But all was not accomplished, and not by any means the worst of it. The officers sailed along over the Kansas Pacific quite smoothly. All went well until they reached Topeka, Kan., where the party stopped to get dinner. At this point W. D. Disbrow, the sheriff of Shawnee county, met the officers on the platform on their way to dinner. The sheriff stepped up boldly to the party, handing Mr. McKeever a paper purporting to be a writ of habeas corpus, and laying his hand on Foulk, said, “And this is my prisoner!” claiming that a requisition upon the governor of Colorado would not hold good while a prisoner was in Kansas. Here was more of the work of the Denver lawyers.

Quite a scene now ensued, and a crowd soon gathered around the platform. High words followed, and both parties persistently claimed Foulk as their prisoner. Foulk here had an opportunity to display his wrath, and he seized it at once. He appealed to the crowd around him that he was arrested illegally—had been robbed of his money—torn away from his wife—had been given no “show” whatever—was the wrong man, etc.

The prisoner was then taken before Judge Carey, who concluded to postpone the case, as he alleged, “to obtain evidence to prove that the prisoner was not Foulk,” but ostensibly for the purpose of bringing on a lawyer from Denver to Topeka, with a view of having Foulk released if possible. The sheriff’s writ claimed that the prisoner was not C. H. Foulk. Judge Carey decided that the officer who had him in charge was bound to prove that the prisoner was the identical man wanted—C. H. Foulk. But on their part the Topeka crowd had no evidence to offer that the prisoner was Curtis and not Foulk, although Mr. McKeever was ready to swear positively to Foulk’s identification. Strangely enough, Judge Carey discharged the prisoner in the very face of the fact that Mr. McKeever knew the prisoner well and was ready so to testify.

Mr. McKeever then desired Sheriff Disbrow to rearrest Foulk, and Detective Smith stepped up to the sheriff and said:

“I demand of you to arrest this man (pointing to Foulk), and hold him as a fugitive from justice from the state of Pennsylvania, until we can have time to swear out the necessary papers to hold him.”

Sheriff Disbrow, however, persistently refused to interfere.

Mr. McKeever then inquired of Judge Carey whether “Sheriff Disbrow had not the right to arrest Foulk without a warrant.” The judge shook his head.

Detective Smith: “Judge, won’t you order the sheriff to arrest him till we take out the necessary papers?”

Judge Carey: “I have no right to do so.”

Foulk’s attorneys, Messrs. Brown and Carlisle, together with Sheriff Disbrow and one or two of his deputies, then hurried the prisoner across the street to a blacksmith shop, where Sheriff Disbrow ordered the smith to “take off this man’s irons, and do it quickly.” Meanwhile a crowd of about forty or fifty persons gathered around the smith shop to witness the proceeding. In the shop stood a horse hitched to a post. The officers expected that Foulk, after his shackles were removed, would spring upon the animal’s back and gallop off. “Had the prisoner attempted that move,” said Detective Smith, afterwards, “instead of landing him safe in Harrisburg, he perhaps would now be looking from behind the bars of the Topeka prison.”

Soon as Foulk started out of the court room, Mr. McKeever repaired to the office of Justice Serrell to procure a warrant. Remaining away rather long, Mr. Smith went after him and pressed the justice for the warrant desired. The justice replied, “I can not give you a warrant without a complaint.” Mr. Smith then made the charge himself, and carrying the document before the justice of the peace, swore to the same and obtained a warrant for the rearrest of Foulk.

Smith then looked for the sheriff or one of his deputies (there were three or four in all), but found only one of the deputies. He stated to the man that he now had a warrant for the rearrest of Foulk, and desired the deputy to go with him and arrest Foulk speedily as possible. The deputy laughed in Mr. Smith’s face and said: “Oh, I have not the time to spare!”

After a full half-day’s work, Constable Fred Miller was found, and he agreed to serve the warrant. The same afternoon at 3 o’clock Foulk was given a hearing, and held in $4,000 for ten days.

The requisition from Gov. Hartranft to the governor of Kansas arrived on the next Sunday, and on Monday the governor’s warrant came to hand. Thus matters rested till 9 o’clock Monday night, when the officers who had Foulk in charge caused it to be reported that they would start East on Tuesday morning. One of Foulk’s lawyers repaired to the sheriff’s office and told that officer not to deliver up Foulk after night. District Attorney Vance stated to Sheriff Disbrow that he was in duty bound to hand over the prisoner whenever the officer wanted to go East with him.

The officers then devised the following plan of action in order that there might be no further interference. They made, or rather pretended to make, confidants of a number of Topekans, and stated to them that they would leave Topeka by team; would strike for the Atchison and Nebraska railroad at Brenner’s station, fourteen miles northwest of Atchison; that it would take three or four days to get there, and by that time the friends of Foulk would leave the track of them and give them no further trouble. This ruse worked splendidly. Instead of taking the above route, they left North Topeka the same night, driving at a rapid gait three-quarters of a mile; thence headed southward the same distance; then headed due east to Lawrence, distance twenty-eight miles—all after dark. From Lawrence they drove to Plymouth Hill station, Mo., 120 miles from Topeka, traveling with Foulk now as a companion, having no irons on him. The above distance was made from Monday, 9 p. m., till Tuesday, 7:55 p. m., when they boarded the Missouri Pacific train eastward bound.

McKeever procured the tickets and attended to the baggage while Mr. Smith got Foulk on the train on the side opposite the platform, unobserved. Three tickets were purchased for St. Louis, one of which was placed in Foulk’s hands, so that the conductor could obtain it without exciting suspicion. Smith sat behind the prisoner and McKeever opposite.

Directly afterward a well built, robust man came through the cars, stopping in front of Detective Smith, eyeing him and Foulk sharply. (The man was supposed to be an officer with an official paper.) Eyeing Mr. Smith for a few minutes, he said:

“Ain’t your name William Johnson?”

“My name is William Franklin,” replied Mr. Smith.

The stranger continued: “I thought I knew you; once knew a man resembling you very much.”

“Guess you have struck the wrong man,” replied the officer.

