In the meantime Detective Ayres had gone to Cheyenne, taken horse there and ridden to Horse creek; from there to Big Horse creek, thence to Hawk Springs and into old Red Cloud agency, on the Platte. Here he got information of the men he was after, and without loss of time pushed on to Running Water; from there to Camp Robinson, thence to Camp Sheridan, and then into Pine Ridge agency. The Indian agent, Mr. V. T. McGillycuddy proffered all assistance, and Joseph Seminole was soon under arrest. Not without considerable trouble, however, as shall appear.

Mr. Ayres had taken letters to the agent and the military, and had been assured that he should have every assistance, as the Rocky Mountain Detective Agency was well known and highly respected in that far-away section.

Not only the officers and the soldiers, but the Indian police as well, were anxious and willing to assist in running Seminole down. They recognized the description as soon as it was given them, and told the officer from the far-away region that they would find him forthwith, and volunteered to lead him to his place of abode. Ayres told them all he knew of the crimes charged against Seminole, the worst being that of horse-thieving, and assured them that he was wanted on no more serious charge than that of showing his undue love for horseflesh. They professed great indignation that their nation should have been disgraced by the stealing of a single horse, and avowed that he should be sent back forthwith to answer for the offense. They seemed to dislike the fellow any way; possibly because he was a half-breed, but most likely for the reason that he was better educated than the rest of them, and held himself in a manner aloof from them. At any rate, they were quite willing to take the officer to him, saying that Seminole should not only be arrested, but that they would see that the officer should get away with him in good shape.

This was as good a thing as Mr. Ayres wanted, and when he was well rested, the Indians, true to their promise, led him to the wigwam of the culprit.

It may not have been a picture of peace and plenty which Seminole presented, but he certainly seemed to be quite contented, surrounded as he was by his squaw and papooses, who prattled about in the dirt, while he sat enjoying the bliss of a long-stemmed pipe. The surroundings were rude and coarse, but the half Indian appeared to be perfectly at home and at ease.

But the officer of the law can not stand back on account of any qualms of conscience or foolish sentiment when there are arrests to be made. His is not the part of preserving domestic felicity.

When broken in upon, the murderer did not show any signs of fear, and when introduced to Mr. Ayres as an officer from Colorado in search of him, he manifested no disposition to make resistance. It may be that he asked rather impetuously to know the charge against him, but Ayres’ answer that it was that of horse stealing reassured him, and he submitted quietly, and walked out of his wigwam stolidly, though with apparent willingness.

The officer was led to believe that he had accomplished a big job with but little effort and was mentally congratulating himself accordingly. But all was not accomplished. There was much yet to be done. He felt that he had a wide and wild stretch of country to cover in getting home, and the idea of going through an Indian region alone, in charge of a half Indian, was not a cheerful one. Not by any means.

When Seminole was once out of his house the detective undertook to handcuff him. But the fellow had had time for a little self-introspection and meditation. The Hayward murder undoubtedly came into his mind, and he began to feel that, whatever the charge upon which he was to be brought back to Denver, he would be in danger of being discovered as the murderer, and he began to show fight at the sight of the handcuffs. He would not agree to have them put on, and when the officer attempted to force them on, struck at him. He was a strong man and able to get the best of the officer had he been unaided. But the Indian police came nobly to Ayres’ rescue, and they laid Mr. Seminole low in very short order, and while he was prone upon the ground and kicking and scratching, the irons were adjusted. The scene was as wild a one in the interest of justice as ever fell to the lot of man to witness.

The capture was now completed, and one of the murderers of “old man” Hayward was in the hands of an officer of the law, though on a different charge and far away from the scene of the tragedy or the bounds of civilization.

The officer found that on September 29, Seminole had sold his stolen bay mare to an Indian chief named Woman’s Dress, giving a bill of sale, and signing thereto the name of Joseph Leuischammesse, which, upon being compared upon arrival at Denver with the writing of the order to the proprietor of the Summit house, proved that it was written by the same hand, the letters being formed identically alike. The other man, Tom Johnson, as he is still called, was not there.

With an armed escort of Sioux Indians, Ayres started back with his prisoner. He parted with his escort at Camp Robinson, and at Pine Bluffs boarded a freight train, and took up quarters in the caboose.

