Arrest of Ballotti, Campagne and Allessandri at Trinidad, by Officers Smith and Force.
See page 67.

So Gallotti will not talk. Let us visit Allessandri and get his story. This boy (for he is scarcely more than a boy) was the first to make any statement to the officers, and he can think or talk of nothing but the crime. He looks up as his cell is entered and readily answers all questions.

His story as he relates it, with great rapidity and constant gesticulation, is as follows: “The band consisted of Gallotti, Anatta, Ballotti, Campagne and a miner. I was forced to join them against my will, but was powerless to resist Gallotti. The killing commenced Friday, October 15, at half-past one o’clock p. m. I was playing a harp in the front room. The old man, called Joe in English, the biggest boy and one or two others were playing cards in the front room. The cards lay on a box and the players were seated around in a circle. Ballotti, Campagne and ‘the miner’ were playing, too. Gallotti, the boss tinker, was standing up and watching the game. Suddenly Gallotti reached under his coat, drew a knife, seized the old man by the hair, drew his head back and with one powerful stroke cut his throat from ear to ear. The blood flew upon the cards and into the faces of the other players. Not yet content, Gallotti stabbed the old man in several places and, releasing his hold, he let the lifeless body fall on the floor. At the same time the others seized the big boy who was sitting at my side playing the harp, but he made a desperate resistance and tried to fight them off.

“Seeing that the others were not very successful, Gallotti left old Joe’s body and, grabbing the boy, cut his throat, crying to me, ‘Play louder!’ In the struggle they all used knives, and Anatta cut his fingers so badly that when they ceased bleeding he could not close them.

“I kept on playing the harp, for I did not dare stop, and I was so frightened that I trembled violently. Once I stopped playing, but Gallotti shook me and, drawing his knife across my throat, told me he would cut my d—d head off if I did not play on. So I started up again.

“They let the bodies lay where they had fallen, and some one threw blankets over them. In about half an hour the other two came into the yard, carrying their harps. Gallotti watched the front door and Ballotti stood guard at the rear one. The smaller one came in first, carrying his violin under his arm. Gallotti seized him and, driving a knife to the hilt just under his right ear, cut the boy’s throat. The little boy who played the harp came up to the door and, catching a glimpse of the blood, attempted to retreat, but Silvestro seized him and dragged him into the house. As Silvestro did not succeed in cutting his throat very quickly, Anatta went to his aid. But the boy escaped them and ran, bleeding and crying, into the front room, where Gallotti caught him around the neck with one hand and, with the boy’s head under his arm, cut his throat from ear to ear.

“I was still playing on the harp, but the sight of dead bodies and the blood running on the floor made me sick. Filomeno made me lick his knife and ordered me to drink some of the blood. He scraped up a handful of blood running from the big boy’s throat and drank it, the others doing likewise, as a pledge of fidelity. They then threw the bodies into the cellar and commanded me to continue playing, as the music deadened the noise and would divert any suspicion that might be entertained. Some of the bodies they dragged and some they carried to the trap-door, where they threw them into the cellar. Filomeno or some one else then went into the cellar and secured the money. I don’t know how much was obtained, but he gave Ballotti $140, another $40 and handed me $20.

“After everybody had washed their hands and taken off their bloody shirts, which were thrown into the cellar, we took four revolvers, locked the doors and went to the tin-shop on Fifteenth street. About 9 o’clock that night Filomeno, Deodotta, Ballotti, Valentine, Guiseppe and the light-haired tinker went back to the house. I did not go, but went to sleep between two tinkers, who, I think, knew all about the murder, for Filomeno told them to watch me, and also told me that if I said anything about the murder, or attempted to run away, he would kill me. That night Ballotti, Campagne and I walked to Littleton, where we slept near the depot until a freight train arrived, which we boarded and rode on to Pueblo.

“I came from Central City about three weeks before the murder, and Filomeno told me he should kill the old man and the boys. I was afraid to tell any one, fearing that he would kill me, too, and the gang never allowed me out of their sight, day or night. Filomeno told us he was going to Mexico, and would write to us.”