The stranger walked off and left the train at Sedalia, Mo., at 10:15 a. m. Detective Smith had a curiosity to know more about him and stepped out upon the platform, where he observed the man walk up to three others, and handing them a paper, remarked: “They are not on this train.”

All hands feeling fatigued after two days’ excitement and an all-night drive, they took a sleeping car and retired, Foulk consenting to sleep between them. The officers, however, never closed their eyes. Next morning they reached St. Louis, and from that point to Harrisburg had no further trouble. Foulk denied his name until the party reached St. Louis, where he admitted that he was Foulk and not Curtis. He was met at the depot by a number of his former friends, who cordially shook him by the hand.

He was taken to Carlisle by Detective Smith, who collected his reward and returned home, the money found upon Foulk being turned over when it became known to whom it belonged. Next to Foulk himself, his Denver attorneys fared worse than any one else. They fell into great disfavor because of the part they took in the affair, and one of them soon left the city and has not been seen in it since. Of course the damage suit against Cook was soon dismissed.

The charges against Foulk were not proven, and after coming back to Denver and getting his money, he went to Hot Springs, Ark., where in partnership with another man he opened up a big gambling hall. Gen. Cook met him there in 1883, going by the name of Potts. A couple of years after that Foulk was shot by a negro policeman who was trying to halt him for fast driving. The policeman called to him to stop, and he told him to “go to h—l.” The policeman shot him through the back of the head, killing him instantly.

A DESPERATE RAILROAD CONTRACTOR.

CHAPTER XLIX.

Charley Maxwell, a bright-faced and well-dispositioned lad, was shot down in a cold and cruel way by one John Kelly, a contractor on the Union Pacific railroad, near Fort Steele, Wyo., in 1868, while the railroad was building through that country. He was a Colorado boy, and his parents had permitted him to go away from home to secure work, and he had taken a place under Kelly as night herder of the contractor’s stock. The boy owned an excellent pony, which was almost his entire property, and he was naturally very fond of it. One day the Cheyenne Indians came along and stole it, and left him quite in despair at his loss. His grief was so intense as to have an effect upon the railroad workmen, and their sympathy grew to be so strong that they determined to buy him another pony, and raised sufficient money for this purpose by clubbing together. The animal being procured, young Maxwell decided one day to return to Colorado, and demanded a settlement with his employer. Kelly was a rich man, worth perhaps no less than a hundred thousand dollars, but he was about as small a specimen of manhood as was ever permitted to live in this western country, where such characters as a rule are not tolerated long at a time. When the boy asked to be paid for his services Kelly coolly handed him the amount due, less the cost of the pony—with the purchase of which he had had nothing to do, mind you—saying that he would deduct the amount paid for the animal from the boy’s pay. Maxwell was indignant, but helpless. He could only appeal for his just dues. This he did when opportunity offered, and seeing Kelly in a bank one day, went in and asked him for the balance which he thought should be to his credit. Kelly turned upon him with wrath and poured a stream of profanity upon him, exclaiming as he went out of the bank:

“I’ll teach you, you d—d little s— of a b—, to ask me for money!”

He passed out of sight for the time, and Maxwell thought no more of the matter until he saw Kelly coming down the street with a rifle thrown across his shoulder. He was then uncertain as to the man’s purpose and made no attempt to get away. Passing down the street on the opposite side from the boy, he said nothing until directly across from him, when he threw his gun across the wheel of a wagon for a rest, and, taking deliberate aim at Maxwell, shot him down in his tracks. The boy fell bleeding, crying:

“O Mr. Kelly, you have shot me; please let me live. I will not bother you again.”

Kelly loaded his gun and walked across the street, saying in response to the lad’s utterances:

“I don’t think you will,” responded Kelly as he placed the muzzle of the weapon to the boy’s ear; “not if I know what I am about. No, you won’t ask me for any more money in a public bank. I’ll warrant you don’t.”

As he spoke the last words the trigger was pulled, and the top of the writhing boy’s head was blown almost off by the bullet which went crashing through it.

The men around were most of them employés of Kelly’s, to which fact alone is doubtless due his escape from lynching at the time. He was arrested and imprisoned at Fort Steele, but soon escaped from there and disappeared. Kelly’s home was in Council Bluffs, Iowa, and thitherward he wended his way. In Omaha he was arrested, but contrived to get out of jail, whether by the use of money is not known. In Council Bluffs the programme was repeated, and the fellow after that was allowed to go free for over two years.

In 1870 Maxwell’s father decided to make a last effort to have his son’s murder avenged, and he placed the matter before Mr. N. K. Boswell, of the Rocky Mountain Detective Association of Laramie City, to whom he related the facts, saving he was poor and able to pay but little, and appealing to Mr. Boswell’s humanity. Mr. Boswell undertook the case, and never did a detective work more assiduously, or with more skill, or display greater tenacity of purpose or more downright courage than did Boswell on this case. The story would, indeed, be told except for the detective’s work; but as it is, it is just beginning.

Mr. Boswell soon learned the place of residence of his man, and going to Council Bluffs, there ascertained that Kelly was still contracting, and that at that time he was engaged near Red Oak, on the line of the Burlington and Missouri road, which was then being built in that section.

In looking over the ground, Mr. Boswell found that his man was engaged three miles from Red Oak, but that to get a train it would be necessary to drive forty miles, to the junction of the Missouri Pacific railroad, through a thinly inhabited region. Mr. Boswell, however, arranged his programme perfectly in advance, ascertained the time at which trains passed the junction, and secured the services of a faithful man, the sheriff of the county in which Kelly was at work, and together they drove out to the point where Kelly was supposed to be engaged.

Mr. Boswell had never seen Kelly, but he carried such a complete description of him that he knew he would recognize him at first glance. Fortunately the officers came upon the fugitive alone. As they drove along by the side of a railroad cut, they recognized him standing on the other side of the cut. After observing the movements of the officers for a few minutes, Kelly apparently decided in his own mind that they could bode no good to him, and started to walk away from them. When they cried to him to stop he only walked the faster, and soon he started to run, evidently intending to reach a wagon and span of horses standing half a mile away across the prairie. The officers then left their horses standing and crossed the cut, finding Kelly at a dead run by the time they came up on his side of the track. They again shouted to him to stop, and as he did not obey the command, Boswell had his man send a shot after the fugitive. With this he ran the faster.

