Of course after this Judd lost no time in resigning the position, and Mr. Dingle agreed to drop the prosecution if Judd would leave the state never to return. This he readily agreed to, and he seems to have faithfully kept his word.

Judd originally came from Illinois, where his family was well known and respected. He was a large, good looking man, a fluent and persuasive talker, and a man whose opinions changed as rapidly as a kaleidoscope. Early in the campaign he published a card claiming to be the first man in the United States to suggest the name of Grover Cleveland for president. Subsequently he made several speeches for Blaine, presumably for a cash consideration. After he found that Cleveland had been successful, he at once became a good democrat once more, and at once set out to secure endorsements for the position which he was afterward lucky enough to secure. As a matter of course, he gave Denver a wide berth, but he was fortunate enough to secure the influence of several prominent democrats in other parts of the state, among whom were Dr. J. J. Crooke and Hon. George Goldthwaite, of Leadville, who had both written letters to the interior department endorsing Judd in the strongest terms, besides this, the Hon. Harley B. Morse, of Central City, had gone to the department in person to recommend the rascal, whose suave manners and glib tongue had deceived him thoroughly. After Judd’s exposure and consequent downfall, he decided that the West was too swift for him, and he was last heard from in Iowa, where he was supposed to belong to a gang of counterfeiters.

At all events, Colorado was well rid of a scoundrel who would have brought disgrace upon her fair name, had it not been for Gen. Cook’s wide acquaintance and perfect recollection of men and events, and his untiring efforts to bring criminals of whatever age or station to justice.

A BOGUS DETECTIVE’S FATE.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

There are snide detectives just as there are shyster lawyers, quack doctors and dead-beat newspaper men. We have our share of the pretenders and dead beats, and they do us more harm than good. The worst case which has ever disgraced our annals here in Denver was that of one L. P. Griswold—a hard nut, too, he was. His machinations here resulted in his own tragic death, and in that of one other man, certainly, if not of a third; also developing several plots of intricate and diabolical design, and bringing many people into the affair before it was ended.

The series of occurrences with which Griswold was connected had their beginning in the summer of 1870, and did not terminate until in the winter of 1872, covering a period of eighteen months, owing to the delay of the law. Griswold had been a great deal about Cheyenne. Cheyenne was a bad place in those days. It was enjoying its railroad boom. Times were lively, and murders, holdups and burglaries were frequent. There was a vigilance committee which did some good work. It was frequently considered necessary by this committee to pronounce sentence of death upon offenders in the community, and Griswold was for a long time employed to execute the decrees of the court of Judge Lynch. This was not wrong, but the committee made a mistake in the employment of Griswold as the executioner. He was a bad man—such a man as would kill a fellow-being for a few dollars. Whenever sentence of death was pronounced upon a victim he was turned over to Griswold, who would secure a gang and hang and rob him.

But to come to the story. Cheyenne finally quieted down, and Griswold was without a calling. He came to Denver and to Gen. Cook, of the Rocky Mountain Detective Association, one day, wanting employment, professing to be a detective. Cook told him he could do nothing for him, but would give him a “pointer” on a case which he could have if he desired, not knowing his real character then.

Some weeks before, the Myers Fisher ranch on Clear creek had been burned—houses, stables, etc.—and Fisher had come to the conclusion that the fire had been caused by an incendiary, and he offered a reward of $400 for the capture and punishment of the perpetrator of the crime. Cook looked into the case, and he became convinced that the fire had been caused by accident, and would have nothing to do with it. This was the case which he gave Griswold, who was glad enough to get it. In the hope of receiving the reward offered, as it afterwards developed, Griswold then began to lay a plot which was simply hellish in design.

It so happened that Fisher, the owner of the ranch, had had some trouble with one James O’Neal, a man who lived some twelve miles away, near Littleton, and, although O’Neal was a quiet and law-abiding man, Griswold determined to fasten the crime of incendiarism upon him. He also discovered that there had been a fire on another ranch near that of Fisher’s, owned by a man named Patrick. To this man and his sons he went with his story. Knowing that he could never convict O’Neal, he asked the Patricks if it could be proven—as he afterwards stated in his confession—that O’Neal had fired both places, they would consent to the capture and lynching of him. They were willing. He brought them what they considered sufficient proof of O’Neal’s guilt, which Griswold had procured in his own peculiar way.