As the musician who played the harp as an accompaniment while the throat-cutting was in progress has talked so plainly, let us visit Ballotti and, if possible, obtain from him an account of the crime. Entering the cell, a rather good-looking young man, of a compact frame and with the dark skin of an Italian, comes forward to greet us. He commences his story as follows:

“When I came here some months ago, Filomeno Gallotti assisted me in many ways, and placed his house and his purse at my disposal. He finally told me that he intended to kill the old man and the boys, and I endeavored to obtain funds sufficient to go to Cheyenne and get away, but in this I was unsuccessful, and I told Deodotta, together with another man at Sloan’s lake, what plans had been made. Filomeno told us to go to the house on Lawrence street and pretend to teach the boys music, and we were thus engaged for three days prior to the murder. After Filomeno cut the old man’s throat, he gave me a knife and told me to help the others. I did not wish to kill them, but, fearing Filomeno, I drew the back of the knife across the big boy’s throat, but did not hurt him. When the last two came Filomeno stood behind the door and, as the little one entered, carrying his harp, he said, holding up a fancy article he had purchased, ‘Look here. I have bought you something nice to-day,’ and just then he seized the poor boy, pulled him down upon the floor and, putting his knee on his head, said, in Italian: ‘Ah, my boy, I’ve got you now.’ With that he thrust his knife up to the hilt back of the ear and gashed the throat wide open. When the other entered, Filomeno, the miner and the tall tinker cut him all to pieces. He held on to his harp and ran around the room with his throat cut, the blood pouring from the wounds in a torrent, and Filomeno pursuing and stabbing him. Finally he succumbed and fell with the harp on top of him. The old man wore a belt filled with gold, and Filomeno divided it around. In all, I suppose the belt contained about $1,400.”

From this point on the story contained only unimportant details.

Says John Anatta, another of the murderers, when talked to: “I can not sleep, for ‘Old Joe’s’ spirit haunts my dreams, and when he approaches me I seem to be cutting his throat. But no sooner have I done so than a brand new one takes its place, and I awake horrified. It was awful, but I could not help it, and I did not do any of the cutting. I hit one of the boys on the head, but the knife bent and cut my hand, and that was all I did.”

Let us again visit Gallotti, and after we have told him what the others say, perhaps he will be induced to give some account of the horrible butchery in which it is claimed he took such a prominent part. A dark scowl again greets us, but he is in better humor—just in trim to cut throats were the occasion propitious.

“Now, see here, Gallotti, the others have told us all about this affair, and you might as well say something, too.”

“Well, you see, I commenced the job at the card table, by catching ‘Old Joe’ by the hair and sawing my knife across his throat until he was quite dead. I helped to kill one of the boys, as the others were making a bad job of it. I then put up my knife and watched Anatta, Ballotti and Guiseppe cut the other two. I secured $800 in gold and $377 in currency, but I gave the most of it to the others. I conceived the idea of the murder some time ago, and when I broached the subject to the others individually and at different times, they all were eager to engage in the scheme. My reason for killing the old man was this: Several years ago I lived in New Orleans and, being successful in business, my countrymen often deposited their savings with me. The sum thus entrusted to me increased until I had about six thousand dollars of other people’s money. Thinking it proper to invest this, I loaned it to a fruit dealer, who promised to pay a fair rate of interest on the amount advanced. Subsequently, and as I afterwards learned, by ‘Old Joe’s’ advice, the fruit dealer decamped with the money. I followed him all over the country, but finally my means became exhausted and I came to Denver, where I settled down at my trade. One day I was asked to write a letter for the man on Lawrence street, and when the address was signed, I learned for the first time that ‘Old Joe’ was the one who advised the fruit dealer to abscond with the six thousand dollars. I kept this to myself, but continued to watch him, and finally was satisfied that he was the identical ‘Joe’ who had been in New Orleans. Then I determined to kill him, and enlisted the others in the plot. They are as guilty as I, and deserve as severe a punishment.”

This being all Gallotti has to say, we are forced to withdraw.

CHAPTER XI.

It would seem from the evidence and their own confessions that this band would surely be hung. But such a fate was not in store for them. On Saturday, December 4, 1875, the preliminary examination was had before Justices Whittemore and Sayer. Gallotti and Ballotti pleaded guilty, and, together John Anatta, Leonardo Allessandri, Guiseppe Campagne, Leonardo Deodotta, Frank Valentine, Guiseppe Pinachio and Henry Fernandez, they were bound over to the district court for trial on the 26th day of the following January. John Anatta and Allessandri, the young harpist, turned state’s evidence before the grand jury and indictments were returned against the entire band. On the 30th of January the accused were brought into court and counsel was assigned them.