About 3 o’clock of the next morning after taking passage on the freight, Mr. Ayres found himself minus the prisoner to capture whom he had risked so much and undergone so many hardships. He had allowed the man to be out of his sight for a moment, and that moment had been embraced by the fellow to regain his liberty. The train was rattling along at more than ordinary freight train speed, so that Mr. Ayres did not dream of the handcuffed man’s jumping from the train. But Seminole was a man who dared anything, and he boldly plunged out of the caboose into the darkness, and was once more free. Mr. Ayres’ efforts to refind his man proved utterly futile, and nothing was left to him but to notify his chief.

Capture of Seminole at Pine Ridge Indian Agency, Dakota, by Detective Ayres.

A great deal had been gained, but now everything seemed lost. By this time Cook had become entirely convinced that Seminole, or Leuischammesse, was one of the murderers of Hayward, and for that reason he determined to leave no stone unturned to recover his man. Consequently the matter was again placed in the hands of Assistant Superintendent Carr, and through the aid of the telegraph but a very few hours had elapsed when there were no less than fifteen cowboys scouring the plains under the leadership of Cattle Detective Cowles in the neighborhood of the point at which the escape was made, and in nine hours from the time of the escape the recapture had been effected.

What could better serve to show the complete system upon which the Rocky Mountain Detective Association is organized?

Without further incident of note, the wily rascal was brought to Denver and taken to the county jail. He had become moody and cross, and was generally pronounced a rough customer by those with whom he came in contact. He would not talk at first at all. It was evident to Gen. Cook—who had kept his suspicion concerning the connection of Seminole with the Hayward murder to himself, even up to that time—that the fellow was living in dread of having his identity discovered. But Cook preserved a discreet silence. Mr. Ayres did not yet know the importance of the arrest which he had made.

As soon as the fellow was securely locked in, Gen. Cook sent for Mrs. Hayward, the widow of the murdered man, who was brought to Denver by Detective Hoyt of Golden. Taking her to the jail building, he had seven or eight prisoners, including Seminole, and all of them corresponding in some respects in appearance with him, placed in a row in a room.

Into this room Mrs. Hayward was guided, having been told what was expected of her, namely, that she should have an opportunity to identify the probable murderer of her husband. She was told to walk along the line in which Seminole stood as stolid as a block of stone, and find among the array, if she could, the guilty party. She passed rapidly down the line, looking at one man at a time, without stopping to hesitate, until she came to Seminole, when, getting a full view of him, she threw up her hands and exclaimed:

“My God! that’s the man. Take him away from me!”

The identification was positive, and was a death blow to the half breed’s hopes. Besides this, he was identified by Brown & Marr, by Dr. Burr, and others, so that no doubt as to his identity could by any possibility be entertained. Seeing that he was in for it, Seminole made a full confession.

CHAPTER XIX.

While Seminole was in jail here, Detective Cook determined to obtain from him some information which would lead to the apprehension of Woodruff, of whom all trace had now been lost. He accordingly sent a detective to the jail in response to Seminole’s request for a lawyer, and who, while professing to be a legal adviser, obtained from Seminole all he knew of his companion in crime and the particulars of the murder. He stated that while riding with Mr. Hayward they rode behind, the old man in front, driving; that Johnson suddenly clutched Hayward about the throat and choked him to death, while he, Seminole, took the lines and handled the horses; that the breakage of the neck was occasioned when they heaved the body out of the wagon when about to shove him under the little bridge where it was found; that at half-past ten the same night, they drove the wagon and mules into Denver and put up at the Western barn; that in the morning they took the outfit around to Paul & Strickler’s, on Fifteenth street, and tried to have it sold at auction, but learning that the sale would not take place until afternoon, they went back to the barn, and finally sold it to a Leadville teamster for $190, Woodruff giving the bill of sale and signing the name Thomas Logan to it; that they then went to Brown & Marr’s and hired the buggy and mares, and followed exactly the route as traced, and that at Sidney bridge they separated, Woodruff going to the right, in the direction of the Niobrara river, while he kept straight on to the Pine Ridge agency, where he was captured.

As to his companion, Seminole said his right name was Woodruff, though he had been known only as Tom Johnson in Colorado. He knew that Woodruff was a stonecutter by trade, and that he had been pardoned out of the Wyoming penitentiary after serving three years for killing a man named John Friehl, with whose wife Woodruff had been too intimate. The fellow gave a complete description of Woodruff, and seemed decidedly reckless as to whether his companion in crime should be caught or not. He made his confession in a cold-blooded manner, and gave no reason for the murder of Hayward, except that they wanted his team, and thought it would be best to have the owner conveniently hidden away while they were carrying forward their operations in Denver and getting out of the country.

Gen. Cook concluded that the best place to look for Woodruff was the place at which he had last been seen by Seminole, and consequently sent detectives to the Niobrara region. This time Mr. Ayres, who had captured Seminole, was sent out, and was accompanied by Mr. C. A. Hawley, who, being one of the most courageous as well as one of the shrewdest members of the association, was selected for this task, because it was believed that there would be some lively work in arresting Woodruff, who was known to be desperate as well as cunning.

“But you must get him, Hawley,” said Cook to his deputy when he left. “I trust the work to you, and expect you to do it up in good shape.”

“If he is to be had, you can depend on me,” said Hawley. “I am ready for him and go to find him.”

The two detectives made the trip to Niobrara with all possible haste. When they arrived there they began to look around for their man. One day when they came close upon an individual who answered the general description of Woodruff, that individual, finding that he was closely watched by the officers, and suspecting them to be officers, jumped on his horse and rode off at a lively gait. Inquiry revealed the fact that this man was known as Tom Johnson. They felt convinced that he was the man that they wanted, and they went after him with all possible haste. A wild chase he led them, too, over the uninhabited country of western Nebraska. Knowing the lay of the land better than the officers did, he was able to evade them for a long time, and at the end of a week of as hard work as often falls to the lot of detectives, they overtook and captured him.

After taking the fellow, they had doubts as to whether he was the man they were seeking; but concluded that a man who would act as suspiciously as he had been acting must be guilty of some crime, and whether it was that of the murder of the Colorado ranchman, or some other, mattered little to them. Hence they determined to bag him and to bring him to Denver, which determination they put into execution, landing here with him near the middle of November. The fellow proved not to be Woodruff, but it was soon ascertained that he was a fugitive from justice from Omaha, where he had been guilty of horse stealing; and it may be remarked in passing, that he was sent to that city and tried, and that he had to serve out a seven-years’ sentence in the penitentiary of Nebraska. Thus the officers only brought down the wrong game when they fired, though they did not waste their ammunition. Shakespeare tells us that conscience makes cowards of us all. Johnson’s conscience certainly put him behind the bars at Lincoln City.

This episode did not delay matters a great deal. Gen. Cook had been on the qui vive while his officers were out, and had learned that Woodruff had relatives living either in Iowa or eastern Nebraska, and he had come to the conclusion that the fugitive murderer would most likely fly to them for protection and to escape detection. The sequel will prove that in this case, as in most others where he forms a theory as to the conduct of fugitive criminals, he was right. Hence he decided to send Hawley to look up Woodruff’s relatives, with the hope of also finding Woodruff. He had heard that they resided in the country before Hawley started, and suggested to him that it would be a good idea for him to play the role of a granger, in case it would serve his purpose. It was also decided to make the most of the capture of Johnson, the story of which was published in the newspapers in such a way as to lead to the inference that Johnson was the man wanted, the belief being that Woodruff would see the papers, and seeing this article, would conclude that the officers had been outwitted and taken the wrong man, he would become careless, and hence be all the more easily come up with.

While the people were reading the story of Johnson’s capture, the next morning after his arrival from Niobrara, believing that the murderer had really been overtaken, Hawley was preparing to start upon a second excursion in search of that individual. He again started out to find his man. This time he did find him, “and no foolin’,” either.

There was one important point to be gained in making the search. No one knew definitely where Woodruff’s relatives lived, though they were known to be residents of the vicinity of Council Bluffs or Omaha.

Going first to Omaha, and then crossing the Missouri to Council Bluffs, the detective took a train on the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy railroad and went down the road about fifty miles, keeping his eyes and ears widely open in the hope of getting the slightest trace of the party he was after; and then, disgusted, returned to Council Bluffs and went to his hotel. From a man whom he met there he learned that James W. Woodruff, known to a brother of Sam, lived at Big Grove, thirty miles distant.

Disguising himself as a granger, he got a pony and a letter from Mr. Phelps, of the Ogden hotel, to his foreman, Walter Farwell, on his stock ranch, near the house of the Woodruffs, and started off. The stock ranch was about twenty-eight and a half miles from Council Bluffs, and here Hawley hired out as a corn-husker, and went to work. James Woodruff’s place was about a mile and a half further on.

Hawley passed under the name of Charles Albert, and after working one day at corn-husking, prevailed upon the foreman to send him out, the following morning, looking for lost stock. It must be mentioned that while husking corn, the detective was incidentally told by Mr. Farwell of the late arrival of a brother of James Woodruff, said to be direct from the Black Hills, and with a $9,000 bank account in Deadwood. He had been home but ten days, and Hawley shrewdly suspected that this brother was the Samuel he was after. So in the course of his rambles about after lost stock, he stopped at the Woodruff farm, and learned that they had moved into the town of Big Grove. The officer thereupon circled and rode into the little village from the east, and spotted the Woodruff house, returning immediately thereafter to Phelps’ stock place.

After unsaddling his pony and getting something to eat, he started for Council Bluffs, leaving at about 11 in the morning and arriving at about 4 in the afternoon. Here, on the 25th of November, he swore out a warrant for the arrest of Samuel Woodruff, before Justice Baird, and securing the services of Constable Theodore Guittar, they took a two-seated buggy, and at 10 that night started for the stock farm again, getting there about 3 o’clock in the morning, and seeking the barn for rest. But two hours later they were rudely awakened by an attendant, who didn’t “sabe” the presence of two rough-looking tramps.

After feeding their horses and obtaining breakfast, they drove down to Big Grove, and leaving their team concealed in the bushes on the outskirts, walked into the town. They noticed their man at work near the Woodruff house, but as soon as he saw the two strangers he stopped his labors and went within. The officers then walked on down to the store of a Mr. Freeman, and while Hawley talked about the chances of getting work on the railroad, his companion went out and borrowed a double-barreled shot gun.

The detective discharged both barrels out of the back door, and then carefully loaded the weapon with a handful of buckshot in each barrel, stating to Guittar that it meant “death to either himself or Woodruff,” in case of an escape or failure to capture. A little later James Woodruff, the brother, came driving down the street, and hitched his team a short distance from Freeman’s store; and, coming up to the latter place, began a series of questioning and re-questioning, evidently endeavoring to pump the disguised detective; however, with little success.

Perhaps an hour was consumed in this manner, and then he left, and a few minutes later Hawley saw the two Woodruffs coming down the street together. James carried an axe and Sam a revolver.

The detective pulled back the hammers of his shot gun, and watched the men through the window.

As they neared the store, Hawley stepped out, apparently closely examining something about the locks of his weapon, and when the brothers reached the store, the officer brought the gun to his shoulder and said:

“Sam Woodruff, throw up your hands; I want you.”

Quick as a flash the desperado’s fist sought his revolver. But the cool, quiet tones of the officer, “Pull that pistol one inch, and I’ll blow daylight through you,” caused him to let go his grip and throw up his hands above his head.

Constable Guittar then applied the handcuffs and shackles, and disarmed the man, and he was immediately marched down the street a little way, while a boy was sent after the officers’ team. The brother, James, attempted a few demonstrations, but Hawley’s revolver, cocked and held in position, quieted his ardor.

Five minutes later, and the officers and their prisoner were driving towards Council Bluffs at full speed, and as soon as identified by Justice Baird and turned over to Hawley, he was taken to Omaha and there lodged in jail.

Hawley, being out of funds, now telegraphed Sheriff Cook for money, and though instantly forwarded, through some red-tapeism of the telegraph company he was delayed until too late to catch the train of that day. On the next, however, the detective and his prisoner left, reaching Cheyenne on the 29th at 1 o’clock in the afternoon. Before starting, the officer telegraphed Sheriff Gregg at Fremont, and Sheriff Con. Groner of North Platte, to meet him for the purpose of identification of his prisoner. This these officers did, and fully identified the man as Samuel Woodruff. At North Platte, in addition to the sheriff, Martin Oberst, night clerk of the Railroad hotel, recognized him as having stopped at the house two or three weeks before, when he signed his correct name. At Cheyenne he was further identified by the sheriff, and T. Jeff Carr of the detective association, and upon arrival in Denver, the next day, Mr. Hunter, who was in the city on business, recognized him as having stopped at his ranch on the Niobrara river, on or about the 18th of September.

When brought to the sheriff’s office, Woodruff refused to say anything, though on the journey he had denied all knowledge of the murder. He was driven over to the jail, and his co-partner in crime, Joseph Seminole, brought into his presence.

Arrest of Sam Woodruff at Big Grove, Iowa, by Detective Hawley.

“Hello, Clarke,” was Woodruff’s exclamation, “what are you doing here?”

To this Seminole merely shrugged his shoulders.

“I used to know that man as Clarke when we were together in the penitentiary at Laramie City,” Woodruff added, explanatorily, to the officers.

And with this these two scoundrels were locked up in separate cells. One thing worthy of note was that Seminole’s description of the revolver carried by Woodruff tallied exactly with the weapon which Woodruff wore when arrested.

Much of the above is taken from the Denver Tribune, as told its reporter by the detectives. At this stage of the proceedings the Tribune was led to remark: “To the Rocky Mountain Detective Agency a great deal of credit is deservedly due for the able and persistent manner in which this matter has been worked up, and this final capture had added increased lustre to the reputation already borne by this excellent organization. To D. J. Cook, C. A. Hawley, W. W. Ayres, Joe Arnold, T. J. Carr and C. P. Hoyt, the officers who have worked up the affair, special honor is due. They have been untiring in their efforts, and unsparing in their expenditures, and now have the pleasure of seeing total success crown their labors. Officers Cook and Arnold have secured the wagon that belonged to the murdered man from a Mr. Todd, in Douglas country, and will soon have the mules.”

On the 3d of December, three days after Woodruff’s arrival in the city, Mrs. Hayward and her two daughters, Minnie and Cora, aged then thirteen and fifteen, respectively, arrived in the city, accompanied by Detective Hoyt, of Golden, and proceeded to the jail to identify the prisoner. When all was ready, Woodruff was brought from his cell into the parlor of the jail. Mrs. Hayward sat upon the sofa facing the door, Cora on her left and Minnie on the right. Sheriff Cook stood at the head of the sofa, and the other officials near the windows and the door. As Woodruff entered the room, he shot one glance out of his dark eyes at the visitor on the sofa, and then dropped them, never again raising them during the remainder of the interview except once, and then to reply to a question. His nervousness was quite apparent, the trembling and twitching of his hands being very perceptible.

A moment’s silence, after he had taken his seat, and then Mrs. Hayward said:

“Minnie, is that the man?”

“Yes,” was the positive and quick reply of the little girl, never raising her eyes from the close scrutiny with which she had regarded the prisoner from his entrance.

“You are sure he is the man,” continued Mrs. Hayward, and the answer was as quick and as positive as before.

The other daughter, Cora, now spoke. “I know that is the man,” she said, and the mother, turning to Sheriff Cook, said slowly: “Yes, that is the man—there is no mistake.”

At this moment Joseph Seminole was brought into the room. “And there is the other,” said Mrs. Hayward—the two daughters agreeing in like words. Then Gen. Cook asked Woodruff if he desired to ask any questions to test the visitors’ belief, and received the reply, “My lawyer will do my talking.”

There was no longer any room for doubt. The two scoundrels who had killed an innocent man and who had led the officers such a chase as few criminals before or since their time ever did, had been overtaken by the Rocky Mountain Detective Association. It had been a long but a successful chase. They had been taken and securely locked in the Arapahoe county jail, where they had been fully identified and where they awaited orders from the Jefferson county authorities.

CHAPTER XX.

The last chapter of this somewhat remarkable story at last opens. It is, if anything, the most thrilling of the series, as it relates the tragic end of the two men who have figured in these pages to considerable length, and with whom we began when we left Middle park in August of 1879. It is now December 28 of the same year, and the story is drawing to its close. Over three months have elapsed since Mr. Hayward, the quiet citizen and loving father and husband, was killed by these villains, but his neighbors, who knew him and appreciated his worth, had not forgotten the horror of the crime, nor allowed the passing days to carry with them their desire to avenge the great wrong that had been committed.

The scene is now laid at Golden. Gen. Cook, for the Rocky Mountain Detective Association, had taken the murderers to Golden, that being the county seat of Jefferson county, on the 9th of December, and hearing that there was a likelihood of an effort being made to lynch the scamps, took precautions to prevent such a result. It had long been his boast that no prisoner had ever been taken from his hands and lynched, and he did not propose to have his creditable reputation blackened now. He was fully prepared to meet any attempt upon the lives of the men that might be made, and appreciating the sort of man they were dealing with, the Jefferson vigilantes wisely decided to await “a more convenient season” for the putting into execution of any designs they might have. The prisoners feared lynching, and trembled when Cook and his party left them after they had been identified and placed in jail. Woodruff said: “I fear those old farmers who were Hayward’s neighbors. They are a great deal more determined and bitter than miners.”

His fears were well founded. The dreadful hour came shortly after midnight on the cool, crisp Sunday morning of Christmas week of ’79.

A few minutes before 12 o’clock Saturday night the late habitues of saloons and billiard halls, as well as others who happened to be awake at that hour, noticed the riding along the principal street of numerous horsemen, who came from apparently all directions and in little squads of two, three, half a dozen or so. They noticed that these silent horsemen all rode toward the jail, and all seemed to be intent on some urgent business. Then, remembering the oft-repeated murmurs of lynching made against the imprisoned murderers of poor old Hayward, a number of citizens followed in the wake of the strangers, who made at the jail a cavalcade of at least a hundred men, armed to the teeth and grimly seated upon their horses, not even talking or whispering among themselves.

A consultation between the chief and his lieutenants took place upon the steps leading to the first floor above the basement of the court house, and a few minutes later, without noise or confusion, a large circle of guards was spread around the jail and some two or three hundred yards distant from it. These grim sentinels were but a few paces apart, and some were mounted and some on foot. Every member of this avenging band wore a mask, or a handkerchief across the face, or had his features blackened with burnt cork, so that recognition was absolutely impossible. No one was permitted to pass this cordon of guards, no matter what the excuse. One man climbed a telegraph pole and the telephone wire from the jail was cut, and thus all communication to and from the building was ended. Then the horses were ridden to a vacant lot opposite and tied, while the riders dismounted and closed in upon the jail. There was no noise or confusion. Everything had been carefully planned, and every man had a certain position and a certain duty assigned, and he silently took the one and performed the other.

There were in the building, aside from the prisoners in the cells, Under Sheriff Joseph Boyd, who was asleep with his family in a rear room, and an extra watchman, Edgar Cox, who was lying upon a bench in the sheriff’s office. Hearing the sound of feet on the frozen earth outside, Cox rose to a sitting position and looked up at the windows, the curtains of which were raised. At each window he saw, to his stupefaction, two or three men, who had rifles in their hands. Their gleaming barrels pointed directly at him, and a stern voice simply said:

“Don’t move, or you’ll get hurt.”

Under the circumstances Cox did not move, but sat gazing at the deadly weapons which so steadily and unrelentingly covered him, while he could hear the heavy tramp of men marching in at the front door and filing down the inside stairs to the basement.

This same tramp, tramp of many feet, foretelling something unusual, reached the ears of Under Sheriff Boyd, who was in bed, and he suddenly awoke with the feeling that there was trouble ahead. Hastily pulling on his clothes he rushed out of his room, and saw the two rooms from which the two doors open into the jail part, teeming with masked and armed men, who apparently paid no attention to him whatever. As he passed the “feeding” door—so termed because through this the prisoners’ meals are taken in to them—he noticed that the outer wooden door was splintered and the lock broken off. Pushing his way through to the front room, he mounted to the third step of the stairs leading to the first floor, and raising his voice, said:

“Gentlemen, listen to me one moment. You are, or I take you to be, law-abiding and law-loving citizens, and yet you are now engaged in unlawful proceedings. I beg of you to cease, and not in your indignation or passionate feelings take the law into your own hands. Rest assured justice will be obtained, even though it take a little longer.”

At this juncture three men at the foot of the stairs pulled their revolvers and covered the speaker, while one said:

“Hands up, sir—we know our business.”

To which Boyd replied:

“I’ll not hold up my hands. I know you have not come here to harm me,” and recommenced his expostulation and entreaty to the men in front of him.

In the meantime, a number of the vigilantes had attacked the iron-grated door with sledge hammers and crowbars. Every blow told, and sinewy and muscular arms sent the heavy instruments to the points where they would do the most good.

The under sheriff still continued his address to the men, and finally the leader, a tall, well-built man, ordered three of his fellows to take Boyd into custody and remove him. They instantly complied and the officer was taken into the inner room, where he still continued his protestations. The blows fell thick and fast upon the great strong lock and at last with a crash it gave way and the door swung open, and those terrible, determined men swarmed within.

Previous to all this the prisoners were sound asleep in their cells, save one, Joseph Murphy, in for petty larceny and who was out of his cell, being on duty in keeping up the fire and such other little chores as might be necessary.

As the assault began upon the bolts of the iron door, Woodruff awoke with a start, and sprang to the grating of his cell, where he glared in tremulous anxiety upon the bars that were trembling beneath the rain of blows. Seminole, too, awoke about the same time, and began a low moaning in his terrible fear, though he did not arise from his bed, but as the door at last gave way, and the crowd rushed in, he gave vent to a cry which is described as being more like the shriek of some wild animal than any other noise.

Without loss of time the vigilantes attacked the padlocks on cells fourteen and twelve, the former being Woodruff’s and the latter Seminole’s. Noticing the liberty of Murphy, and supposing that he might attempt to escape in the confusion, the leader of these midnight dispensers of justice went to Boyd, who was still under guard, and told him he had better lock up such prisoners as might be loose.

“Will you pledge your word of honor for yourself and men that you will not touch the keys if I get them?” asked the faithful official.

“Yes,” was the brief but evidently earnest reply.

Calling the watchman, Cox, and accompanied still by his masked guard, Boyd went to the vault and began to work the combination that opened it. Before giving the last twist, however, he turned to his silent captors, and said:

“You have heard the pledge given by your captain, or chief, or whatever you call him, in relation to the keys; have I your words of honor also?”

They bowed a grim assent, and a moment later the bolt shot back and the iron door turned on its hinges. Taking the keys the official entered the jail and locked Murphy up. As he passed the cells containing two burglars, they begged to be released, fearing lest the vigilantes would also make an example of them. Boyd assured them that they would not be harmed, or at least he would do all in his power to protect them.

In the meantime cold chisels had cut into the cell padlocks, and sledge hammers completed the job. Woodruff was on his feet and showed fight, but his visitors were determined men, and the cold-blooded murderer was soon rendered docile, a few raps with the butt of a revolver being administered on the top of his head. He was carried out and laid upon his stomach on the floor, his face resting upon his left side, while skillful and willing hands bound his wrists together behind his back. As he was being taken from his cell he made but one remark:

“Gentlemen, you are mistaken. I am innocent of this crime.”

When the tying was completed he was lifted up to a sitting posture and asked for the captain, referring to Boyd, and that officer immediately came forward.

Laying hand upon the shoulder of the prisoner, Boyd said:

“Well, Woodruff, what can I do for you?”

Woodruff raised his dark eyes to the kindly face above him, and with a low voice, inexpressibly sad and full of feeling, said:

“Captain, write to my wife—and to my brother, and tell them all about this, will you? Don’t forget it. Write to (and a name was given which the officer forgets) and tell him to avenge my death—he’ll do it.”

“Gentlemen,” he said, turning to his captors, “this is not the last of this.”

Then Boyd said: “Is that all I can do for you, Sam?”

“Yes,” said the prisoner, “all—all.”

During all this time the men had been hammering away at Seminole’s cell, and as Woodruff finished speaking, the door was opened and a number of men sprang within. Seminole was lying upon his face moaning fearfully in his terror. He was quickly picked up and carried out, and his hands bound behind him in like manner to Woodruff’s.

Without further hesitation or delay and in perfect silence the prisoners, the manacles on their ankles clanking a dismal dead march, were taken out through the front door of the basement and taken in the direction of the Golden and South Platte railroad, three or four hundred yards distant. Woodruff refused to walk, and was half carried and half pushed, but Seminole did what he could in the way of locomotion, and in a few minutes the men were on the railroad bridge that crosses Kinney creek.

The bridge is a timber one, having three spans, supported on spiles resting on wooden foundations. A rope three-eighths of an inch in diameter was produced, which was supposed to be long enough to hang both men, but being found too short, a delay occurred while a new one, an inch in diameter, was obtained. Woodruff was stationed on the end nearest Denver, and Seminole just five sleepers further away. With nooses about their necks, the other ends of the ropes being fastened to the projecting ends of the timbers (notches being cut to prevent any slipping), the men stood.

“Sam Woodruff, do you wish to say anything?” was the grim question of the masked leader.

The man addressed looked around upon the crowd in silence a few moments, and then, without further preface, said:

“Gentleman, you are hanging an innocent man, but I trust God will forgive you, as I do. May I say my prayers?”

Assent being given, the doomed man knelt and silently prayed to the Almighty. When he had finished he arose to his feet and, looking once more upon his captors, said:

“I have one last request to make. Permit me to jump off the bridge; don’t push me to my death.”

But his request was not granted, and a few moments later a dozen hands pushed him off the edge—off the edge into eternity.

When Seminole was asked if he had anything to say, he choked a moment and then, in a clear, distinct voice, said:

“Gentlemen, I have but little to say, and I address myself to those among you who may be erring ones. Beware of the first bad step. The after ones are not to be feared; it is the beginnings. But for my first evil break I would not be standing here to-night with this rope about my neck and death staring me in the face. In relation to this murder, gentlemen, we two are the guilty ones. We committed the crime. I have no excuse to offer, nothing to say.”

And then, raising his head toward heaven, his lips moving tremulously, he broke out with, “O, God Almighty, have mercy on my sinful soul; and as Thou hast shown Thy love and tenderness in times past to weak and guilty ones, show such to me now. Guard, oh, I pray Thee, my mother and brothers, and let not them follow in my footsteps or take my sinful path. Forgive me my transgressions, O God, and”—his voice broke slightly—“take me to Thee, sinful though I am.” And then, in simple but beautiful and eloquent terms, he prayed for the well-being and salvation of his captors and executioners.

During this prayer the vigilantes stood around, with hats removed and heads bowed, in reverential listening. It was a sombre, impressive picture. The moonlight shining cold and clear upon the scene; the fated man, with eyes turned towards the zenith, one foot upon the iron rail of the track, the other upon the tie to which was attached the rope that drooped from his neck; the swinging, twitching body of his companion in crime dangling in awful solitude below; the congregated men with uncovered and bent heads, and their faces hid beneath grim masks; the polished barrels of rifles and guns gleaming in the moonbeams, and the grave-like silence alone broken by the earnest, feeling words of the speaker—a picture never to be forgotten. And when at last the lips were closed and the fatal push was given, even the stern executioners of inexorable law felt a tremor run through their stalwart, muscular limbs.

Seminole died instantly, his neck being broken in the fall, but swinging past the spiles the skin on the knuckles of his right hand was rubbed off. Woodruff died hard, his struggles for breath being distinctly heard, and his limbs twitching convulsively.

The work was done, and the vigilantes slowly retraced their steps to their horses, and without a word mounted to their saddles, while the two bodies hanging beneath the bridge twisted and twirled, and finally rested motionless, stirred only now and then by a passing breeze that played fitfully with their fast stiffening forms.

During the confusion in securing the prisoners in the jail, Mr. Boyd managed to get to the telephone and attempted to communicate with the town. But in vain. Then he sent Cox, the watchman, off to alarm Sheriff Belcher, but ere the messenger had proceeded a dozen yards he was stopped and returned to the building. The sheriff was asleep at his home when, about 1 o’clock he was awakened by his brother-in-law, Archer DeFrance, who told him that something was going on at the jail, and a few moments later a black watchman named Baker, who had been especially instructed in view of such an emergency, came in with the alarm also. A few minutes later and the sheriff was hastening at the top of his speed towards the jail on the hill. But he was too late. The murderers of R. B. Hayward had gone to their final account, and the vigilantes, with the exception of a guard on the ridge near the bodies, had disappeared as quietly and mysteriously as they had come. Then the sheriff went for the coroner, Dr. Joseph W. Anderson, and without loss of time that officer arrived upon the ground. While he was examining the bodies the coroner was hailed by the vigilantes with:

“What are you doing?”

“Examining into your devilish work.”

“Are they dead?”

“Yes; deader than hell.”

“All right. Hayward is avenged. Good night.” And the sentinel horsemen rode off with a parting wave of their hands.