Boswell again warned Kelly that if he did not stop he would shoot him dead; but the fellow paid no heed, and only continued his run. He was fast gaining upon the officers, and was evidently determined not to surrender. Boswell decided to make a grand effort to bring his man down. The fellow was running rapidly and the distance was great. Boswell is ordinarily a dead shot, but at this time the great distance, and the fact that he had only his pistol, were odds against him. He, however, stopped, and deliberately squatting, placed his pistol on his knee. Almost simultaneously with the report of the pistol Kelly stopped, threw up his hands and exclaimed:

“My God, stop! You have wounded me. I will surrender!”

Going up they found Kelly lying upon the ground with a bullet hole through his body, entering at the small of the back and passing out near the navel. Seriously wounded as one would have supposed the fellow to be, shot as he was, he scarcely bled at all, and he did not appear to be materially disabled. The officers compelled him to go back with them. One of them stepped the distance as they returned, and found that Boswell had shot two hundred and twenty yards when he struck Kelly. They found their man desperate, but apparently helpless. He swore with violent rage when first taken, and asserted that he had been murdered in cold blood, saying that he would not have been taken at all if his captors had not taken a miserable advantage of him.

The officers were soon permitted to see for themselves how difficult, if not impossible, it would have been for them to secure their man had they come upon him at a less fortunate time than they did. The firing of the pistols had attracted the attention of Kelly’s work hands, who were engaged near the scene of the shooting, and the officers had not gotten Kelly to the carriage, when the laborers began to swarm around them. There were no fewer than sixty of them, led by a brother of Kelly, who came marching towards them, armed with sticks and stones, and swearing that Kelly could not be taken away.

Arrest of John Kelly, young Maxwell’s Murderer, in 1868, by Detective Boswell.

“We’ll show you about that,” responded Boswell. “We came for him and we will take him. Keep your distance!”

As Boswell talked, the two officers leveled their guns at the crowd and ordered them to not make a move. Kelly was told to get in the buggy, but he declared that he was unable to do so. Boswell, still keeping his pistol leveled at the crowd, told his fellow officer to shoot Kelly down on the spot if he did not step into the vehicle immediately. The order had its desired effect. Kelly stepped into the buggy, and the officers drove off, covering the mob with their pistols until well out of their range, leaving them gnashing their teeth and swearing, but in vain.

A fine prospect the officers had before them—very fine, indeed! A wounded man to take care of, and how badly wounded they did not know; a howling mob, headed by the brother of the prisoner, to follow them, and forty miles to the nearest railroad station, through a wild country, to them comparatively unknown. But Boswell is a man who never knew fear, who never shirked a duty, however gloomy the outlook or dangerous the path to be trod. He felt that his safety depended on the celerity of his movements, and he decided to “get up and dust.” His captive complained a great deal at first at the pain occasioned by the jolting of the vehicle; but finding that his groans occasioned no apparent compassion in the breast of his captor, that it certainly did not cause him to slacken his speed, he at last settled down into grim and sullen endurance, and the party drove on, no one saying anything. Boswell’s companion held the reins, Boswell kept his arms in readiness to meet any sudden attack, and the prisoner continually glanced about him for the friends which he felt confident would come to his relief sooner or later.

CHAPTER L.

The arrest of Kelly had been made early in the morning, and it was not late in the day when Red Oak was reached. A brief stop was made at this point to consult a physician as to Kelly’s wound. The man of medicine said the prisoner had been dangerously shot; that the ball had passed through the abdomen, and the chances were two to one that he would die, but that his prospects would be in no wise injured by taking him on to Pacific Junction. Much against Kelly’s will the officers mounted the vehicle, and with a “go long there,” were off on the long and dangerous journey.

On they went, as fast as the rough roads and the speed of their animals would permit, feeling that even step they went was putting danger all the further from them. They began to feel somewhat secure from attack when they passed the half-way point on their road. But their exultation was only short-lived. They were jogging along over a corduroy road through heavily shaded bottom land, when, glancing back, they beheld a small and motley army advancing upon them. Kelly’s brother had gotten about twenty men together, armed them with revolvers, shot guns, shovels, pitchforks, and mounted them on mules and “old plugs” of horses, and had come in pursuit. They were galloping along over the rough road strung out for a hundred yards, making quite a formidable appearance, indeed.

“Well, I guess we’ll just give them the best we’ve got in the shop, anyhow,” says Boswell. “Let them come if they want to,” in a general way, and to his companion officer, “Put your pistol to Kelly’s ear and blow the top of his head off if he makes a move, or if his friends do,” at the same time nudging the officer as a warning not to take him literally at his word. The command was intended for Kelly’s ear and not for the officer’s. We shall soon see whether the stratagem had its desired effect.

In the meantime the horses had been stopped, and Boswell remarking, “I guess we’ll face the music right here,” had jumped out of the wagon, leaving his companion to take care of Kelly while he should face the mob. They rushed on even after Boswell had stepped out. When the infuriated crowd had come within hailing distance, Boswell raised his pistol and ordered them to stop. But they did not stop. He drew a bead on the leader and shouted to him:

“Move another step and I’ll shoot you dead as you come.”

This had its effect and the mob drew the reins on their animals and came to an unwilling standstill.

“Now, what do you want?” he asked.

“We want Kelly, and mean to take him.”

“Oh, you do, eh? Well, if that is all, come on and get him.”

It was now Kelly’s time to speak. The muzzle of a cocked revolver was jammed into his ear and a firm officer’s forefinger almost touched a trigger so that a move of it would have sent him into eternity in the twinkling of an eye. He fancied that he could almost hear the crush of the hammer, and he trembled like an aspen bough as he shouted to his rash friends:

“For God’s sake, boys, don’t make a move; they will kill me.”

This had its effect, and a brief parley resulted in a promise from the crowd to not further molest the officers. They were told that if they should again attempt to come upon them, Kelly would be killed outright and that the officers were prepared to kill at least twelve of their assailants before being taken.