February 8 they were arraigned, pleaded not guilty, and their cases were set for trial during the April term. May 20 Gallotti was before the court and pleaded guilty. Great excitement was occasioned when it became known that under a section of the statutes he could not be hung, a life sentence being the utmost penalty in cases when the accused entered a plea of guilty. The next day Ballotti was arraigned and endeavored to withdraw his plea of not guilty. The motion, for reasons not clearly apparent, was overruled and his case was set for trial on the following day. The evidence in the trial of Ballotti was simply a repetition of the facts already known to the reader, and a verdict of murder in the first degree was rendered.

It was decided that under the law Gallotti could be tried in spite of his plea. When arraigned Gallotti again entered the plea of guilty, and it was considered proper to carry his case to the supreme court as a test of the loose law then in force. The same proceedings were had in the case of Frank Valentine. Campagne also pleaded guilty, and Anatta and Allessandri entered special pleas of voluntary manslaughter. Deodotta was acquitted on the charge of being accessory, and the following sentences were meted out to the bloodiest band that ever went unhung: Gallotti, Valentine, Campagne and Ballotti were sentenced for life; Anatta and Allessandri received each ten years while the others went scot-free.

Gallotti, the leader of the cut-throat band, was pardoned out in 1885, leaving immediately for his native land, Italy, but, according to reports, never reaching it, but dying on his journey. Ballotti, the best one of the lot, died in the prison at Cañon, December 20, 1887. Campagne was pardoned out June 29, 1888, and Valentine, the other life man, was restored to liberty by Gov. Waite on August 5, 1895.

MUSGROVE AND HIS GANG.

CHAPTER XII.

For a few years previous to 1868 Denver was a paradise of quiet and repose. The mining excitement, which had attracted so many people to this region a few years before, had subsided to a great extent. The settlers were becoming accustomed to a residence in this region. The novelty of the life in the Far West had died out. There were few mining “booms,” if any, and the “hard cases” which invariably follow in the wake of mining discoveries of importance had become disgusted with the slow life in this section, and had folded their tents and quietly departed for more inviting and, to them, more congenial fields. Of course, the good people had no fault with this state of affairs. They went on following their customary avocations, delving steadily for the precious metals, tilling the soil and building up town and country. In a word, Denver seemed, within a remarkably short period, to have settled down into the perfect repose, so far as crime was concerned, of the New England village.

But with the approach of railroads there came a change—a radical and important change. The building of a new railroad in any section always introduces a large element of irresponsible and vicious people. In the West the percentage of this element is larger than in the East. But as the Union Pacific was the pioneer railroad line built across the plains, and as the country was new and inviting to men of adventurous spirit, its construction was probably accompanied by a greater number of arrivals than that of any other line built since in this region. There were gamblers of all degrees, sneak thieves, burglars, highwaymen, horse thieves, murderers, fugitives from justice and amateurs in crime. In many places along the line of the road it was “quite the thing” to be a bad man, and honesty and civility were at a serious discount. Yet in places the better element would ultimately gain the ascendancy. In many cases the contest was close and often there was doubt as to whether the good or the bad would triumph. As a rule, however, respectability asserted itself, although frequently not until much blood had been shed and the most heroic measures resorted to to rid the various communities affected of these human pests. There were vigilance committees at Cheyenne, Laramie City and other places along the line of the Union Pacific, which, after months of endurance of the most terrible outrages, took the law into their own hands. The results were numerous warnings to offenders to leave these places, and many “neck-tie parties” as well, at which no “duly elected” judge sat for days in weighing the evidence, but where justice was seldom, as in other courts, blind. The action of these vigilance committees was so energetic and efficient that many of those of the worst classes were compelled to get away from the railroad camps, and large numbers of them poured into the Colorado towns.

Of such were Sanford S. C. Duggan and Edward Franklin, whose tragic fate, as well as that of L. H. Musgrove, it is the purpose of this and succeeding chapters to treat.

