necessary, then to lead the
men away after their job was done, and gave him other information of
great importance. He said that he, Kerrigan, was wearing the same
pantaloons he had on the night of the murder only they were
industriously patched by his wife. He ruptured them badly, running in
the bush, and, the next morning, was asked by Mrs. Kerrigan how the
holes were made. She was satisfied when he told her he fell down the
bank by the house and nearly killed himself.
A little later, Kerrigan took a seat, near the Odd Fellows’ Cemetery, on
some rocks, and proceeded to dwell upon his own fortunes and those of
some of his friends. The “babe,” according to his own story, was born in
Schuylkill County; had received no education, no schooling, in fact,
since he was an infant; had been successively a coal-picker, a miner,
and, during the late war, a soldier, in the cavalry branch of the
service, under gallant Phil Sheridan. As to McGehan, he said he hailed
from Donegal, Ireland, but had been partly reared in America. Alex.
Campbell, reported the same historian, was married, and had a family,
his wife being also a native of Donegal.
It was well toward morning when the two Mollies separated.
A meeting of the agent and Alex. Campbell, transpiring at Carroll’s
saloon, the fourth day of August, was productive of interesting results.
The Summit Hill tavern-keeper and former Bodymaster zealously
recommended McGehan as one of the best men in the country, and was happy
to see that Hugh and Mulhall had found work at Tuscarora. He said,
boastingly, that as soon as he could go to Mauch Chunk, for the
necessary license, he proposed to set McGehan up in a saloon of his own,
McKenna, Kerrigan, and Carroll being warmly pressed to honor the opening
with their presence, which all promised. Then, stepping aside a little,
Campbell let out to the detective more than he had ever before said:
“It was McGehan, himself, who fired the shot that killed Yost! Boyle was
along, it is true, but McGehan’s shot finished the business and the
other did not have to discharge his pistol at all!”
This remark, coupled with the facts he had already obtained from Mike
McKenna, Kerrigan, and Carroll, firmly convinced the inquirer there
could be no mistake about the matter. The murderers of Yost were found.
But where was the testimony with which to convict them, in the face of
the omnipresent _alibi_? He did not despair of even ferreting out that,
before finishing the good work. It was Campbell who had sent McNellis to
Tamaqua, notifying Kerrigan he should stay at home the night fixed for
the killing of some unsuspecting boss, as McGehan and Mulhall had that
day chanced to return to Storm Hill.
Subsequent to the departure of Campbell for his home, McKenna took the
saloon-keeper away from the house a little and said:
“Jim Carroll, you thought I didn’t know who it wor that knocked Yost off
his two feet!”
“I knew d——d well that you did know!” was Carroll’s laconic return.
“Well, I don’t blame ye at all for kapin’ a tight rein on yer tongue!
I’d ha’ done the same, meself, had I been in your pair o’ boots!”
“That’s all right!” continued Carroll. “It was a mighty good thing, an’
McGehan is the fellow for a clane job! Mulhall was in for it, with him,
but some objected because he was a man of family, so Boyle took his
place. I wanted to have it put off, when I saw McCarron and Yost come
past here, in company, an’ told the men to seek a better chance, another
day, but McGehan said he’d been over here three times to do it, and he
would not brook further delay. So they went and did it!”
“An’ did it nately and aisily, too?” suggested McKenna.
Mrs. Carroll had her suspicions aroused, during the visit, that McKenna
was a Mollie, and so informed her husband She thought he could not be so
intimate with Jack Donahue, talking by the hour with him in the back
yard, and with Jimmy Kerrigan, and remain only an outsider. She also
accused Carroll of forming one of the order, but he laughed, and said:
“You know better! What’s the use of charging such a thing on me?” Yet he
was Secretary of the division at the very time. This answer did not
change Mrs. Carroll’s mind. But she was too discreet and true a wife to
disclose her thoughts on the subject to every one.
The same night Kerrigan was more than usually communicative, and related
to the agent all about a trick he and Carroll were to play, in stealing
a lot of hams, and a new copper boiler, out of the Columbia House
cellar. The operative made up his mind the landlord should not be
robbed, but said nothing. The attempt was subsequently made and some
things carried off, but they had to be returned.