The mob were true to their word, and did not put in an appearance during the remainder of the entire drive, which was made as hurriedly as possible. The captive and captors reached the junction a few minutes before train time, as Mr. Boswell had calculated to do. They found, somewhat to their surprise, that Kelly’s brother and his party had taken another road and had gotten in ahead of them and had rallied a mob of two hundred to their support, who swore vehemently that Kelly should never be taken on the cars. Boswell managed to rush his party into the hotel unobserved, but they had no sooner settled there than the mob began to beat at the door and demand admission. This was denied them, and they were stood off until the train came up. It proved to be a freight, but Boswell determined to take it.

Now was the trying time. The mob had congregated on the platform between the hotel and the railroad track and was so dense that it looked impossible to force a way through it. But Boswell was equal to this occasion as he had been to others. “Now is our time, boys,” he said, and they prepared to move out. He had procured the assistance of another well armed and faithful man, and he placed him and the Missouri sheriff on either side of the arrested murderers, while he cocked two revolvers, holding one in each hand. The hotel door was opened as soon as the train stopped, and the party walked outside. They were met with a wild yell, and then became apparent a disposition to move upon the little party. Again the pistols were leveled and the crowd was told to divide so as to make a passage. Slowly it rolled into two walls as the Red sea did of old. The two assistants were placed in front while Boswell brought up the rear with his pistols in hand, and they passed through the jeering and swearing crowd. As they were nearing the cars a piece of cordwood struck Boswell in the rear, but did not hurt him badly. Quick as thought he turned his back to the cars and fired both of his pistols over the heads of the crowd. Such a scattering was never seen. The platform covered a marshy piece of ground and all around was a shallow pond. Two-thirds of the gallant two hundred were sent sprawling into the water—presenting a scene which was quite sufficient to excite Mr. Boswell’s idea of the ridiculous, notwithstanding his serious surroundings. Adjoining this pond was a cornfield, and through this the frightened creatures flew like Texas steers.

There were, however, still a few left, and they seemed more disposed to fight than ever. Kelly’s brother jumped upon a fence and was preparing to shoot when Boswell leveled upon him and brought him down with a bullet through the thigh, producing a yell which acted as a potent quietus upon the crowd, and the battle was over.

Some of the roughs made an effort to board the train, on which Kelly had been placed during the melee, but were knocked off, and soon the party was on the way to the Bluffs. The journey was without incident.

But all was not yet over. Kelly was so badly wounded that it was found impossible to proceed further, without absolutely endangering his life. He was placed in the Council Bluffs jail and a physician sent for. Strange as it may seem, it was discovered that, although the ball had passed entirely through him, he had hardly bled enough to color his shirt, and the doctor stated that with ordinary care and rest he would soon recover. He was kept in the jail there two weeks while the physician was attending him, recovering rapidly all the time. Boswell remained close with his prisoner and slept with him every night. Not aware of this fact, Kelly’s friends came one night in force and began an effort to break the doors of the jail down. But being met by this man of eternal vigilance and an ugly Winchester rifle, they retired in some disorder, heaping imprecations upon his head.

The next assault was upon Boswell’s cupidity, and consisted in an offer of $40,000 in clean cash to him if he would allow Kelly to escape. But this was met as all other efforts of a different character had been, and failed of its object, as it was refused, though Boswell allowed it to be understood that probably it would be accepted, thinking that he might the more easily get his prisoner away when he should desire to remove him.

It was while they were resting in this doubt as to Boswell’s intention that he stealthily took his now well-recovered captive out of the Council Bluffs jail and crossed the Missouri river to Omaha on his way to Wyoming. The ruse was, soon after the departure, discovered, and while the officer was at Omaha another effort was made to recapture him. This was a well-laid plan and came very near succeeding. Boswell had stopped at the Cozzens house for the night, and Kelly had gone to bed. A young man named Day had been employed as a guard while the detective was out making arrangements for transportation. Kelly suddenly claimed to have a call of nature, which demanded that he should retire to the water closet in the back yard. Day stooped down to get the prisoner’s boots for him, and as he did so, Kelly snatched the guard’s revolver and shot him through the breast, though, fortunately, not dangerously. A struggle ensued between the two men and soon a large crowd of the guests of the house came to the rescue of the guard and assisted him to disarm the now thoroughly enraged criminal.

Some one rushed over to the railroad office and informed Boswell of what was transpiring. Hurrying back to the hotel he concluded to go in the back way to avoid interference. Then another feature of the plot was revealed. A carriage stood backed up against the rear fence and a mob of forty friends of Kelly’s were demanding admission to the hotel, while the proprietor of the house, a courageous old man named Ramsey, stood at the head of the stairs, up which they sought to go, brandishing an old saber and defying them. Boswell’s appearance was sufficient to disperse the crowd, as his character had already become known to Kelly and his friends. Kelly was after this episode placed in jail.

Boswell feared still another effort at rescue, and took precautions to frustrate it. He employed a railroad man named Thomas McCarthy to join the mob and keep him informed of their movements. Through this means he discovered that a plot had been set on foot to wreck the train six miles out. Obstructions were placed on the track at a point where the train would have been thrown from the track before it could have been stopped. But Mr. Mead, then superintendent of the Union Pacific, sent out a flat car carrying forty armed men, who removed the obstructions and allowed the passenger train carrying Boswell and his man to pass without further molestation.

The seven or eight hundred miles across the plains to Laramie City were traversed without incident, and the desperado was lodged at last in jail—another feather in Mr. Boswell’s cap and that of the Rocky Mountain detective force.

Let it be said to the shame of the courts that after all this effort to capture Kelly, and after his terrible crime had become known throughout the West, he was allowed to go scot free, after remaining in jail a few months. He succeeded in buying off the witnesses against him and at last got off, though at a cost of not less than $37,000.

Of course, such a man would be expected to die with his boots on, and he did, having been shot dead some years ago in Texas while in a row there.

DEALING WITH STRIKERS.

CHAPTER LI.