Musgrove was one of the marked villains of the pioneer days of Colorado, and as cool a character as it was ever the fortune of a detective or criminal officer to fall in with. He was a man of large stature, of shapely physique, piercing eye and steady nerve, who might have stood as the original for the heavy villain of the best story of a master in romance literature. He was a man of daring, inured to danger, calm at the most critical times—a commander whose orders must be obeyed, who planned with wisdom and who executed with precision and dispatch. He was the leader of an organized band of horse thieves, highwaymen and murderers, who infested the western plains, with Denver as general headquarters, during the years 1867-’68. They made the railroad towns a convenience in disposing of their booty, but did not spend time in loafing about these places when there was other and more profitable business to attend to in other places. Musgrove was a southern man by birth, being a native of Como Depot, Miss. He had gone to California during the days of the gold excitement on the coast, and had located in Napa valley. His sympathies were with the South in the rebellion, and he quarreled with a Napa man about the merits of the conflict, which quarrel resulted in his coolly shooting the other party down. He was compelled to leave the place, and afterwards stopped in Nevada, where he killed two men before being driven from that then territory. Leaving Nevada, he came to Cheyenne, and from Cheyenne to Denver. He was at first, after crossing the mountains, engaged as an Indian trader about old Fort Hallack, until a half-breed Indian had the temerity, half in sport, one day to call him a liar, when Musgrove calmly pulled his revolver from his pocket, and, taking deliberate aim, planted a bullet square in the middle of the Indian’s forehead.

This transaction served to put an end to Musgrove’s Indian trading, for he was compelled to leave the Indian region on very short notice. After this little affair he organized a band of horse thieves, which operated throughout the entire plains country, and which was one of the most formidable bands of desperadoes known to frontier history. Musgrove was a perfect organizer. He had his operators in Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, Texas, Nebraska, Kansas and others of the western states and territories, and carried on a regular business of stealing and selling stock. They would drive off entire droves of horses from one section and sell them in another five hundred miles away, and would steal another drove in the neighborhood of the late sale and drive it for sale back to the place at which they had made the previous raid.

Musgrove’s band was broken up by degrees. As early as the spring of 1868 Gen. Cook, accompanied by Col. Egbert Johnson and one or two others, tracked four of them down after a two days’ march, and captured them at the point of Winchester rifles in a cabin near the city. Col. Johnson proved of invaluable service in this work in tracking the scamps, as he had had much experience in the mountains. In doing this work he had to even wade through a lake of water. Later he went to Georgetown after another of them, and capturing him there brought him to Denver alone. They were compelled to stay in a hotel at Idaho Springs all night, and both slept in the same room, Johnson setting his gun by the side of his bed and telling the desperado that if he made a move during the entire night he would blow his brains out. The fellow was as quiet as a mouse, and was afraid to get up when morning came, so thoroughly was he convinced that Johnson would put his threat into execution.

Musgrove was himself hunted down in Wyoming, and captured and brought to Denver. He was saucy to the last. Just a few days before his capture he took shelter in an invulnerable place on the Poudre, and sent a flag of truce to the pursuing officer, telling him that he could come in and pick out any stock that he could recognize; that he could have that and no more. Mr. Haskell, the then United States marshal, was in command of the pursuing party. He accepted the conditions laid down, as there was no alternative, and in doing so found the outlaw so barricaded, and his drove of stolen horses and mules so securely arranged, that he made no effort to dislodge him.

The arrest was finally affected by a bit of detective strategy, and the people throughout the entire western country rejoiced when it was announced.

Among Musgrove’s outlaws there was none more daring and heartless than Ed. Franklin, who had been with his chief in many close places and who really seemed to cherish a great fondness for Musgrove. They had in their days of intimacy on the plains sworn eternal fidelity to each other and had taken a vow, with others of the party, to come at all times to the assistance of each other in times of danger. Hence, when Musgrove, the chief of the gang, found himself in the clutches of the law in Denver, he contrived to notify his followers and to ask their assistance. It was a fact well known at the time to Gen. Cook that no less than twenty of these scoundrels responded to the call, which had been sent over the country. He was confident as to their character and their mission. He knew that they had come to Denver intending to effect Musgrove’s escape. He was confident that such was their purpose, but he could, of course, make no arrests, as he would have been without proofs. He could only remain perfectly quiet and wait for the desperadoes to signalize their presence in some way, as he well knew they soon would. He was not compelled to wait long to have his opinion of the men verified and to find occasion for making arrests. He was at that time not only chief of the Rocky Mountain Detective Association, but also city marshal of Denver, and as such was the chief of the police of the city. It may not be out of place to remark that while Cook was marshal, and by virtue of this position chief of police, Mr. Frank Smith, who has already been mentioned frequently in this book, was one of his subordinate officers. Smith was one of Cook’s most trusted men. The two learned to appreciate the striking qualities of manhood and bravery thus discovered in each other in those trying days, and became so thoroughly attached to each other that they never separated as long as Smith lived, which was until 1881.