While the Bodymaster was in a talking humor, McKenna carelessly
inquired:
“Now what about that Summit job?”
“Oh, that’s put off until the latter part of the month!” And Kerrigan
sighed, and seemed to greatly regret the delay.
“Is it Zehner, or Jones, this time?”
“Jones, av coorse!” was the response. “An’ it has to be done by daylight
too, as he is a workin’ boss! I am not sure, yet, where he will be
caught!”
The sending of this report to Mr. Franklin, the detective very well
knew, would cause the party threatened to receive notification of the
danger he was in. The important missive was written and mailed before he
slept.
Thursday, the fifth, occurred the funeral of John Dowling, one of the
oldest members of the Ancient Order of Hibernians, otherwise the Mollie
Maguires, in the State, and, as many were to come to Tamaqua from
Shenandoah, McKenna suffered a convenient return of rheumatism, so he
said, and kept his room, in consequence, all the day. None of his old
companions sought him out, excepting Frank McAndrew, and he visited the
Columbia House, was shown to his friend’s apartment, and had a long
visit with him. The Shenandoah Bodymaster had heard that McKenna was
suspected of complicity with the Yost murder, and soberly warned him to
have a care for himself, which advice the agent received with a hearty
laugh, saying, as he was innocent, he “didn’t care a snap of his fingers
what people thought!” He expressed himself as heartily tired of hiding
so closely from the Buffalo detectives, and, but for a second letter,
which he had just received from his sister, saying the men were still
hanging around her house, he would emerge from his cover, return to
Shenandoah at once, and resume his old occupations and amusements. As it
was, he hoped soon to hear that the New York officials were starting off
for Canada, on a false scent, when he would certainly hasten homeward.
“Ye can’t be too careful, me boy!” was the admonition with which
McAndrew separated from his Secretary.
It was at the saloon and beer garden of Conrad Iffland, on Broad Street,
Tamaqua, that Linden and McKenna now met to talk over the operation and
arrange all their movements. Mrs. Iffland was a good-natured German
lady, generously patronized by her countrymen and other lovers of
lager-beer, and she gave no particular attention to the
detectives—hearing from her husband that Linden was all correct—as long
as they paid for their refreshments. When McKenna appeared on the
streets with a peculiarly ugly hat, or made a particular gesture with
his hand, Linden knew they were to meet at Iffland’s immediately. A
similar sign with the hand of Linden taught the same lesson to McKenna.
On the seventeenth of August, 1875, the two men held a very important
conversation at Mrs. Iffland’s, and made preparations, subsequently
carried out, to meet Campbell, McGehan, Boyle, and others, if possible,
at Mauch Chunk, where Campbell was to go to make application for
McGehan’s license. Linden then assumed the _rôle_ of the toper to
perfection, and was finally invited by Campbell to join the company,
slightly opposed by McKenna, who claimed Linden was only a stranger who
had accosted him near his hotel, inquiring the way to the Mansion House.
In this manner Linden learned the faces of the men and something of
their habits and conversation. Conrad Iffland had no knowledge of
McKenna’s business, nor had his spouse, but both believed him to be the
wickedest Mollie Maguire in Schuylkill County. As long as he was in
Linden’s society they tolerated him. Alone, or with Kerrigan, they would
have turned him promptly away from their door. Knowing this, the
operative never attempted an entrance, excepting he found that Linden
was in the neighborhood.
It was not until the eighth of August, that McKenna made his
reappearance in Shenandoah, and then remained but a short time. He was
warmly greeted by his old-time associates, Morris, Hurley, and McAndrew,
who said they had heard that the agent and the rest were to be arraigned
for the attack upon Wm. M. Thomas. At least they feared preparations
were being made for their apprehension. He soon quieted their
suspicions, saying there was no testimony, and, if the contrary were
true, they could easily prove an _alibi_.
The monthly meeting of the division was held, McKenna acting as
Secretary, as usual. While in the company of his friends, he thought it
strange he heard nothing more of the Gomer James affair, but concluded
the feud had subsided and the Welshman was to be allowed to live in
peace in the community. How sadly he was deceived the sequel may show.
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