As a rule, the work of detectives and detective associations during strikes has been such as to incur the bitterest hatred from the strikers, and in many cases the condemnation of all disinterested citizens. We opine that this has been caused in the main by the various associations employing for strike purposes the very worst thugs and blacklegs that could be found—men who desired to see a strike prolonged indefinitely that they might have a job, and men who would not hesitate to do anything that would increase the bitterness existing between the employers and the employed.

As an illustration of this fact, we might call attention to the great engineers’ strike on the “Q.” several years ago. Two or three engines had been blown up and much other damage had been done, so the officials of the company were led to believe, by the strikers. The labor unions of Denver denied this, and to completely refute the charges and clear themselves, they resolved to employ Gen. D. J. Cook and the Rocky Mountain Detective Association, in whom they had implicit confidence, to ferret out the real criminals. In a few days Gen. Cook was able to report to the unions that they were right, and that the deviltry was being done by miscreants in no way connected with the strikers. But the greatest services Gen. Cook and the association have ever rendered for labor unions was done during the great Leadville strike in June, 1880.

How they saved the state of Colorado from eternal disgrace, and several hundred of the foremost citizens of Leadville from eternal infamy, by nipping in the bud the conspiracy to lynch six of the leaders of the Miners’ Union, has never been told; but it deserves publication as one of the most brilliant achievements of Gen. Cook’s career.

It is not our purpose to give here a history of the strike in detail, but merely to relate the part played by Gen. Cook, and some of his most trusted lieutenants. The Miners’ Union, consisting of several hundred miners, with Michael Mooney at their head, had declared a strike about the last of May, and by persuasions and threats soon had nearly every miner in the Leadville district out. The bitterness increased from day to day, and by the 10th of June the excitement had risen to such a pitch that nearly everybody in the city had arrayed himself with either the union or with those who sympathized with the mine owners.

Leadville was in a condition of anarchy. There were organizations of mine owners and citizens, and organizations of miners which were intensely hostile to each other. The bummers of the city had attached themselves to one party or the other, hoping for plunder. It was generally believed that a vigilance committee had been organized to deal with the leaders of the strike. It was known that mine owners had received notices from unknown sources threatening their lives. The most intelligent portion of the community believed that a deadly collision was imminent.

In this condition of affairs the sheriff of the county officially notified the governor that he could no longer preserve the peace, and called upon him to declare martial law as the only means of preventing bloodshed. Gov. F. W. Pitkin at once responded by ordering Gen. Cook to take command, at the same time declaring the city and county under martial law, which step was immediately taken. Gen. Cook at once summoned ex-Sheriff Peter Becker and Lieut. Matt. Hickman, both of whom are now dead, but who were then trusted members of the Rocky Mountain Detective Association, together with two other members, and detailed them to circulate through all the crowds and obtain definite information as to what the “Committee of 115” was doing. These men soon discovered that there was a plot on foot to cause the arrest of Mooney and five other leaders of the strikers, place them under a guard of militia friendly to the committee, and then to take them away and lynch them.

Gen. Cook at once conferred with Brig. Gen. James, whom he knew to be opposed to the proposed lynching, and they agreed that at least half of the militia could not be trusted in the matter. Gen. Cook then directed Gen. James to choose three companies that were all right to scour the town and arrest every suspicious party. Gen. James chose about 300 out of the 600 men in the command, taking only the companies that he felt could be relied upon, but a large number of whose members, as the detectives found out, were members of the committee of safety themselves! They went on duty at 8 o’clock, but as a matter of course, they failed to find any riotous assemblages. After midnight Gen. Cook’s detectives reported these facts to him, adding that the mob was only waiting for him to retire, when they would have their victims placed under arrest, and placed in charge of militiamen who were in full sympathy with the mob. Then, of course, they were to be taken after a slight show of resistance and hanged. As soon as Gen. Cook found that he could not depend upon the other men, he sent for Capt. Murphy and Lieut. Duggan, of the Tabor Tigers, a company formed principally of sporting men, who were opposed to hanging on general principles, arguing that it was something that might happen to anybody. On being questioned as to whether their men could be trusted to round up the “stranglers” or not, Murphy replied: “Now you’re shoutin’. If there’s anything in the world these boys are dead sore on, it’s stranglers.” Gen. Cook at once ordered the company to report at his headquarters, on the double-quick, and upon their arrival directed Capt. Murphy to divide them into small squads and at once scour the town, arresting any group of three or more men they might find, no matter, militiamen or civilians. The men departed in all directions with a whoop, and in less than an hour the detectives reported to Gen. Cook that he could go to bed without the least fear of any more trouble, nor was there any.

As soon as the “Committee of 115” found that Gen. Cook had detected their conspiracy, they knew in a minute that the “stuff was off,” and the idea of lynching the strike leaders was given up. Gen. Cook soon convinced everybody that he had no entangling alliances with either mine owners, citizens or miners. He went under instructions to protect all classes from violence and to prevent bloodshed. His actions were so impartial and his protection to the community was so complete, that when on the third day after martial law was declared, the governor proposed to revoke the order, every class of the community appealed to him to continue the order in force. More than a hundred of the citizens telegraphed imploring him to continue the protection for a few days longer. A majority of the city council, with the city treasurer, city clerk and city marshal, united in the same request. The Miners’ Union sent him this dispatch:

Thus was the danger averted. Dave Cook’s cool head and strong determination had prevented the riot, and ruin, and bloodshed that must certainly have followed the lynching of the strike leaders by the infuriated citizens’ committee. He had won the respect of all classes, and the Miners’ Union, seeing that their cause was already lost, appealed to him to devise some means of settling the strike. He consented, and in a few hours had arranged a conference between the miners and their employers, at which their differences were satisfactorily adjusted, and the great strike was over.

When Gen. Cook was first appointed to the command of the military forces around Leadville, a local paper, the Carbonate Chronicle, said, editorially:

“The man whom Gov. Pitkin has selected to take command of the state forces in this county during the reign of martial law, needs no introduction to any Coloradoan. Sheriff of the capital county for years, he became the best known and most prominent official in the state by reason of his able administration of his duties, his wonderful detective achievements, and the fact that his arrests were made in every quarter. For the past ten or fifteen years criminals have felt that if Dave Cook was on their trail their escape was hopeless and their fears have proven well founded.