Ed. Franklin, to whom reference has been made as one of Musgrove’s most trusted lieutenants, responded with alacrity to the call to come to the rescue of his chief; and without intending to forestall the story so far as to mar it, it may be stated that the expedition proved fatally disastrous to him. Franklin was accompanied to Denver by Sanford Duggan. They were both bullies and desperadoes—not only bold brigandish boys, but that and villains of a lower order, men who did not hesitate to stoop to little meannesses when to do so suited their purposes. They came to Denver with records, and they had been in this city but a very short while before they began to look about for an opportunity to add to their “laurels.”

It does not appear that Duggan had ever been a member of Musgrove’s band, but he had led a career that would have entitled him to hold a place of distinction in that scoundrel’s organization. Coming to Colorado in 1861, from Fayette county, Pa., when he was only sixteen years of age, he had lived for seven years in the company of low characters. At the age of eighteen he picked up a quarrel with a man named Curtis, in Black Hawk, and shot him down in a cold-blooded and merciless manner. For this offense he had been imprisoned for a short while, and then allowed to escape. Leaving Black Hawk after this experience, he came to Denver, where he became the associate of a prostitute, one Kitty Wells, who sold herself to obtain money for him to live on. He lived with her but a short while, when they quarreled one night and he struck her across the head with a pistol, well nigh killing her. He was then arrested by Gen. Cook while threatening to kill him. He was jailed, but escaped justice in some way. We next find him in the Black Hills, near Laramie City, in company with a man named Al. Howard. Soon there is news of another murder, and Duggan is arrested on suspicion and taken to Yankton, Dakota, for trial, but the proof is insufficient to establish his guilt and he is allowed to go to prey upon the community. He returns to the line of the Union Pacific extension and to Laramie City, where he for a while acts as city marshal. Discovering the true character of the man, the good citizens compel him to resign—not only force him to resign, but give him a set number of hours in which to get out of town. He takes the hint, and decides upon coming to Denver.

A few days out from Cheyenne Duggan falls in with Franklin, who has just passed through an experience which is worth relating, as it goes to show the character of the man with whom we are soon to deal. He had stolen a bunch of mules from Fort Saunders, and had succeeded in carrying them several miles to a place on the plains where the soldiers who were pursuing came up with him. There were seventeen of them in the pursuing party. It was no longer sensible for him to continue his flight, as he would, at best, be completely overtaken in a few miles. Most men, even desperadoes, would have surrendered without parley to such odds in numbers, but Franklin’s motto was: “Die, but never surrender.” He determined to fight. Dismounting from the animal which he rode, he hastily scraped a pile of sand up and threw himself behind it. The soldiers came up and Franklin opened fire. They returned the salute, and for over an hour the entire seventeen poured their leaden balls in the direction of the horse thief. He retaliated as fast as he could, and during the entire hour held the whole party at bay. At last, however, he was struck in the breast with a ball and was compelled from weakness to cease shooting. He was taken at last, nearer dead than alive. Being removed to Fort Saunders, he recovered rapidly, and had no sooner regained his strength than he made his escape. Once out of prison he soon hears of Musgrove’s predicament and starts to his chief’s rescue, where he meets Duggan, and they journey on together. Of course, they prove congenial spirits.

They do not ride boldly into Denver, but decide to stop near the city on Clear creek, until night shall come on with its friendly cloak, for Duggan, it must be remembered, is known to Chief Cook and his police force.

The night, however, is not far advanced when they make their appearance upon the streets. That the original intention of the men in coming to Denver was to liberate Musgrove could not be doubted, but they did not propose to waste time, and hence determined to earn a few dollars by the simple “holdup” process in case opportunity should offer. Hence they sauntered out Blake street in quest of game. The first man they met was Mr. James Torrence, who was compelled to stand and deliver. They procured $22 from him and allowed him to pass on, soon afterwards meeting Mr. Alex. DeLap, who is now a well known and wealthy citizen of the state, who was halted, and who would have been robbed had he not taken the precaution before leaving home to divest himself of his valuables.