Griswold and George Patrick, son of the old man, then came to Denver and swore out a warrant before James S. Taylor, then a justice of the peace in Denver, under false names, for O’Neal’s arrest, Griswold getting himself appointed a special officer. He accomplished this by stating to the justice that he had seen Cook, who was then sheriff, which was not true, and that Cook had stated that he was unable to go out to make the arrest. The constable he declared he could not find. He further represented that it was essential that O’Neal should be arrested that night, and at last succeeded in making it appear necessary that he and his friend should be sent upon the mission. Their statements proved to be false in every respect, as will appear, and were the first clue which the detectives had when it came to looking up the case.

Having procured their warrant, the two men drove out to O’Neal’s ranch, where they arrived late in the afternoon of the same day. They introduced themselves to the unsuspecting man as officers and told him their mission, but were, withal, so pleasant as not to create any suspicion that his arrest was merely a trap to secure the poor fellow for execution. He never dreamed what character of man he had to deal with in Griswold, and that hell-hound had coolly made up his mind to take his life, although he believed him not guilty, for a pitiful sum of money.

“All right, gentlemen,” O’Neal replied. “I will go with you. I am willing to stand my trial, especially as I feel confident of my own innocence, and know that I can prove it. I have nothing to fear. But it is late; come in and take supper with me before starting.”

This invitation, extended in all courtesy and hospitality, was accepted by the two men, who, although they may have been hungry, were more anxious to gain time than to appease their appetites.

Supper being over, dark was coming on, and the three men prepared for their ride, the terminus of which it was supposed would be for all in Denver. Griswold and Patrick had ridden out in a two-seated buggy, but they requested O’Neal to take a seat between them, and all three started off in quite a jovial mood. This joviality was soon increased, for the vehicle was well loaded down with whiskey and cigars, and the three men were soon laughing and joking and drinking with each other like old-time friends.

Thus they journeyed on to the crossing of the Platte. The chances are that by this time poor O’Neal was well filled with whiskey and capable of making but little resistance against any attack upon him. Be that as it may, he was taken from the buggy at Brown’s bridge, and when he was next seen his soul had deserted its flesh tenement and taken up its abode in another realm.

When found the next day the body was dangling from a girder of the bridge, with a card pinned on the back stating that the man had been lynched because he had burned Fisher’s and Patrick’s ranches and stolen cattle, and that he had made full confession of the fact. In conclusion, cattle thieves and evil-doers generally were warned to beware of their ways, and notified that the vigilantes were ever on their track.

Gen. Cook was among the first to view the body. Griswold and Patrick were the murderers. So much may be stated here. They early sought to cover up their crime and, like many more enlightened criminals, made the newspapers useful in their work. Coming into Denver that night, they went to the offices of the public journals and told how they had been sent out as special officers to arrest O’Neal on the charges above related, giving the same false names which they had given Justice Taylor, and stating that they had proceeded as far as Brown’s bridge with their prisoner when they were set upon by a band of disguised men, who compelled them to deliver over the prisoner at the muzzles of a hundred revolvers. They told how they had pleaded in vain for the life of the prisoner, and how that individual, after quivering and quaking and making a faint denial, had at last confessed the crime. Their prisoner being taken, they had, they said, been compelled to drive on, and were then ignorant of his fate, though they supposed he had been lynched.

The newspapers which told this story the next morning bore a revelation to Gen. Cook. He had kept no track of Griswold and the O’Neal case, supposing that when the supposed detective should find that the charges were unfounded he would drop it and cease his efforts. Furthermore, he was sheriff of the county, and thought he would have known, or at least thought he ought to have known, if any arrest of as much importance as that of O’Neal had been made. But he was totally in the dark. The names of the officers given in the papers were not even recognized, Griswold and Patrick having used their false names in the story.

Mr. Cook began to investigate. His work was soon well under way. He obtained his first clue from Justice Taylor, who related the circumstances of the two men swearing out warrants for O’Neal’s arrest and stating that Cook had refused to go and make the arrests. From the justice’s description of the two “special deputies,” Cook inferred that the two men were Griswold and Patrick.

“A clue and a big one,” he soon afterwards told one of his men. “Griswold is the murderer of O’Neal. He gave his wrong name to the justice, and he lied about me. Here is where he began to cover up his tracks. Griswold is the man we want. This newspaper story is all bosh.”

But the case had still to be worked up. So far he had no basis for his operations but inference. There was a great deal more to know before an arrest could be made. And he must operate rapidly and shrewdly, otherwise his man might escape. He determined to visit Brown’s bridge and obtain whatever clue he might there.

Gen. Cook, accompanied by one of his officers, rode rapidly out the road towards Littleton, feeling quite confident that he would find that O’Neal had been murdered, and hopeful of obtaining some clue as to the identity of the murderers. He was not disappointed, and every step taken confirmed his suspicions previously formed, that Griswold had murdered O’Neal, and that the report of the lynching was a mere pretense. He found the body swinging as it had been left, awaiting the action of the coroner. Some of the country people had begun to gather about the scene of the killing, having heard of the finding of the body. They viewed the ghastly sight with horror and with manifestations so marked as to destroy all idea which the bogus special deputy had sought to convey that the enraged populace had taken the man from them and hanged him.

A few were found by the officers who had seen the two men who had come out to arrest O’Neal, and their descriptions of the men were so accurate as to clear away whatever trace of doubt that might have remained with the detective as to their being Griswold and Patrick.

But still a stronger circumstance remained to aid in completing the theory which Cook was gradually forming. The snide officers had told the newspapers that a large number of men stopped them and took their prisoner from them. Cook found the place at which the buggy had stopped, and where the prisoner had been removed; but instead of the tracks of a hundred men, or of fifty, or twenty, he discovered the footprints of but three of them. Of these, evidently only one had approached the buggy, while three had left it, dragging the prisoner, as the surface of the soil afforded every evidence. Hence Mr. Cook decided that the two men in the buggy with O’Neal had strangled him there while, perhaps, he was under the influence of liquor, and that they had been assisted in taking him out and stringing him up by a confederate who had joined them at Brown’s bridge.

One more clue only is necessary to make a complete chain of very strong circumstantial evidence. The rope with which O’Neal was hanged—where did that come from? Bringing it to Denver with him, Gen. Cook succeeded in ascertaining where it had been bought, and that it was purchased on the afternoon before the night of the murder by Griswold.

If there are any who think Dave Cook not a shrewd detective, they ought to be convinced of their error after reading the story of the working up of this case.

CHAPTER XXIX.

There was now left nothing to do but to arrest the two men who had betrayed and murdered O’Neal, and for this denouement preparations were now made. While working up the O’Neal case, Griswold had taken a fancy to a woman living with her husband on Clear creek, a quiet and peaceable man, and the two becoming attached to each other, he had driven the husband away and remained with the wife, filling the role of husband himself. Griswold lived with this woman at her former husband’s home, and seemed to feel no delicacy whatever concerning the fine points of the situation.

Two days elapsed before Gen. Cook had succeeded in obtaining the clues set forth in the preceding chapter, and while it was feared that the murderers might make their escape, the fact was not lost sight of that the offense charged was a heinous one, and Cook felt that a great injustice might be done in arresting the men as long as there was any doubt as to their guilt. Hence the delay in taking the culprits into hand.

Detectives Frank Smith and Charley McCune were selected to make the arrest of the precious pair, and were ordered to Clear Creek valley for that purpose. They went first to the residence of Patrick, and found to their regret that they had come too late. That worthy had folded his tent and stolen away, leaving home and friends behind, evidently fearing apprehension.

The officers proceeded with caution to Griswold’s home, fearing detection from a distance, and in case of detection a decidedly warm welcome. But they at last succeeded in getting to his house, and upon making inquiry for him, found that he had just gone out—out where no one knew.

The officers began now to feel that they had happened in a day after the feast, and sadly turned their horses’ heads towards the city, disappointed and dejected that they had had such bad luck as they felt that they had had. But there was nothing left but a return to the city, with their report; so at least they felt, as they quitted the house where Griswold had so recently been. Yet there was still reason for hope of at least partial success, and they very soon came to realize that all was not lost.

Shortly after leaving Griswold’s late place of abode, the officers discovered a mounted man moving in advance of them, and across a field. They spurred up, and were not long in discovering that this man was no other than Griswold. The officers had come prepared to deceive him. They were dressed as cow-boys—wore large sombrero hats, tucked their breeches legs into their boot-tops, and carried whips in their hands, which they twirled about and cracked as cow-boys do. Taking a different road from that which Griswold was pursuing, the two men contrived to ride around and come up so as to cut him off without creating suspicion. They had no hope of finding him unarmed, and hence were desirous of avoiding a fight if possible. Their disguise was so excellent that it served to save them from this necessity. They rode very close to Griswold before he took any notice of them, and were less than thirty feet distant when Griswold recognized Smith’s face, with which he was familiar.

The murderer showed his colors in a moment. Appreciating that the two “cow-boys” were officers come to arrest him, he was prepared to defend himself. He sought his gun with great celerity, and was raising it to fire, when he found himself staring along the barrels of as pretty a pair of weapons as were ever presented.

“Put that gun down, Griswold,” commanded Frank Smith. “Put it down, or you die.”

The gun dropped.

“Now, hands up!”

Reluctantly the fellow’s hands went up.

He was then disarmed and was soon on his way to Denver. It was then discovered that the fellow was well provided with provisions and ammunition, and that he was just starting to make his escape from the state when come upon by the officers.

Griswold had a long trial. He took a change of venue from Denver to Evans, Weld county, and there, after the case was thoroughly tried, he was remanded to jail in Denver for a new trial. Eleven of the jurymen favored hanging, and the twelfth was for bringing in a verdict of manslaughter and sending him to the penitentiary for life. No one doubted the man’s guilt. The splendid chain of evidence which Gen. Cook had prepared left no room for doubt on that score. But the twelfth man was not a believer in hanging and held out to the last, causing the jury to go before the court with a disagreement report. The murder of O’Neal had been committed on the 10th of July, 1870, but, owing to delays, the month of February, 1872, had now come around, and the law was only preparing to take its course. Griswold, who had been the cause of so much summary punishment, looked forward to his own fate with the greatest dread, and began to make preparations to escape. His plans were well laid, and as he had plenty of outside assistance, it is a great wonder that he did not accomplish his purpose. He was certainly desperate enough, as will soon appear.

It was on Saturday, the 24th of February, that an attempt was made to escape from the county jail in Denver, and which attempt resulted in one of the most exciting scenes ever witnessed in a prison. Two prisoners, Michael Henesee and a negro, named Dan Diamond, were engaged scrubbing the premises and making a general clean-up. While in the companion way leading between the cells from the front office to a room adjoining the day cell in the rear, they had occasion to wash the cells of Griswold and E. E. Wight, the last named being the man who figures in the Wall murder story. The turnkey, Sanford W. Davis, allowed these men to emerge from their cells for the purpose of going to the water closet, a few feet away, and in the enclosure, there being no accommodations for them in the cells, and as both were heavily ironed no fears were entertained of any outbreak. Griswold passed to the front office and called out to L. F. or “Till” Davis, brother to the turnkey, for a chew of tobacco. Davis was in the bedroom adjoining and did not answer, whereupon Griswold turned back, and as he did so he suddenly drew a bludgeon, consisting of a boulder in the toe of a stocking prepared in the water closet, from some place of concealment and dealt the turnkey a blow on the back of the head. This had the effect to fell him to the floor, but he soon regained his feet, and after a scuffle with Wight, Griswold and Diamond, the negro, who had joined the mutineers, he ran towards the large room in the rear, closely followed by Griswold.

During this melee, Henesee, the other prisoner, acting promptly and looking to the welfare of the turnkey, dragged Wight away from Davis and to his cell, and called for help. While the matter stood thus—Griswold and Davis, the turnkey, in the back room, and Griswold in possession of the latter’s pistol, Henesee holding the door against Wight and endeavoring to readjust the tumbler lock—the brother of the turnkey grasped a revolver and courageously entered the companion-way and tried to lock Wight’s cell door, in the meantime holding his revolver in his right hand. This all transpired in a few seconds.

Griswold, finding that Wight’s exit was barred, returned to the rear doorway, stepped down into the companion-way and stood facing young Davis, who was endeavoring to lock the cell, only a few feet distant. The situation, of course, demanded desperate action on the part of one or the other, and as Griswold leveled his revolver at the young man, the latter in turn drew bead upon the prisoner, and both fired simultaneously. The ball from Griswold’s pistol probably passed through the front doorway and into the street; the ball from young Davis’ revolver entered Griswold’s body, inflicting a mortal wound. He, however, pressed towards Davis, who retreated and discharged a shot, when Wight emerged from his cell, seized Griswold’s pistol, passed to the rear and made a second attack upon the turnkey, who endeavored to make his escape. Wight, however, fired too shots at Davis, one of which grazed the back of his head. The desperado then passed out at the rear, and secreted himself in the jail barn under the hay.

Of course, all the foregoing had happened in less time than it takes to read the account of it. The sheriff’s office at that time was where it now is on Fifteenth street, on the alley between Larimer and Lawrence, and the jail was on Larimer between Fourteenth and Fifteenth, running back to the alley, so that they were not far apart. Gen. Cook was sitting in the sheriff’s office at the time of the shooting, and, hearing it, hurried over through the alley to the prison, and stationing a man at the back door, told him to let no one in or out. The crowd was already gathering, and Cook was afraid of a general row. Running in he found Till Davis, one of the guards, with a smoking pistol in his hand.

“What’s up?” he demanded.

“Oh, the devil’s to pay,” he replied. “We’ve had some serious work here.”

“Where’s Sanford?”—Sanford Davis was a brother of Till’s. “Where is Sanford?” he asked.

“Oh, he’s dead,” replied Till; “shot by Griswold.”

“Where’s Griswold?”

“He’s back there somewhere—I don’t know where.”

Cook went to work to investigate, and found a confused state of affairs, which has been described as well as can be in the foregoing. The officers of the jail had not yet had an opportunity to ascertain the true state of affairs. In fact, the smoke of the late affray had not yet cleared away. It was generally believed that Sanford Davis had been shot, and no one knew that Griswold had received the liberal dose of lead for which his malady called so loudly. Confusion reigned supreme, and everybody was excited. The jail was a pandemonium. Nothing was known. There was chaos everywhere. A half dozen men might have been killed.

Gen. Cook lost no time in beginning to straighten matters out. Finding that Wight had taken part in the melee, Cook hurried to his cell, but found Griswold in it instead of Wight. Cook demanded his pistol. He said he had given it to Wight.

“I am dying, don’t you see?” he muttered, “and couldn’t use it if I had it. So I opened the cell and came in and let Wight out and told him to make his escape if he wanted to get away, as I couldn’t.”

“Shot! Of course you are! Come out of here!” exclaimed Dave, who never dreamed that the old scoundrel had been hurt in the row which he had instigated, and did not dare hope that he had been mortally wounded. With this exclamation he dragged the fellow out by the coat collar, large as he was, and laid him out in the office, when he discovered that the man was really not feigning. He then found that Till Davis had planted a ball in the old fellow’s breast, and left him to make his peace with his Maker; and went to look for Wight.

Cook tracked Wight to the stable and began looking for him with a pitchfork in the straw. He had sent the steel prongs of the implement piercing through the hay but once or twice, when out he crawled, leaving the pistol cocked lying on the floor. When Cook took Wight back to jail, old Griswold was dead. He had been shot through and through.

Everybody considered that he deserved his fate, and there were few mourners to follow his body to the old cemetery on the hill the next day. There may have been one or two. It was afterwards discovered that the jail delivery had been planned with the assistance of two citizens of the town, who had horses in waiting for the murderers. One of them has since died.

The woman with whom Griswold had lived was another mourner. She seemed to be sincerely attached to the man, whom she now called her poor, dear husband. It was discovered after Griswold’s death that during his imprisonment this woman had done everything in her power to assist him in his escape, and had been his confidant and adviser throughout.

After Wight, one of the prisoners who attempted to escape from the jail, had been rearrested, it occurred to the officers to search his person in order to ascertain, if possible, the origin of the difficulty which had resulted in the death of one of the parties thereto. In one of his pockets was found a package of letters, which scrutiny disclosed to have been written by Griswold. These letters were perfectly unintelligible to the ordinary reader, being traced in cipher, probably invented by Griswold himself. To pick them out was, however, a comparatively easy matter to the detectives, as they had already discovered the key to the cipher. One of the letters, developing the plot for escape, ran as follows:

This letter was not fully deciphered until the body had been buried. It was afterwards disinterred by W. F. Smith, the county jailer, in order to ascertain whether it had been buried with any valuable papers, as the above would indicate. He searched the clothing thoroughly, but found only two scraps of paper—one two leaves from Harper’s magazine containing the poem “Hannah Jane,” and the other a piece of paper with a few words in cipher. On the former was the following significant problem—significant in the light of recent events. Griswold was probably trying to study it out. It was as follows: “A problem: A prisoner anxious to escape, and a dead man awaiting burial; how were these two things to be exchanged so that the living man might pass out without going to the grave?”

So ended, with his own life, the bloody work which “Old Griswold” had begun. His wife, or “woman,” is still living in or near Denver. Wight, his accomplice, was the man who had assisted Witherill in the murder of Wall, the herder on Dry creek, an account of which crime is elsewhere in this volume related.

Dan Diamond, the negro, was one of the worst “coons” that ever came to Denver. He, as well as Wight, is probably also at Cañon. He never stays out more than a few months, as he is always stealing when out. But he escaped on the day of the fracas. The officers heard of him a few days afterwards at a ranch twenty-four miles down the Platte, and followed him down there. They were told that he was in the second story of a house there. Cook went with a posse after him and stationed men outside with guns pointing at every window, and went up to where he was himself, with drawn revolver. They expected him to jump out and be killed. But he didn’t. He was a downright disappointment. Cook found him lying flat on his face on a bed, crying: “Oh, Missah Offisah, I dun gib up; don kill me now; I’se yer man. I go right along wid you.” And he did go.

As for Hennessee, the gambler, who came to Davis’ rescue, he was pardoned out immediately and voted a resolution of thanks.

Till Davis was but slightly hurt, after all. He thought he had been shot, but wasn’t. The wound caused by the stone stunned him and the blood flowed freely for a while, but he soon recovered and is supposed to be still living.

Patrick, the man who went with Griswold to arrest O’Neal, and who was supposed to have been equally responsible for his death, has never, since the day after the murder, been seen in Colorado. It was believed that he went to Kansas, but no satisfactory clue being obtained, he was not searched for in that state.

With one other name and one other fatality this record closes. John Tusawn was a brother-in-law of Patrick. He lived near Brown’s bridge previous to and after O’Neal’s death. Common report made him a party to the murder of the victim; but, although circumstances pointed to his guilt, evidence sufficient to convict him was never found, and he was not molested. It is, however, known that ever after the ghastly tragedy he lived a moody, gloomy life. When the grasshoppers came along in 1875, he lost his crops, and that fall he ended a now thoroughly miserable existence by committing suicide. It was given out that the ravages of the locusts had produced his despondency, and had indirectly caused him to take his own life, but those who knew him best say that he took this step to avoid the further sight of the horrible spectacle of O’Neal’s dead body dangling constantly before his eyes.

Old Griswold was a curse to all who came in contact with him. He did not die any too soon, and the world would have probably been better had he never been born.

THE LEICHSENRING ROBBERY.

CHAPTER XXX.

One of the boldest robberies on record was committed one cold evening during the Christmas holidays of 1879, at the saloon of C. E. Leichsenring, then on the corner of Sixteenth and Holladay streets, Denver, supplemented by one of the most adroit captures ever effected in the city. The particulars in the case are about as follows: It was near 8 o’clock when Mr. Leichsenring was induced to open his safe, in the rear of the saloon, by a man named Ayer, who represented himself to be a United States marshal from Leadville, and expressed a desire to examine the complicated workings of the time lock on the inner door of the safe, which was one of the small Hall patterns, and an object of great interest as a mechanical contrivance.

While Mr. Leichsenring was explaining the process of locking and opening the door of the same to Ayer, his attention was for a moment attracted to another part of the house, and it is supposed that the robbery was committed during the brief period that his back was turned. The theory is that during this interim, an accomplice of Ayer, named Rocky McDonald, took out of the safe a canvas bag containing $4,800 in $20 and $10 gold pieces and some government bonds, altogether amounting to $5,000, and walked out of the saloon before the absence of the bag was noticed.

When Mr. Leichsenring turned around he immediately detected that the safe had been robbed, and thinking that Ayer was the guilty party, immediately seized him and turned him over to Officer Newman, who at that juncture happened to enter the saloon. The report of the robbery spread like wildfire, and the amount stolen was quickly exaggerated to $8,000 in gold. McDonald’s presence had been noticed by three or four other men, who were seated in the saloon at the time, but no one had seen him take the money.

Mr. Leichsenring notified the sheriff’s office and the police as speedily as possible, and officers flocked to the scene of the robbery by the dozen. Gen. Cook was at that time neither sheriff nor chief of police, but his detective association was as active as ever and “just aching” for a neat job in which it might distinguish itself. Consequently Gen. Cook proceeded to Leichsenring’s saloon, and, after elbowing his way through the crowd of policemen and deputy sheriffs who lined the sidewalk on the outside, found Mr. Leichsenring very much excited. He welcomed Cook with open arms and asked him to go to work in the case. He offered first a reward of $500 and then of $1,000 for the recovery of the money, and proclaimed in loud tones, as Dave went out:

“I’ll give $1,000 for the capture of the thief and the money, and if Dave Cook finds him, I authorize him to take his pay out of the bag.”

The officers scattering in all directions, policemen, deputy sheriffs and private detectives, started out to scour the town. There was incentive to work for now. A big reward was offered. Mr. Cook walked quietly back to his office and put several of his best officers to work, including Joe Arnold and Capt. C. A. Hawley. He then started out himself.

He had been on the street less than an hour when he was approached by a business man and furnished with a clue which very soon led to the arrest of the guilty party. This man told the detective a story which interested him very much. It was to the effect that a man answering the description of McDonald had applied to Lou Rothgerber, the pawnbroker, doing business then, as now, on Larimer street, between Sixteenth and Seventeenth, for a peculiar kind of expensive watch, used only by horsemen in timing races, and not having anything in his show cases meeting the demands of his customer, Rothgerber procured one at the jewelry store of Messrs. Hatch, Davidson & Co., which he sold to McDonald, together with a heavy chain, for $530, receiving his payment in gold.

Proceeding to Rothgerber’s shop Mr. Cook found a policeman standing near the entrance, who being questioned stated that he had seen McDonald enter.

“Did he have any money?”

“Yes, a pile of it.”

“Where did he get it?”

“He told me that he had just sold a mine for $10,000.”

“Which way did he go?”

“I don’t know.”

The policeman had heard of the Leichsenring robbery, but he did not suppose that a man who had been shrewd to get away with $5,000, as the Leichsenring robber had been, would be fool enough to carry it around so loosely as McDonald had been doing, hence did not connect him with the theft. Cook knew more than the policeman did, and now felt sure that he was on the right track, and that he would get his man. Proceeding into Rothgerber’s place he succeeded in ascertaining that his man had been there, though, for some reason, his actions did not arouse any suspicion. He had not only been in and bought a costly watch, but had left all his money with the exception of a few hundred dollars with Rothgerber for safe keeping. Here was a big point gained already. The money was virtually recovered, leaving nothing to do but to secure the thief. Taking Rothgerber into custody that the money might be held secure, the detective went on his way. It was not difficult to trace McDonald. He had spent his money freely, giving it away wherever fancy dictated, and tossing a $20 gold piece to the policeman at Rothgerber’s door.

Leaving Rothgerber’s, McDonald had taken a hack a short time previous and driven up Holladay street. Gen. Cook then prosecuted his search, and among some of the houses of ill-repute abounding in that portion of the city, and finding that at one of these places McDonald had spent $10 for two bottles of wine, was soon in a condition to direct Officers Dorsey and Phillips to arrest not only McDonald, but another man whom he suspected of complicity, named Davis, telling the officers that he wanted the two men for larceny, but saying nothing about the suspected connection of them with the Leichsenring case. The two men were picked up with but little difficulty and turned over to Gen. Cook, who, after returning Mr. Leichsenring’s money to him, made public the fact of the arrest and the securing of the treasure. As may be readily supposed there was considerable rejoicing on the part of Mr. Leichsenring, and the public was not slow to recognize the service which had been rendered. Commenting upon the case the next morning, the Rocky Mountain News said: “The rapidity with which the capture followed the act—no matter how it may have been accomplished—speaks volumes for the sagacity of the Rocky Mountain Detective Association, and they are honorably entitled to a liberal reward.”

Ayer, it should here be stated, was also arrested. The prisoners were taken to the detectives’ headquarters, searched, the watch and six $20 gold pieces found on McDonald’s person and two more in the possession of his partner. Rothgerber, who had been detained, was released upon producing the total amount deposited by McDonald and proving that he had no knowledge of the robbery at the time he sold the watch. McDonald, together with Ayer and Davis, were locked up to await examination.

All these men remained in jail for several weeks. The trial resulted in the discharge of Davis and Ayer, whose complicity could not be fully established, but McDonald was sent to Cañon City to remain until 1887.

The entire case was concluded, the prisoners jailed and the money returned to its owners in two hours after it was placed in Cook’s hands. With the exception of a few assistants of his own association he had no aid, while there was a small army of police and sheriffs on the lookout. Comment is unnecessary.

A DEAL WITH THE BLACK HILLS ROAD AGENTS.

CHAPTER XXXI.

The years 1876, ’77, ’78 and ’79 were characterized by numerous stage-coach robberies in Wyoming, Dakota and Montana, performed by highwaymen, who found refuge in the wild and mountainous region of the north. The roads leading to the Black hills were the scenes of some of the boldest exploits of the kind ever known to criminal history. Many thrilling stories of the dare-devil work of these highwaymen are told, and will long be remembered as a part of the history of the settlement and development of the region round about Deadwood. Large treasures of gold dust taken from the mines were frequently shipped out on the stages, and many men of wealth traveled over the line, going in for the purpose of starting in business or making mining investments. The stages were stopped by these knights of the road, who soon became known as “road agents,” at places convenient to the hiding places of the highwaymen, who, safe behind protecting trees or bluffs, commanded a halt and compelled driver and passengers to hold up their hands while they should “go through” the coach and the people on board, one or two of the agents performing the search while others held their cocked guns loaded upon the terrified travelers, who were, as a rule, only too willing to escape with their lives and let their valuables go to enrich the stores of the brigands. Often, however, the travelers “showed fight,” and then there was sure to be bloodshed, the highwaymen sometimes getting the worst of it, but most frequently coming out best.

When the travel to the hills began to slacken and the coaches to be better guarded than they had been in the earlier days of the gold excitement, the “agents,” not finding their field as profitable as it had been before, started out to look for new fields in which to show their prowess, and fresh fields to conquer. They turned their attention to the railroads.

And thus it came about that a member of the Rocky Mountain Detective Association came to have much to do with them, in the story which is about to be related as well as in others of a like character. This member of the association is Mr. N. K. Boswell, a resident of Laramie City, Wyo., for several years back, who is now warden of the state penitentiary at Laramie City, and has frequently been sheriff of Albany county, and who has for very many years been considered one of the most efficient of Gen. Cook’s assistants.

It was in August, 1878—August 14—that a bold attempt was made by a party of these road agents to commit one of the most fiendish crimes ever perpetrated by outlaws in any land. The party consisted of Frank James, one of the James brothers, but who went by the name of McKinney; of Dutch Charley, Frank Toll, Sim Wan, Big-Nosed George, Tom Reed, Sandy Campbell and Cully McDonald. They had come in from the northern country to a point on the Union Pacific railroad where it crosses the Medicine Bow river, eighty-two miles west of Laramie City, in Wyoming. The embankments of the road approaching the river are exceedingly steep, about sixty feet high, and are made of large, rough stone taken from the cuts in the road. A more jagged or more broken place than these embankments it would be difficult to imagine.

It was to this place that these road agents had come with the intention of throwing the west-bound passenger train, on the 14th of August, from the track, and of precipitating it down the embankment, hoping to kill or to badly cripple all the train operatives and passengers, and thus make easy work of the robbery, which was the purpose of the undertaking. To accomplish this task they had cut the telegraph wire at the point and had tied one end of a long piece of wire, after loosening the spikes, to a rail, the other end being in the hands of the robbers, who were secreted behind a convenient embankment. The plan was to pull the rail out just as the locomotive should reach it, and to tumble the entire train and its burden of treasure and humanity down this fill. The time as well as the place was well chosen, the train at that season of the year passing the spot about dusk.

But for what really seems a special act of Providence, the entire train would certainly have been hurled over this precipice; and the wires being cut, the highwaymen would have been far away with their booty before the terrible deed could have become known. The instrument whom fate chose to avert this terrible catastrophe was an humble member of the race—the boss of the repair section of the road—who, finding after quitting his day’s work that he had left his tools on the Medicine Bow bridge, returned to procure them. Passing along he noticed that the spikes were out, and saw the wire attached to the rail. He comprehended the situation in a moment, and his heart must have leaped into his mouth. But he was a man out of a thousand in coolness and self-possession. Manifesting no sign that he had made a discovery, he walked quietly forward, picked up his tools, came back and passed the dead-fall again on his return, still showing no concern whatever by his manner. Had he made the least sign, there is no doubt that he would have been killed, and that the robbers and murderers would have been enabled to put their hellish plot into execution.

Walking past the trap, he proceeded towards home. He had scarcely gone around the next curve when he heard the train humming forward at a fearful rate of speed. He quietly flagged it and, of course, when he had told his story, the train was backed. The robbers were foiled in their purpose, and one hundred and fifty lives, to say nothing of property, were saved.

The whole country was aroused to vengeance when the full scope of the terrible plot was developed and comprehended in its hellish entirety. Large rewards were offered for the capture of the outlaws, and numbers of good people turned out to hunt down the men who had demonstrated that they lacked opportunity only to be guilty of a deed which would have caused the entire continent to shudder in the contemplation of it.

But the robbers were not caught then. Indeed, some of them, including Frank James, are still at large. The pursuit was kept up for several days. Detective Boswell joined the pursuing party, but they succeeded only in driving the rascals out of the section; not, however, until they had shot down in cold blood two deputy sheriffs—Vincent and Widowfield—who were searching for them in the Elk mountains. After this shooting the robbers left for the north, maintaining for a short time a rendezvous on the Dry Cheyenne river, and evaded all pursuit, which was ultimately abandoned. Soon after the band began to operate on the stage lines again, and it gradually changed until there were but two left who had been in any way identified with the railroad raiders, these two being Dutch Charley and Joe Manuse. Frank James had left for Montana, and John Erwin had become leader of the Dry Cheyenne band.

CHAPTER XXXII.