“As an executive officer, Gen. Cook possesses the highest ability. His iron will, level head and perfect coolness mark him as the one man for chief in this emergency. No matter where you see him—at table, desk, on promenade, in the saddle, confronting Utes or criminals—he is the same calm, quiet, nervy man.

“The memorable ride over the range into Middle Park, and prompt action in the Ute campaign of last summer, have passed into history, and Gen. Cook will ever be remembered with deepest gratitude by the settlers whom he succored so quickly.

“Leadville may well congratulate herself that the presence of such a man has been secured in the commander’s saddle in this most trying and important ordeal.”

Subsequent events proved that the confidence of the people in Gen. Cook’s ability was not misplaced, and the prompt and decisive settlement of the troubles, added fresh laurels to his fame and that of the Rocky Mountain Detective Association.

A VICTIM OF DRAW POKER.

CHAPTER LII.

John A. Bemis is the name of a young man who must figure in this narrative because of his weakness—because he allowed himself to fall into bad habits when he was entrusted with money belonging to other people. When the crime was committed in the summer of 1877, Bemis was, and is yet if he is still living, a young man of good family. His people resided in Syracuse, N. Y., whence Bemis started out on one of the New York railroads as an agent for the American Express company, running into New York. As agent for a big carrying enterprise running into the nation’s financial metropolis, he became the custodian of large sums of money, often carrying a million dollars on a single trip. He was implicitly trusted by the company, being a young man whose life was supposed to be singularly exemplary, and backed by family connections of the very highest order. There were many times that he might have made a big haul without taking more than the ordinary risk which thieves take. But he seems to have resisted all the more luring bait which was thrown out to him, and to have at last been tempted by a comparatively small sum.

As was learned after his arrest by the Rocky Mountain Detective Association, he fell into loose company one day while carrying $3,600 for his company. He was lured into a game of penny-ante poker, which assumed, before the game was finished, extensive proportions. Having exhausted his own pile, and feeling chagrined at being beaten, he drew upon the money which he held in trust. He did not draw upon the pile very extensively, but sufficiently to create a deficit which he was unable to make good. Finding himself in a corner, fearing to explain his breach of trust, and being unable to supply the missing sum himself, he decided in an evil moment upon flight, and also concluded to carry the residue of the company’s money in his possession with him.

This decision once formed, he left his express car at a way station, and jumping upon a train coming westward, was off before the theft was discovered.

The company was thunderstruck when the crime was discovered. The New York papers were full of the details a few days afterwards, and the wires carried the report to all sections of the country, dwelling upon the young man’s family connections, the trust which had been reposed in him, and filled with surmises as to what could have induced him to take the foolish step which he had taken. Soon followed other telegrams and posters, the latter carrying portraits of the young fellow, offering a reward of $800 for his apprehension. The express company determined upon close pursuit and the capture and punishment of the defaulter, not because they did not respect the feelings of his family, but because they felt that he should be made an example of. Detectives throughout the eastern states and as far west as the Mississippi river were put to work on the case. They sought in vain for the fugitive. He was not to be found by the most vigilant of the officers who took the trail.

A month after the robbery, Gen. Cook received a letter from Mr. Fargo, president of the express company, giving a description of the robber, renewing his offer of a reward of $800 for his apprehension, and saying there were reasons to believe that Bemis had come to Denver. The principal reason urged was that Bemis had a cousin here, whose name was given.

The case was placed in the hands of Detective Arnold by Gen. Cook, who was relied upon to do his best work on it. Mr. Arnold worked a long time without a clue. The hotel registers for a month back were scanned with the keenest scrutiny. They were dumb. Not a shadow of a clue was presented. No one going by the name of Bemis had registered at any of the hotels since the time of the robbery. The cousin was sought out and skilfully pumped. He knew nothing, or professed to know nothing, of his relative. He declared that the young man had not been in Denver to his knowledge. This to Mr. Arnold. But Arnold soon came to the conclusion that he was not the best man to talk with the cousin. Arnold is one of the men who believe that there are more ways to accomplish a purpose than one. He made himself acquainted with the associates of Bemis’ cousin in Denver and set some of them quietly after him. Not only the man’s male friends, but some of his female friends were set to work. This ruse was at last successful. The cousin at last told one of these sub-detectives that his cousin had been in Denver; that while here he had gone by the name of James Walker, by which name he had registered at the American house, but that he had taken his departure some time previous. The kinsman professed to know nothing of the course Bemis had taken, leaving the detectives almost as much in the dark as they were before.

Having the Denver name of the man, they were enabled to ascertain something of his conduct while in Denver, to pick up information as to his habits, and to get a minute description of him. They found that he had been “one of the boys;” inclined to be a little loose and reckless, and considerably addicted to card playing. While still looking about for information as to the direction the man had taken, they received a note one day from Mr. Nat Hickman, who at that time was a confidential agent of the association, dated at Santa Fe, N. M., and telling them that there was a young stranger in that city going by the name of John L. Jerome, whose actions were quite mysterious. Hickman was a shrewd observer of human nature. He knew of no charges against the man concerning whom he had written to headquarters, but merely inferred from the fellow’s conduct that he was a fugitive from justice, and considered it probable that if he was such, Gen. Cook would know something about him. After reading the letter, Mr. Cook handed it over to Mr. Arnold, with the remark:

“There’s your man.”

To which Arnold replied, more forcibly than elegantly:

“Bemis, begad.”

After taking some preliminary steps, such as the procuring of a requisition for the arrest of the man, Arnold was off for Santa Fe. There was no doubt of his identity after getting Hickman’s description of the party.

In those days a trip to Santa Fe was not so easily made as now. Trains ran only to Trinidad, in Colorado, rendering it necessary that the traveler should make the rest of the journey of over two hundred miles on stage coach, which was not a very pleasant undertaking, considering that the roads were bad; that almost the entire population was Mexican, and road agents were both numerous and persistent. But these were obstacles which did not stand in the way of the Rocky Mountain Detective Association. So Mr. Arnold was off for Santa Fe, the ancient capital of New Mexico, in search of John A. Bemis, alias James Walker, alias John L. Jerome.

The southward trip was devoid of incident. There was a long and hard ride. Santa Fe was then further from Denver, considering the time necessary for the trip, than Chicago, and the ride was a far more trying one. But Joe Arnold is not very delicately organized, and he landed in Santa Fe “right side up with care.”

Arriving late in the evening, he went to the principal hotel—the Exchange—and was soon in possession of evidence which made it absolutely certain that the John L. Jerome, of Santa Fe, was the John A. Bemis, of Syracuse. Arnold had registered as “W. F. Smith, Salt Lake City,” that his arrival might create no suspicion in Bemis’ mind in case he should glance over the hotel register.

Being sure of the presence of his man, Mr. Arnold next went to work to find the governor, and to get him to honor his requisition. This was a work which consumed a greater part of the night after Arnold’s arrival, and morning came on soon after he had finished the preparation for the arrest. Having everything in readiness to spring his trap, he set out to find his game. It began now to look as if the detective had had all his trouble for nothing. He waited patiently about the hotel for Bemis to put in an appearance. He watched the breakfast hall carefully, supposing that his man would come in to get something to eat. Breakfast finally being over, Arnold wandered about the town during the forenoon, with the hope of getting a glimpse of his man. But his vigilance was not rewarded by the least trace of him. He was not to be seen anywhere. Going back to the hotel when the dinner hour approached, he again kept close watch upon the dining room. This time, as before, no Bemis made his appearance. Arnold was beginning to fear that the fellow had spotted him and given him the slip. But he resolved to put in the day in his search. Accordingly his investigations were continued during the afternoon. But still no Bemis.

T. JEFF. CARR, Cheyenne, Wyoming.

The supper hour had come on and had nearly passed. Arnold had kept an eagle eye upon the room. His man had not gone in. Finally he wandered into the billiard hall, which was then but dimly lighted, and was unoccupied except by Arnold. Throwing himself down in a chair, the detective was preparing for a little meditative spell to decide what course to pursue, when a footstep fell upon his ear. Looking up he saw that a man had entered the door opposite him. A second glance told him that the newcomer was none other than Bemis. Sitting still until the stranger approached quite close to him, Arnold then got up and advanced to meet the man, speaking to him when he had approached very near him:

“Mr. Bemis, I believe?”

The man did not appear startled or especially confused. He seemed to have been expecting to be overtaken.

“Bemis—yes, that’s my name, and you are an officer come for me?”

Mr. Arnold told him that he had made a very good guess.

“I knew it. I am glad of it. I am ready and anxious to go with you. I want to get out of this hole, and I am tired of skulking about. I would rather a thousand times over go back home and meet all my old-time friends, explain all to them and go to prison, than to go hiding about the country all my life. I could not stand it much longer. So I am glad that you have come. You need fear no resistance from me.”

Arnold took his prisoner to his own room, where the fellow continued his talk in the above strain for some time. It was not long before the detective discovered another interesting feature of the story. In answer to Arnold’s inquiries as to where Bemis had been during the day, he stated that when he had gone to Santa Fe he still retained the bulk of the money which he had stolen, and believing that he had found a place to which detective vigilance would not extend, he had decided to settle down and go into business. He had determined to buy a cigar store, and had closed the contract, nothing remaining to be done but to pay over the money. He had, soon after going to his hotel, left his money for deposit in the safe, the proprietor of the house being aware of the amount which he had. This same individual, it seems, had become anxious to possess the roll himself, and while he was not courageous enough to steal it outright, as Bemis had done, he hit upon another plan, which was just as effectual and far more safe. He had discovered Bemis’ propensity for cards, and finding that the money was about to slip out of his grasp into the hands of the then owner of the cigar store, he proposed to Bemis that they have a quiet game of poker.

Nothing was more to the liking of the Syracuse man. He was willing. These two men and a pair of accomplices of the hotel proprietor were playing poker while Arnold was getting his requisition papers into shape on the night of his arrival. The game at first ran along very smoothly. There was little excitement for a long while. There was plenty to drink, and there was a supply of good cigars. The game appeared to be purely social. The bets were small. There was a general good time, and the entire crowd appeared to be quite “mellow” when the wee sma’ hours came on. It was not a matter of appearance with Bemis. He drank too much. Finding the young man in good shape, his “friends” began to tighten the screws. They had determined to get his money before the night should pass, and about 2 o’clock in the morning prepared to put their plans into execution.

It was the landlord’s deal. As he pushed out the ante, one of his accomplices said to Bemis:

“Go a dollar blind.”

“All right,” said the now thoroughly excited young man, and shoved out the chip representing that amount.

The cards were dealt slowly. The first that fell to Bemis was an ace, and a gleam of gratification passed over his face. His countenance fell as a ten followed, but when another ten, and another, dropped, it was easily seen how much pleasure he took in the contemplation of the little pieces of cardboard. The landlord saw the blind and raised it five dollars. Bemis followed with a raise of ten dollars, which was promptly responded to by a raise of a like sum on the part of the landlord. Bemis raised it twenty dollars, and the landlord simply covered the raise.

“I’ll take two cards,” said Bemis.

“That’s about what I want, myself,” responded the landlord.

The cards were dealt, and after a careless glance at the draw, Bemis laid his hand down on the table and bet fifty dollars.

“I’ll raise you fifty,” was the response.

“That lets me out,” said one of the other players.

“Here, too,” said the second accomplice.

“See your fifty and go a hundred better,” exclaimed Bemis.

“We’ll play for two hundred,” exclaimed the landlord.

Bemis was now thoroughly excited, and the bystanders, accustomed as they were to high play, began to draw nearer to the contestants, and display an unusual interest in the game.

“Will you stand a raise?” asked Bemis, with an air of confident good humor.

“Try it and find out,” replied the landlord, while a close observer could not have failed to note the air of conscious triumph in his manner, so outwardly imperturbable.

“I’ll raise you five hundred dollars, then,” said Bemis.

“I’ll go you another five hundred,” was the answer.

“See here,” said Bemis; “I’ve got the boss hand, but I don’t want to win your money. I’ll raise it a thousand dollars.”

“I’ll see that and raise it another thousand,” came in the coolest terms from his antagonist; but immediately added, as he remembered the fact that Bemis’ bets now covered nearly all his capital: “No, I won’t either. It would be robbery to keep on betting with you. I’ll just call you.”

“Four Tens!” called Bemis, stretching out his hand to take in the stakes, with a smile.

“Hold on a minute,” exclaimed the landlord. “That’s a boss hand, ordinarily, but it don’t win this time;” and he laid down four kings.

“Four Kings!” exclaimed Bemis. “My God!”

Thus Bemis, a fugitive from justice and a long way from home, was “dead broke.” The game was abruptly ended. He had no more money, could borrow none, and must quit. He wandered out into the dark shadows of the adobe houses, and the thoughts which came to him were quite strong enough to sober him off. Here was, indeed, a pretty kettle of fish, and Bemis told Arnold that so great was his anguish that he had almost determined to free himself from it by committing suicide. Better counsel, however, prevailed, and he decided not only not to take his own life, but to make an effort to get back home, and when once arrived there, to surrender himself to the authorities.

He went to the hotel determined to go to bed and try to sleep the remainder of the night. But he was met at the counter by a refusal on the part of the clerk to turn over the keys of his room. He was then informed that he had not paid his bill, and that as he had no money he could get no further accommodations there. Thus was he robbed and turned loose penniless and to be persecuted by the man who had robbed him. He spent the remainder of the night walking about and thinking over his situation. He had not gone to the hotel for breakfast, because he had been forbidden to again enter the house. For the same reason he had gone without his dinner; but finding himself very hungry when supper time came on, he had decided to make an effort to steal in and get something to eat. This resolve he was trying to put into execution when he met Arnold and was arrested.

The fellow was really suffering from a fear that his life was not safe. In those days they could arrest and imprison a man for debt in New Mexico. He was satisfied that his late “host” would be only too glad to dispose of him in that way to get his mouth closed, and so informed Arnold.

Of course the officer promised every protection, and the promise had hardly been made before he was afforded an opportunity to fulfill it. The door of the room had been locked by the officer when he had entered with his prisoner. The story above related had hardly been finished when there came a loud rap on the door, in response to which Arnold demanded to know who was there.

“The proprietor of the house,” was the response.

“What do you want?”

“I want Jerome,” giving the name by which Bemis had gone in Santa Fe.

“Well, you can’t have him.”

A long parley ensued, but Arnold steadfastly declined to allow the hotel man to enter or to surrender Bemis to him. The fellow went away swearing vengeance. When he was well gone, Arnold began barring the door more securely than had been done before, and handing Bemis a pistol, told him to defend himself with it in case it should become necessary for him to do so, saying as he did so:

“He will come back with reinforcements, and if they get you I would not give much for your hide.”

Sure enough, the man did return, and with a body of men. They began to pound upon the door, but were met by Arnold with the assurance that the first man that entered would be shot down in his tracks. This defiance had the effect of cooling the ardor of the besiegers. They remained about the door all night, however, so that Arnold and Bemis were compelled to remain awake with their weapons in hand during the long night that followed, for it was a long night to both of them. Both had been exposed to great hardships and were fatigued. Arnold had been a night in the stage coming down. The next night he had devoted to his papers. Bemis’ experience has been described. But they had another night before them, and nothing was left to them but to make the best of it.

At last morning came. The stage was to start a 6 o’clock. They must get off on that stage or all was lost. Accordingly a few minutes before 6 the two men unbarred the door of their prison and walked out with their pistols in their hands.

The besiegers had disappeared. The stage was in waiting near the hotel. Arnold and his prisoner jumped in. As they did so, the landlord came up, and as he demanded his pay, struck at Bemis.

The stage driver had seen the row coming on, and having exclaimed, “Jerusalem! it’s after 6, and I am off!” had made a sudden start, which left the irate poker player standing alone, while Arnold and his prisoner were off for Denver.

This was a triumph, to be sure, but all was not yet over. The stage passed rapidly on to Las Vegas without incident. Arriving at that place it was stopped by a well-armed Mexican, who was followed by a dozen determined looking fellows, all evidently well heeled. Arnold had taken a seat by the driver’s side. The Mexican stated that he was the sheriff of the county, and said he had received a dispatch from Santa Fe, directing him to arrest one John Jerome, who was on the stage in charge of an officer named Smith, from Salt Lake City, on a capias. Arnold at once came to the front, and making himself spokesman for the stage party passed the question around to every passenger on the coach:

“Is your name Smith?” “Your name Jerome?” etc.

All answered no. “Must be a mistake,” said Joe. “My name is Arnold; I am an officer from Denver, and I have a prisoner here named Bemis, but of course we are not the people you want.” He then showed his papers, which confirmed his statement.

“Oh, naw,” replied the sheriff in broken English; “ve vant Smeet—no vant you.”

Mr. Arnold then volunteered the information that he had heard in Santa Fe of some trouble of the character described about a prisoner, but thought it probable that the fellow had evaded the officers and would be along on the next coach, which the sheriff also considered a plausible theory, and allowed Arnold and Bemis to pass on. The reader will see that the wrong names had been telegraphed. The Santa Fe officials had consulted the hotel register and not the territorial books for the names.

At Cimarron, the next station of importance, Arnold expected to have trouble, and determined to avoid it this time by not meeting it. Consequently he bought a quart bottle of whisky at Rayada, a few miles south of Cimarron, and presenting it to the driver, got off the coach with Bemis before the town was reached, requesting the driver in case they were asked for to state that they had left the coach, and promising to join the stage after the town should be passed. The Jehu promised compliance, but there was no demand for either the officer or his man. They jumped the coach per agreement, and were landed in Trinidad without further incident.

Bemis was sent back to Syracuse, where he pleaded guilty and threw himself upon the mercy of the court. Even the express company officials pleaded for clemency. Hence he was let off with a sentence of but eighteen months in the penitentiary. He should long remember Detective Arnold as his best friend.

A HORSE THIEF’S FOLLY.