The thieves soon find themselves on Lawrence street, and discover Hon. Orson Brooks, then a justice of the peace and police magistrate for Denver, wending his way homeward. They followed him to a deserted place on the street, about the site of the Markham house (the old Grand Central hotel), where he was accosted by them with a polite request to hold up his hands. Possessing no means of defense and finding a pair of ugly revolvers staring him in the face, the judge was compelled to stand and allow himself to be robbed of $135. Judge Brooks had sat in the trial of Duggan for the assault upon the woman Kittie Wells and recognized him while the search was in process. He gave some intimation of this fact, and the knowledge came near costing him his life. In response to a sally from him came the cheerful proposition from Duggan to Franklin: “Let’s plant the d—d old snoozer—what d’ye say?” Franklin was quite willing, and the chances are that, had Judge Brooks not been able to laugh off the matter as he did, his body would have been made the sheath of a keen-pointed and silent dagger. But he succeeded in convincing the men that he had been mistaken when he supposed he recognized one of them, and after treating him to a maximum dose of profanity, they allowed him to depart.

CHAPTER XIII.

The robbery of Judge Brooks was the event which sealed the fate of both these desperate characters, and probably indirectly also that of Musgrove. The event occurred on the night of Friday, November 20, 1868. Judge Brooks was a prominent and much-esteemed citizen. The whole town was indignant. There were demands on every hand to have the highwaymen hunted down. Denver had aroused from stupor to an active appreciation of the state of affairs. An outrage had been committed, and justice must be done. The guilty parties must be found and punished. To whom should this work be entrusted? The public of Denver had already learned to appreciate “Dave” Cook. He was now town marshal, and had already organized his detective association. The case was put in his hands. He had one clue. Judge Brooks remembered that he had on his person before he was robbed a $20 bill, which had been torn and which he had mended with a piece of official paper about his office. Mr. Cook naturally concluded that there were not apt to be two bills so torn and so mended. Hence he went to work to find the man who should offer to spend this piece of money. He notified not only the officers of Denver, but those of surrounding towns as well.

The robberies had been committed on Friday. On Sunday a messenger arrived from Sheriff John Keith, of Jefferson county, saying that the men that were wanted in Denver were to be found in Golden. It was stated that they had gone to that place on Saturday; that they had been drinking and swaggering about the streets, loaded down with revolvers and defying all the officers of Christendom. It was supposed that they were desperadoes, but they were not identified until Sunday morning, when the $20 bill was tendered to some one by Duggan. This fact had no sooner become known to Sheriff Keith than he dispatched a notification to Marshal Cook. The messenger arrived late in the afternoon, so that it was dusk before the marshal and his posse were off for Golden, eighteen miles distant. There was no Colorado Central railroad between Denver and Golden in those days to pick people up in one place and set them down in another within half an hour, as there now is. But there was a splendid dirt road, and over this the horses flew, their hoofs beating melodiously on the frozen soil, as Cook and his men marched off towards the foot-hill metropolis in the pursuit of their business. The pursuing party was composed of the following named persons: D. J. Cook, W. Frank Smith, D. W. Mays, Eugene Goff, H. B. Haskell and Andy Allen. They were all mounted well and were armed very thoroughly.

Golden was reached about 9 o’clock in the evening of Sunday, November 23. The party stopped in the outskirts of the city for a few minutes, until Keith could be communicated with. Being found, he informed the Denver officers where their men were located. Franklin, he said, had been drinking heavily during the day and had retired to bed early at the Overland house. Duggan was at that moment at a saloon kept by Dan Hill. It was resolved to take Duggan first, and the officers, reinforced by Keith, started in the direction of the saloon indicated. While on their way to this point they met two men, one of whom said to the other as they passed: “What do these s—s of b—s of officers want? That’s Dave Cook, from Denver. I left one of my pistols at your saloon.” This remark was overheard by Cook and Keith, and the latter whispered to the Denver marshal the fact that the speaker, of whom Cook had not had a fair view, was Duggan. The other man, he also told Cook, was Miles Hill, brother of the proprietor of the saloon. Immediately the two men were seen to turn and cross a vacant lot of ground to the rear of Hill’s saloon. The officers stopped for a minute to arrange plans; Cook directing Smith, with Keith and others of the squad, to proceed to the front of the saloon, while he, with Goff, would go to the rear. “In case there should be shooting, boys, do not hit Miles Hill,” said Sheriff Keith, and taking up the sentence, Cook gave an order to his men to be very careful not to hurt any citizen of Golden.

The officers closed in upon the place with the greatest celerity. Smith and his force found all dark in front, but Cook and Goff discovered a small and glaring light near the door of the saloon as they came around the corner. It was evidently from the burning end of a cigar in a man’s mouth. Soon the door of the saloon opened, shedding a light upon the man with the cigar in his mouth and revealing in him the fugitive Duggan. A man came out at the door and proved to be Hill. The friends of Hill assert that he only brought Duggan’s pistol to him, but the officers say, be that as it may, he seemed to present the pistol at them, intentionally or accidentally, at which time Duggan fired on Cook and Goff, the ball flying by them and nipping a bit out of the blue soldier overcoat which Cook wore. Notwithstand the officers carried cocked revolvers in their hands and were fearful that they would have trouble, they were considerably surprised. It was a moment before they collected themselves, and before they were entirely at themselves another ball came whizzing by them in dangerous proximity to their vitals. They were not more than ten feet from the men who held pistols in their hands. There was no time to hesitate or parley. A moment’s delay might mean death to both of them. With that calm and commanding way, that cool and deliberate manner which has ever characterized Dave Cook in time of danger and placed him above other men, he raised his pistol with his left hand—he always holds his pistol in his left hand when he shoots—and taking aim, fired, telling Goff also to fire. One man fell to the ground, and the other started away on a full run, firing a parting salute as he left. The flash of the pistol revealed the fact that Duggan was the man who was making an effort to escape, and he was pursued by some of the members of the party. However, the man jumped a fence, and by so doing found a hiding place in a dense undergrowth, so that extensive pursuit of him that evening could not be otherwise than unavailing.

When the officers returned they found that the man who had been shot was Miles Hill. The ball had entered his left side and ranged downward through the abdomen and lodged in the opposite side of the man’s body. It was evident that he could not live. He was found lying in the street with a cocked revolver near him. He demanded plaintively to know why he had been shot, and when told the circumstances of the case, apparently recognized the justice of his fate.

Fatal Fight at Golden between Officers Cook and Goff on one side, and Duggan and Miles Hill on the other.

Hill seems to have been a thoroughly good fellow, and his kindness of disposition probably led him to the point of helping Duggan out of a bad scrape. What representation he had made to Hill was not revealed by him, and will now, of course, never be known. But that Hill was influenced to aid the disreputable man into whose company he had been so unfortunate as to fall can hardly be doubted. He died about twelve hours after the shooting, and was sincerely mourned by the citizens of Golden, who permitted their friendly feeling for and acquaintance with the social qualities of the man, for the time, to influence their judgment of the killing, and, what a few days afterwards was recognized as a necessary precaution by the officers in the protection of their own lives and in the discharge of their duty in attempting to arrest Duggan, was at first criticised as “haste and negligence.” Cook and Goff either had to kill or be killed. They preferred the former alternative, repulsive as it was to them.

But there was then little time to linger over the man whose life blood was oozing gradually out as a consequence of his attempt to defend a criminal from arrest. There was other work than indulging in vain regrets to be accomplished. Duggan had escaped, but Franklin was still in town, and his whereabouts were known. He must be captured at all hazards. To allow him to escape was not a part of the programme of the officers. They had been notified by Sheriff Keith that Franklin had taken a room at the Overland house, then standing where it now does, and thitherward they wended their way, fully armed, and equipped with a strong pair of handcuffs with which they proposed to secure Franklin, and thus render his return to Denver quite beyond question when once he should be in their power.

Mr. Cook’s associates in making this arrest were Frank Smith and Mr. Keith, they volunteering from the entire company to go with him. The hotel proprietor did not hesitate to inform the officers where Franklin was to be found, and they were soon in his room after starting in the search. They did not seek admission by knocking at the door, which was found unlocked. Although soaked with liquor when he retired, Franklin had left everything in perfect order for his defense in case he should be set upon suddenly, showing himself to be a criminal who was used to being hunted, and who never forgot his caution even when apparently “too far gone to know anything.” His empty pistol scabbard hung on the bed-post, while underneath his pillow lay a large revolver, loaded, cocked and ready for use at a moment’s warning. The officers stole in with quiet tread, Cook leading the van, with his fingers on his lips, and the others following as noiselessly as if treading upon velvet, although the floor was bare. Mr. Keith carried a candle, and as he came up to the bed with it, so that the light fell upon Franklin’s eyes, he turned over with a groan. He lay stretched at full length—a man of brawny muscle and splendidly developed physique. His breast being partially bared, revealed the gunshot wound which was the memento he carried of his late exploit in standing off seventeen of Uncle Sam’s soldiers near Fort Saunders, and which had yet scarcely thoroughly healed. As he turned in the bed his eyes opened. At that moment Mr. Cook laid a heavy hand upon the arm of the man, saying:

“Franklin, we want you.”

The fellow was awake in a moment.

“The hell you do!” he exclaimed, showing that he took in the situation at a glance.

“Yes, come on quietly.”

“Quietly, be d—d! Where’s my gun? No d—d officer from Denver can arrest me. I’m not that sort of stuff. You can make up your mind to that.”

By this time he was fully aroused. He was standing on his knees, his eyes flashing fire, and striking sledge-hammer blows at any of the officers who attempted to lay hands upon him. He would listen to no entreaty, but answered all appeals with derision. At last Mr. Cook produced the handcuffs, and made a move towards Franklin with them.

“Oh, it’s irons you have, is it?” he exclaimed, as he lunged at the party. “If that’s what you’re up to, I have some myself.”

Killing of Ed. Franklin at Golden by Officers Cook and Smith, while resisting arrest.

And with this speech he turned to his pillow in the act of pulling his revolver from its hiding-place.

At that moment one of Cook’s assistants, considering that Franklin was preparing to shoot, struck him on the head and knocked him to the other side of the bed. He was up in a minute and more furious than ever. He had well-nigh torn his underclothes from his body, and the blood was running from the fresh wound in his head. He was furious with rage, and snorted and roared and tore about like a wild animal brought to bay, exclaiming, “Come on, all of you!” as he rose to his feet. “I suppose you can kill me, but you can not arrest me. I will not go with you. If you want to shoot, put it there—there!” And he slapped his hand violently two or three times upon his heart. The scene was extremely tragic.

Up to this time no one had intended to shoot, and Franklin was told so. “Damn you, if you don’t shoot, I will,” he exclaimed again. “I will fight your whole gang, if you will give me a fair show. I won’t be arrested, I won’t go; I’ll die first—but I’ll die hard. One or two of you will go with me if I go. Ed. Franklin does not sell out for a song.” At this he made a lunge for a cocked revolver which Cook had laid on a table near by. But the keen-eyed officers were too quick for him. They had detected the purpose of the move and were ready. They did not propose to stand up to allow another professional murderer and desperado to shoot at them. They were not betting blood on even terms with outlaws. Cook caught his pistol with his left hand, and even while Franklin was fighting his way to it like a mad man, sent a ball whizzing through his very heart. Smith’s firing followed so soon as to cause what seemed little different from one report. With hardly a groan Franklin tumbled over on the blood-stained bed, a dead and harmless man. He had sowed the wild oats of a reckless and useless life, and he had reaped the full harvest.

So ended the last of the tragedies of Golden’s night of horrors, November 22, 1868.

Of course the entire town had been aroused by this time. It was getting well along in the night, yet no one seemed to have retired. On the contrary, everybody appeared to be upon the streets. Hardly any one understood the cause of the trouble or the crimes that had been committed. There were reports that a dozen men had been killed, and that a mob had taken possession of the town. The people flew here and there like mad. It was, indeed, a wild Sabbath night for Golden—ordinarily then, as now, a very quiet and orderly town.

Coroner’s investigations of both killings, those of Miles Hill and Ed. Franklin, were ordered, and inquests were held. It was found that a ball had struck Hill in the left arm, entering his left side and passing through his abdomen, while two bullets had entered Franklin’s breast, hardly an inch apart, and both passing through the heart. In the case of Hill, local prejudice was allowed to control the deliberations of the coroner’s jury, the members of which were not in possession of all the facts in the case, and in the verdict the officers—who, the reader will bear in mind, were only returning the fire of Duggan—were slightly censured for “carelessness in the discharge of their duty.” The verdict was signed by George B. Allen, W. M. B. Sarell, J. M. Johnson, Jr., Arthur C. Harris, P. B. Cheney and J. Pipe, either one of whom would doubtless, under the same circumstances, have acted just as the officers did—if they had not depended upon their heels instead of their pistols for protection.

The verdict in the case of Franklin stood as follows: