Early in December, 1878, a portion of this band, consisting of Erwin, Manuse, Dutch Charley, Frank Ruby, A. C. Douglas, Hank Harrington, Frank Howard and Charles Condon (alias “The Kid”) decided upon another raid upon the railroad, and this time selected as the point of their attack the bridge across Rock creek, fifty-six miles west of Laramie City. Their programme included the robbery of the train, and also of the hotel kept at the point by ex-Gov. Thayer, of Wyoming.

The plot was quite as devilish as that which had been frustrated at Medicine Bow, but it never came so near bearing fruit as the former one did. It was frustrated through the efforts principally of two men, named Frank Howard, one of the party, and Detective Boswell, who succeeded in taking in the entire band by a very bold and shrewdly arranged move upon them.

Frank Howard was a member of the party as it started from the north for the purpose of committing the robberies planned as above stated. The party came south to within a few miles of their destination and, camping in a spot where they supposed themselves safe, decided to send a member of their organization to the station to look over the land and make report upon the prospects there. The performance of this duty fell to Howard, whose conscience appears to have been considerably wrought upon, and whose heart failed him in the work in which he was about to engage. As a consequence of this state of his mind he decided to frustrate the plans of his associates, prevent the raid and assist in securing the capture of the band. He laid the entire story before Gov. Thayer, who was not slow in communicating it to the authorities of Albany county.

Mr. Boswell was not then acting sheriff of the county, although he had but recently been elected to that position. The sheriff was notified, but did not act. Gov. Thayer then informed the officials of the Union Pacific railroad of the intentions of the cut-throats, some of them being at Ogden, Utah. They took the matter in hand and began to communicate by telegraph with the sheriff of Albany county. But he did not heed their dispatches or take any steps to grant their request that the contemplated train wrecking be prevented and an effort made to overtake the criminals while there was a chance of finding them.

Two days were spent in this way, and at last the Union Pacific people telegraphed Mr. Boswell, as a member of the Rocky Mountain Detective Association, and requested him to see if something could not be done, offering a reward of $250 each for the capture of the gang. Mr. Boswell went to see the sheriff, who, upon being approached, declared that he had been unable to get men to go along with him to make the effort to arrest the “agents.” Mr. Boswell thereupon undertook the case. In a very few minutes he had found ten determined men who were willing to go with him, and he announced his readiness to proceed with the undertaking. A special train was provided and the men were soon on their way, starting after nightfall of Saturday, December 24.

The hour of midnight had already passed when Rock Creek station was reached, but Boswell decided that if anything was to be done it must be promptly done, and, gathering up horses for his men, they started out at 3 o’clock on Christmas morning in search of their game. It was dark; the ground was covered with snow; there was a stiff wind blowing, and the mercury touched at 30° below zero.

Howard had been faithful to his trust, and was willing to give all the information which he possessed as to the whereabouts of his gang. But they were discovered to have moved since his most recent visit to them, and their exact whereabouts were unknown to him. The officers chanced to learn that an old ranchman in the neighborhood had supplied the robbers with food after their change of base. His house was found, and he was dragged out of bed and, by means of threats and tender of reward, he was prevailed upon to accompany the officers to the hiding place.

The locality pointed out was a deep ravine which had been cut into a hillside. Indeed, there was a network of gulches and ravines, and the robber gang had chosen a place near the center, where, under ordinary circumstances, they would never have been discovered, and where their hiding place would have proved an excellent fortress for them if their cunning had not been met by equal shrewdness on the part of their pursuers. They were hidden away under a protruding cliff and a little niche in the ravine formed by a tributary stream, now dry.

Daylight was just beginning to dawn when the old farmer pointed out this place, received his reward and took his departure. A moment later a blue streak of smoke shot up through the cold air, and the officers were no longer in doubt that they had treed their game. They were also convinced that, if they would secure the robbers without a fight, they must act with dispatch.

It required but a few moments for Mr. Boswell to dispose of his men, who were stationed with guns cocked at the best places surrounding the hiding place. Having left his assistants with their guns in their hands and ready to fire at a moment’s notice, he crawled up behind a large rock standing in front of the robbers’ den and looking down upon their sleeping place.

Creeping along with extreme caution he reached the edge of the rock and cautiously looked over. There were six of the scoundrels in camp, namely, Erwin, Ruby, Condon, Harrington, Douglas and Dutch Charley. He saw at a glance that only one of them had arisen from his bed. He had made the fire and was standing in front of it unarmed, while the others still lay wrapped closely in their blanket beds and apparently enjoying their morning naps. Getting his guns ready he shouted to them, clear as a clap of thunder:

“Hold up your hands!”

All was virtually over.

The men awoke with a start, and almost in an instant five pairs of hands shot into the air. There was but one exception in obeying the command, and that exception was noticed in the one from whom it would have naturally been least expected, “the Kid” being the only one to fail. Instead of throwing up his hands, he began to draw his pistol.

“Put that gun down, boy,” said one of the older members. “He will kill you in an instant. Don’t you see he’s got the drop on us? It’s Boswell, you d——d fool. You can’t get away with old Boswell.”

The boy dropped the gun. Mr. Boswell’s men came up, and the capture of all was effected, with the exception of Manuse, who had gone out to hunt the horses. He was found and taken without any difficulty, and the entire party marched into the station and afterwards taken to Laramie City, where they were safely lodged in jail and afterwards disposed of.

It was believed that several of the captives had participated in the Medicine Bow affair, and that some of them were partially responsible for the murder of Widowfield and Vincent. Such proved to be the case. Mr. Boswell, as a detective, advised a measure which he thought would assist in the discovery of the truth in the matter. Manuse was believed to have been one of the members of the gang, and the railroad employés were given an opportunity to remain alone with him long enough to find out. Refusing to reveal anything, he was stretched up with an ugly rope around his neck, and held in a choking position until he was almost dead. Being let down, he again declined to talk. He was strung up again, and this time, beginning to fear that his own life would be taken then and there, volunteered to make a confession. From this it appeared that he had started out with the gang to go to Medicine Bow, and was separated from the party and failed to reach the railroad with them. Dutch Charley, one of the captives, was, however, with the gang, and proved to have been the very man who had first fired upon the deputies. As he had told the story to Manuse, these two men had gotten upon the trail of the would-be wreckers and were pushing them hard. They had followed them into a cañon in the Elk mountains and came near going upon the scoundrels just as they were leaving camp after remaining all night. The robbers left hurridly, tossing the burning chunks from their fire into a stream of water near the camping place and taking to their horses. Being well mounted, the robbers stopped a few rods away and concluded to watch the movements of the officers, being concealed themselves. The officers coming up to the fire, one of them dismounted and stuck his hand into the ashes, exclaiming to his comrade:

“We are close upon their heels. It’s hot as hell.”

“Yes, you son of a bitch, it’s pretty damned hot, and we’ll just give you a chance to find out how hot hell is.”

Surprise of Road Agents and Train Wreckers at Rock Creek, Wyoming, by Detective Boswell.

Thus responded Dutch Charley for his gang, at the same time drawing a bead on the dismounted officer and notifying him to prepare to die. He attempted to mount, but was shot down by Charley as he got up. The other officer attempted to escape by flight, but a dozen bullets were sent flying after him as his horse ran at full speed down the cañon, and he fell dead with three holes through his body, the gang then disbanding and making their escape.

This story of Manuse’s was sufficient to seal the fate of Dutch Charley. It was decided that as the killing of the deputies had taken place in Carbon county and not in Albany, he should be tried there, and he was put on the train and started for Rawlins for trial. He never reached his destination. He was taken off of the train when near the place, by a party of armed and masked vigilantes, and swung up to a telegraph pole to expiate this terrible crime, and his body left hanging for several days as meat for the buzzards.

The other members of the Rock Creek gang were tried. Harrington turned state’s evidence, but being sent to Fort McKinney to identify supposed stage robbers, was shot by a man named Smith, who claimed that Harrington had killed his brother. Very little could be proved against Douglas, except as to his evil intentions. He had been superintendent of the Rock Creek stage line, and used his knowledge obtained through his position to aid the stage robbers in their work, notifying them by letter or telegraph, signed “Henry Ward Beecher,” when there was treasure or “good plucking” on the coaches. He had never been in a robbery, so far as could be proven, and was given only one year in the penitentiary. Manuse and Ruby were sentenced to four years each, and Erwin, the captain, and Condon, “The Kid,” were sentenced for life. As for Howard, he was made a detective on the railroad, and rendered the company valuable service. The robbers have sworn to have vengeance upon him for betraying them and being the primary cause of their getting into the hands of the officers instead of procuring big booty and retiring to the safe recesses of the great Northwest.

IN THE EXPRESS BUSINESS.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Along in the ’60’s and early ’70’s when Colorado was not covered with a network of railroad and telegraph lines as it is to-day, bankers and others who wished to transmit large sums of money from one point to another were often put to sore straits for some means to accomplish their object. The stage coaches which carried mail, passengers and express to nearly every part of the state, were too risky. Holdups were of frequent occurrence, often it was thought through the connivance and assistance of the drivers themselves. Then, too, they were slow and uncertain; a washout or snowslide might detain them for days at a time.

Accordingly it became necessary to secure the services of men who were not only honest and trustworthy themselves, but who were known to be “handy with a gun,” and who would risk their lives if necessary for the protection of the property entrusted to their care. It was because of this that the Rocky Mountain Detective Association was often called upon when any particularly large sums of money were to be carried from Denver to mountain towns. One or two cases are called to mind, not only by the implicit confidence displayed by the bankers in Gen. Cook and his aides, but also by the faithful manner in which they discharged the responsible duties which they were called upon to perform.

In January, 1870, Kountze Bros., of the Colorado National Bank of Denver, who are still the leading bankers of the whole western country, were running a branch bank at Central City, known as the Rocky Mountain National. A well known mill man, whose name has been forgotten, came in one day to secure an additional loan of $2,500 on his mill, which was already mortgaged for $25,000. The local manager, of course, refused to make the loan, and the fellow went out of the bank with the threat that he would “fix ’em.” And he came pretty nearly doing so, too. He rode around to the various camps, telling the men that if they had any money in the bank at Central they had better get it out in a hurry, as the bank was practically “busted.” “Why,” he said, “I couldn’t get $2,500 on my mill from them.” As his property was popularly supposed to be worth $30,000 or more, this of course frightened hundreds of timid depositors, and a run on the bank was begun at once.

The local manager hurriedly dispatched a messenger to Denver for aid. Mr. Charles Kountze, one of the firm, hastily counted out $50,000, and placing it in a grip, sent for Gen. Cook to accompany him to Central. Placing the grip under the buggy seat, and a couple of good guns where they could be easily got at, Cook and Kountze drove out of Denver at 11 o’clock at night, and arrived in Central the next morning after a hard drive. A wild mob surged around the bank as soon as the doors were opened, and though the tellers were paying off depositors as rapidly as possible, Kountze feared that there might be trouble, and employed Gen. Cook to remain in the bank as a guard that day. At the close of banking hours they hitched up their rig and drove back to Denver, reaching the city about 1 o’clock that night. As they crossed the Platte bridge, Kountze said to Cook: “Dave, you’ll have to go right back again to-night.”

Although fatigued with two long drives over rough mountain roads and nearly sick from cold and loss of sleep, Gen. Cook did not hesitate, but securing a fresh team, started back once more, this time accompanied by an employé of the bank named Potter, who carried the grip containing $75,000. They reached Central in good time, and by 2 o’clock the next afternoon confidence in the bank’s stability was again restored, and the run was over. Gen. Cook received not only a substantial pecuniary reward for his three days’ and two nights’ hard work, but the lasting gratitude of the bank officials as well.

During the exciting times in Georgetown in May, 1875, which grew out of the Dives-Pelican mining suits, and culminated in the murder of Snyder, the superintendent of the Pelican mine, by Jack Bishop, the Dives mine superintendent, the Pelican people employed Gen. Cook, C. B. Hoyt, the present warden of the State Reformatory at Buena Vista; W. F. Smith and other members of the association as a body guard for their legal counsel, Senator Henry M. Teller and ex-Congressman James H. Belford, who flatly refused to go to Georgetown unless accompanied by an armed guard to protect them from the excited mob.

Learning that Gen. Cook was going to Georgetown, President Moffat asked him to carry $75,000 in currency to their branch bank at that place, as he feared that a run might be started on the bank during the excitement. Gen. Cook agreed to this, and he and J. L. McNeal, an employé of the bank, put the money in a buggy and drove up there one night, reaching Georgetown in safety.

During the trial, one of the opposing counsel took occasion to make a sarcastic reference to the “armed body guard of man-killers” that the Denver lawyers had brought with them, and he and the lawless element that then dominated Georgetown got the worst roasting from Congressman Belford that they had ever heard in their lives. The Pelican people won their suit, and the trouble finally quieted down, although the murderer, Bishop, was never apprehended.

In the latter part of June, 1878, a company that was working the Goneabroad and Small Hopes mining claims at Leadville under lease and bond, made an exceedingly rich strike, the first made in the camp. They made the strike only a week before the expiration of their lease, and unless they could raise the $20,000 on the date when their lease and option expired, the valuable property, worth at least $300,000, would pass into the hands of the original owners. The company sent a man to Denver to make arrangements to borrow the needed sum, in which he was successful, returning to Leadville with a certified check on the Colorado National Bank for $20,000. To their surprise, the owners refused to accept the certified check, and announced that nothing but the money would do. By this plan they expected that they would obtain possession of the mine, as the time had so nearly expired that they thought it would be impossible to get the money there in time. Parker, one of the lessees, hastened back to Denver to secure the currency, if possible. President Kountze of the bank did not know Parker, but told him if he could get Dave Cook to carry the money through he would be willing to trust him with it. Otherwise he did not care to take the risk. Parker hunted up Gen. Cook, and arrangements were made to start at once. This was the 4th of July and the lease expired on the 5th—the distance to be traveled was 145 miles over rough mountain roads—a seemingly impossible feat. Gen. Cook hunted up Frank Smith, and just about noon they, with Parker, in a light rig, started on their long drive. They drove rapidly all afternoon, all that night and until noon the next day, when they reached Fairplay, stopping only long enough to change horses. Almost worn out with the long ride and loss of sleep it appeared that they could not possibly reach Leadville before the bank closed, and if they could not, all was lost. Parker gave up in despair. Gen. Cook, however, resourceful as usual, hunted up Sheriff John Ifinger, and found out from him that it was possible they might get through in time by taking a short cut on horseback across the Mesquite range through Mosquito pass.

Gen. Cook gave him $50 to guide them, and offered to pay for all horses killed in making the attempt. The party secured good saddle horses and left Fairplay at twenty-eight minutes after 1 o’clock. Spurring their horses across the more level parts of the trail, dismounting and leading them up steep, slippery paths, and around walls of rock overhanging cañons hundreds of feet deep, where the slightest misstep would have proved fatal, they at length crossed the pass, and just three minutes before 3 o’clock, when they supposed the bank would close, rode up to that institution with the money.

The chagrin of the owners who had felt so certain of regaining possession of the property was only equaled by the joy of the lessees. They overwhelmed Cook and Smith with attentions, and during their stay in Leadville nothing in the camp was too good for them, and they were given a handsome reward besides.

These are only a few of the many cases in which the Rocky Mountain Detective Association has been called upon to perform difficult and seemingly impossible tasks, and to its credit be it said, it has never yet been “found wanting,” but has ever performed every duty.

A FARM HAND’S AWFUL CRIME.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

There has been but one execution of a criminal in Denver to the present time since the 24th day of January, 1873. On that day Theodore Meyers gave up his life on the gallows in expiation of the crime he had committed on the night of the 8th of August, 1871, in the murder of George Bonacina, a ranchman living on the Platte, twelve miles above Denver, and four miles beyond Littleton.

Meyers was arrested not alone for the murder of Bonacina, but also for an attempt to murder his sister, a Mrs. Belle Newton, who lived with her brother on the ranch. Mrs. Newton was a woman at that time about thirty years of age, and was of prepossessing personal appearance. She was possessed of fascinating manners, and had the reputation in the neighborhood in which she resided of being quite too “exclusive” to please the other residents. She had resided in Omaha previous to 1869, when she came to Cheyenne, whence she removed to Denver in 1870. Soon after coming to Denver, Mrs. Newton established herself in the millinery business, and while so engaged she became engaged to and married a Mr. Benjamin Friedenthal, removing with him soon after their marriage to the ranch already described on the Platte, where they lived for a few months. But their married life was not a happy one, and they separated. Mrs. Newton’s brother had joined her on the farm, and they continued to reside there after Friedenthal had taken his departure.

To properly understand the interest which was taken in the tragedy at the ranch it should be known that rumor had wagged a busy tongue in the neighborhood in which Mrs. Newton resided. It was alleged that Bonacina was not the brother of the woman, but a clandestine lover, and some asserted that his intimacy with Mrs. Friedenthal, or Mrs. Newton, had been the cause of the separation between her and her husband. One supposition, when the story of the murder was first told, was that Friedenthal had been in some way responsible for the crime. Another theory was that the murderer had sought to establish intimate relations with the woman himself, and that Bonacina had stepped in the way of his desires. These were some of the surmises which filled the air, and which rapidly grew into reports which professed to be accurate.

Mrs. Newton brought the first account of the tragedy into Denver herself. She arrived in the city about 11 o’clock on Friday, the 11th of August, 1871, and was conveyed to the Tremont house, standing then as now on Twelfth street, at the intersection of Blake.

A physician was at first sent for. He dressed the ugly wounds which the poor woman bore. As many as seven buckshot were ascertained to have been planted squarely in her breast, near the heart, four of them passing entirely through the body and the others lodging under the skin in the back. None of the balls had touched the heart, but it hardly seemed possible that so many pieces of lead should have plowed their way through a human body without producing a fatal result. Her physician told her that she did not have one chance in a hundred. But Mrs. Newton was a woman of nerve, and she replied that whether she lived or not she wanted the murderer of her brother brought to justice.

Sending for Gen. Cook, who was then sheriff of Arapahoe county, she told him the story of the shooting so far as she was able. She lay on a bed in her room as she related the circumstances. Her face was as white as death from loss of blood, and her voice sank to a mere whisper as she attempted to make the patient officer understand sufficiently well to pursue the murderer with some certainty of capturing him. Her talk was a series of moans and groans, interspersed with words painfully drawn out.

She had no doubt, she said, that the man whose name is given as Meyers had done the shooting, but she did not know his name, describing him as “a Dutchman, whose first name was Theodore.” Relating the circumstances of the affair, and those leading up to it, she said that this man had come to her and her brother some few weeks before the killing to obtain work, and had been employed as a hand on the farm. He had previously been engaged by a man named Lewis, who resided in the neighborhood, but had been discharged. Bonacina had stacked his grain some distance from the house. Meyers represented to him that while working for Lewis he had heard threats made to burn it, and so wrought upon the feelings of his employers that they procured guns and ammunition, and Bonacina and Meyers began sleeping at night at the grain stacks, some fifty yards from the house, for the purpose of protecting the grain from the attacks of incendiaries. They had been thus engaged for about two weeks, when the murder and attempted murder occurred.

The two men went to their out-door beds as usual on the fatal Thursday night, leaving Mrs. Newton alone in the house, where she retired soon after the men had taken their departure. She was sleeping soundly when she was awakened by the sound of a pistol, which was soon followed by a second report. The reports appeared to be in the direction of the grain stacks, and Mrs. Newton rushed to the window, thinking that some one had come to burn the grain, and that her brother and the German had fired upon the intruder. She had been out of bed but a second when she heard some one evidently approaching the house from the direction of the grain, and calling her loudly by her first name, “Belle! Belle! Belle!” three times in succession.

Mrs. Newton was clad in the thinnest kind of night clothes, wearing nothing but a light undergarment. She was so thoroughly excited, however, at the noise of the pistol reports, and at the calling out of her own name, that she rushed to the door and opened it. As she swung it back, the German employé stepped up, with a shotgun in his hand, and appeared to be considerably excited, replying to her hurried inquiry: “They’re here! They’re around!”

“Who’s here?”

“The grain burners; don’t you know!”

“But where is my brother—where is George?”

“Oh,” replied the man, “he is pursuing one of them—he’s down there.”

The moon was just about its first quarter and was sinking over behind the adjacent mountains, but still gave out sufficient light to afford an indistinct view of surrounding objects. It was a mellow, warm evening, and a thousand flies, bats and whippoorwills buzzed and sang around. Long shadows fell upon the ground and seemed in their great length and intensity to add a hundred-fold to the already lonely and weird view surrounding. It was a still, dead scene that presented itself as Mrs. Newton, clad in her ghost-like garb of white, stepped out of her door with her hand raised over her eyes to peer along the lines of the shadows down to where her brother was. She had scarcely turned her back when—bang! crash!—thundering came the report of a gun in her immediate proximity, and she felt the hot leaden messengers tearing through her vitals.

The entire load of buckshot from one barrel of the gun had been emptied into her breast.

“My God, what—what is this? I am shot! You have murdered me. You have murdered George and now you have murdered me. You have shot me to the heart. What does it mean?”

The badly wounded woman did not fall, but staggered to the door and continued to support herself and got into the house. Meyers cried out as she disappeared:

“They have shot you, too; I will find them,” and started off around the house. Seeing that his second victim still lived, he concluded to make sure of her, and before she had entirely disappeared he raised the gun in the attempt to fire another shot. The weapon missed fire, and a second later the door was closed upon him, and the wounded woman was alone with her agony and her blood.

As she staggered into the house she took her right hand from her breast, where it had served to stanch the flow of blood, and caught at the door facing. For long years afterward, and probably such is still the case, the imprints of Mrs. Newton’s hands, as she clenched the wood with the grip of death, remained to mark the scene of the tragedy. Wash and scrub as much as one might, the stain refused to come out.

A lone, long night it was that followed—full of intense bodily suffering, of great mental anxiety for her own welfare, full of distress for her brother, and with death staring her, a lone woman, square in the face. Fearful that a vital spot had been touched by the bullets, and considering it probable that her would-be murderer would return at any time, she must have been filled with fear and anxiety. She chanced to pass a large mirror in the room as she went in, and then for the first time fully appreciated the extent of her wound. Her one garment was even then a mass of blood. The life fluid was running out from the bullet holes in spurts. Little wonder that the poor woman at first became frightened and lay down upon her bed undetermined what to do.

“But I will not be a coward,” she at last said to herself. “I will save myself if I can. I am dying. I must not die. If I die no one will know who has committed this horrible deed. I will at least live long enough to see that this murderer is brought to justice.”

She had strength left to get up and procure towels to wrap herself and stop the blood flow and to get a bottle of liquor which she knew to be in the house, and finding that she did not bleed so freely when standing or sitting as when lying, she mustered all her strength and remained up the greater part of the night, thinking over the thousand horrible things that would naturally troop through the mind of any one situated as she was, even the strongest nerved of the stouter sex.

Added to her other horrors was the knowledge that there was no one nearer than a mile from her, except, perhaps, the man who had shot her, and his proximity was her greatest dread. She had already convinced herself that her brother had been killed; otherwise he would have come to her assistance. “And all was silent then, and I was alone through the whole wretched night,” she said to Gen. Cook. But we shall not attempt to picture the agonies of those few lonely, dark hours. The reader may well imagine the experience of the woman, and if he can not, no description would prove adequate.

At last the glad signs of day began to make their appearance. The gray dawn first peered in through the windows and cracks, and soon afterwards the long, slanting rays of the big summer sun were coursing their way across the floor of the dreary, bloody room, bringing with them messages of faint hope to the sufferer. How she must have prayed for the sight of a friendly face! By and by there came a rumbling sound as of an approaching vehicle. She went to the door. The road was some distance from the house, but there was a wagon passing by. Mrs. Newton cried out to the driver and waved her bloody hands in the air to him. Again and again she shouted at the top of her voice. But to no purpose.

She saw another hope pass away as the driver went on without turning his head, and gradually disappeared around a turn in the road, to be seen no more.

Once out of the house the wounded woman determined to obtain assistance of some sort. Her nearest neighbor was a Mr. Lyman, living down the road almost a mile distant. Thitherward Mrs. Newton bent her footsteps, dragging herself along with an energy and courage that would have done credit to a strong man.

At last this haven was reached, and, after taking a rest, Mrs. Newton’s desire to be brought to Denver where she could have medical assistance and see the officers was granted. She was accordingly brought into town, and with her arrival we are brought back to the beginning of the narrative.

This is the story to which Gen. Cook had listened. It had been told with great incoherence, but he had kept the threads of it well together, and was relieved when the tragic tale had been concluded. Although the description of the murderer, who Cook believed to be the German farm hand, was not complete, he had hope of finding further evidence at the ranch, and started out with the promise to the woman that he would overtake the murderer of her brother and her own would-be slayer. And he kept the promise to the letter.

CHAPTER XXXV.

Chief Cook decided immediately upon the apprehension of the murderer. Accordingly, immediately after hearing the wounded woman’s story, he started out to the ranch on the Platte, accompanied by Frank Smith. The only clue the officers had as to the identity of the murderer was his first name, which the woman had given them. After a thorough search about the house, the floor of which was covered with blood, the officers found the German’s naturalization papers, and then for the first time learned his full name, which was Theodore Meyers. From these papers they learned further that he had been naturalized at Pueblo, Judge Bradford having signed the papers. From this fact they concluded that he must have resided at Pueblo for some time, and that he must have friends there, and hence decided that to be the point towards which he most probably would turn his face in his flight.

The officers were astonished to find that of all the nearest neighbors, only Lyman’s family had the slightest cognizance of the dreadful tragedy. The people of the vicinity, some of whom were harvesting close by, when informed through the officers of what had happened, evinced their astonishment in utter speechlessness.

The officers instituted a diligent search of the entire premises. The bed in Mrs. Newton’s room had absorbed pools of blood, and upon the door panels, staring at them in vivid outlines, were the impressions in blood of the woman’s clutching hand. Near the wheat stack, where Bonacina and Meyers had lain, they found a collection of robes, and close by, under some sheaves of oats, and snugly wrapped in robes, was the body of the murdered man. From the position and nature of things, and from the attending circumstances, it was concluded that Meyers must have sat upright in bed, reached forward and placed the muzzle of his piece against Bonacina’s temple, and finished his victim while he lay asleep. The body was elsewhere perforated by two bullets.

It was also discovered that a horse was missing from the pasture, and that a saddle and bridle were gone. Hence it was concluded that Meyers, who was nowhere to be found, had stolen these articles and disappeared on horseback.

With this theory fixed in his mind, Gen. Cook returned to Denver, and prepared to take the coach out that evening in pursuit of his man—for, be it known, the Rio Grande railroad was in those days a railroad on paper only, and travel to the southward was done either in private conveyances or on the stage coaches.

Gen. Cook went out alone, having confidence in his ability to cope with Meyers, should he overtake him, notwithstanding that individual was a young man weighing two hundred pounds, and a desperado, as had been shown by his recent acts. He, of course, went well armed, carrying a pair of revolvers and a derringer with him, for he felt that the chances were that the man would make a desperate fight if he should not succeed in getting the drop on him in making the arrest. He argued that the man who would shoot down a defenseless man and woman, as Meyers had done, must expect to be pursued; that he must expect to be severely dealt with if caught, and that for these reasons he would resist to the last if come up with by an officer.

The trip south was almost devoid of incident. The fugitive had a day’s start of the officer, but the latter had not been long on the road before he began to pick up information as to the course the man had taken. Several persons had seen him riding along, and readily recognized him from the description which Cook furnished.

The tragedy had occurred on Thursday night, Meyers leaving on Friday morning and Gen. Cook following Saturday morning. Saturday night about 11 o’clock Cook ended his pursuit, and had the satisfaction of having his theory as to the course the murderer had taken verified by suddenly overtaking him at a place called Woodbury’s, twenty-five miles north of Pueblo, where the fellow was waiting to take the same coach that Cook came in on, in pursuance of his journey. The capture was an easy one, although Cook had prepared for a death struggle, which might have ensued if Meyers had not been “caught napping.” Previous to leaving he had telegraphed to parties at Colorado City and Pueblo to be on the alert for the escaping murderer. It was known that Meyers had chosen that route. The officer in question felt virtually assured of being able to overtake his man. Meyers had stopped at Woodbury’s, and was awaiting the arrival of the coach from Denver. He was discovered to be partially intoxicated. News of the murder had preceded him; he was immediately suspected; and when he retired, to sleep until the arrival of the coach, the caps were removed from his shotgun and he was dispossessed of his pistol. The coach brought the sheriff, and the murderer was awakened by the officer who was standing over him with a revolver, and to find himself a prisoner, instead of a passenger to Pueblo.

The accommodations at Woodbury’s were insufficient, and there was also some fear that if the prisoner should be allowed to remain there he might be lynched, as the story of his crime had gotten out. Hence Cook decided to go on to Pueblo and to take his prisoner with him, with the intention of starting on his return the next morning. Putting this plan into execution, Meyers was tied with ropes and lifted into the coach, the officer carrying a lighted candle that he might keep a close watch upon his prisoner. They had as fellow travelers a lady and a gentleman, and it may be easily imagined that the woman did not enjoy the prospect of her ride. Her fears were, however, assuaged by the assurance of Gen. Cook that there was no danger, an assurance to which his firm bearing added great weight with her.

Once in the coach, but not before, Meyers demanded to know why he had been arrested. When told of the charge that was made against him he at first denied it, but asked where Cook had gotten the information.

“From the woman you tried to kill at the time you killed Bonacina.”

“The woman! Ain’t she dead?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, it’s not my fault if she isn’t. She would have been, though, if my plans had not miscarried.”

“What were your plans?”

“Why, to fire both barrels of the shotgun into her at once. That would have stopped her blabbing tongue. But one of them missed fire.”

After this, Meyers, without displaying the least compunction of conscience, told the entire story of the murder, claiming that he and Bonacina had quarreled, and that after killing the man he had been so excited that he did not know what he was doing, and hence had made an effort to finish Mrs. Newton as well.

It was after daylight when Pueblo was reached, and the return stage was soon ready to start for Denver. Cook had already been two nights without rest, devoting the first to searching for clues and the second to the journey and the arrest of Meyers. He was already pretty well worn out, but he did not have time to rest. One more day and night of hard work was before him. There was but one additional passenger on the coach, Capt. H. L. Thayer. During the night, Cook rode with his derringer in his hand and sat on his other pistols that he might have them ready for use at a moment’s notice. He had been so long without sleep that he feared that he might drop into a nap at any time, when he could expect nothing from his prisoner less than an effort to get away and a probable attack upon himself. But the journey was devoid of more than ordinary interest, and Meyers was early Monday morning locked up in the Arapahoe county jail to await his trial. The capture was speedily and well executed, for which Gen. Cook was generally complimented.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

Mrs. Newton rapidly recovered from her wounds, much to the astonishment of her physicians and of herself, and by the time that the trial of Meyers for the murder of her brother came on she was entirely well. Meyers was indicted for murder by the grand jury which sat subsequent to his arrest, and on the 5th, 6th and 7th of February, 1872, he stood his first trial. The jury were out about three hours, when they returned a verdict that the prisoner was guilty of murder and that the killing was premeditated. A motion was at once made for a new trial, and it was granted by Judge Wells, before whom he had been tried. The second trial was set for the April term, 1872, but a continuance was granted on account of the absence of important witnesses. The case came up for second trial on Monday, October 21, 1872, and on Wednesday, October 23, a verdict of murder in the first degree was returned. In all respects the trial was a fair one and it was conducted with marked ability on both sides.

On the 30th of December, 1872, Meyers was brought into court, before Judge Wells, for sentence. When asked by the court whether he had anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon him, he replied that he had not, and the court then delivered the sentence, which was that Meyers should be hanged on the 24th day of January succeeding. The scene in the court room when the sentence was pronounced was very affecting, the judge and members of the bar who were present betraying visible signs of agitation. But Meyers preserved the same air of indifference which had been so frequently remarked during the progress of his two trials. Although his appearance was haggard, and his pale countenance and emaciated frame showed signs of internal suffering, yet he kept up a brave front and appeared to be undaunted by the terrible doom which stared him in the face.

Every effort was made by the counsel and friends of the man, of whom, considering the heinous nature of his crime, he developed a surprising number, to obtain a writ of error from the supreme court, but all failed; and then the friends turned their attention to the territorial executive. Gov. McCook was at that time governor of Colorado, but was absent, and Gen. Frank Hall, being territorial secretary, was acting as governor. Upon him, therefore, devolved the responsibility of deciding upon the question of immediate death or prolonged life for Theodore Meyers. The most touching overtures were made to him, but he remained as firm as a granite wall, saying that the courts had passed upon the matter, and that he could not interpose except upon the recommendation of Judge Wells, who refused to take any action in the matter.

Thus the awful day approached, and the murderer’s fate drew nearer and nearer to him. At last the day before that set for the execution arrived. Meyers proved equal to every emergency. During his stay in jail he maintained a stolid indifference as to his fate. He chatted pleasantly with all who came to visit him in his unfortunate condition, and rested soundly and ate his meals regularly. Beyond this he amused himself as best he could reading and smoking. Throughout the day preceding the hanging he did not change in his demeanor. No burden appeared to rest upon his soul. He passively regretted the deed, when reminded of its great enormity, but it seemed to him that it would be the passport to a better world, which he expected soon to reach. He calmly smoked a cigar and read his German prayer book. Now and then he would speak to a few persons who were allowed to approach his cell. He conversed freely on the circumstances attending the crime, and then referring to the close approach of death, said: “I have made my peace with my Maker, and I die happy in the Catholic faith, feeling that I will soon be in heaven.” Being questioned as to whether he did not feel the pangs of remorse, he said: “Oh, yes, a little; but then there is no use crying over spilt milk—the thing is to be, and it can’t be helped. I’ve made up my mind to it, and am satisfied.” To a visitor who was moved to tears, he said: “Don’t feel bad about it, it can not be helped; I have no fear of the gallows; there is a better world ahead, and I think I’ll reach it.” To Sheriff Cook he said: “I will go to the gallows as you want me to; there’s no use, though, getting a wagon, for I would just as leave walk as ride.”

During the evening previous to the execution, Meyers made a confession to Gen. Cook which supplied many details theretofore lacking to make the story complete. He stated that he had been born in Baden, Germany, in 1845; that he had come to America with his mother and two sisters in 1859; going to the war in 1861, and arriving in Pueblo, Colo., in 1867. As to the events which occurred on the night of the murder and those preceding and following, he said:

“On Sunday, the 6th of August, Bonacina went to Denver after Mrs. Newton, and she came back that evening. As he went to town he asked me to lend him $25, telling me he would return it when he returned. I loaned him the $25. When he asked me for the money he inquired if I had plenty of ammunition for the shotgun, rifle and revolver. I told him I had some ammunition, and to suit himself about getting more. He brought back some caps, and, I think, powder. Before he went to town he loaded his rifle with some buckshot I had, and, I think, his revolver, also, with the same. He said he expected the neighbors would come around some night and burn the stacks, and he would shoot the first s—— of a b—— that came near there after dark. When Mrs. Newton came back from Denver, she told Bonacina that she would give a suit of clothes worth $100 to the one who would kill the first man who came and attempted to burn the grain. She asked Bonacina at the same time if he knew where her derringer was, and he said it was in the trunk. I did not like to stay there any longer, as he was a man who swore, and I did not like his ways. A couple of days before this we had a quarrel over his treatment of horses, while loading grain, but no blows were passed. Between 8 and 9 o’clock on Thursday night, August 10, Bonacina told me to go out to the stacks, or the men might come while we were there in the house. We quit playing cards, and I went out there. In about fifteen minutes he came out to where I was. We made our beds under the stacks then, and I asked him for the $25 I had let him have on the preceding Sunday; also told him I did not want to work for him any longer. He asked my reasons for leaving, but I told him I did not want to tell him. He then told me he didn’t want me to leave until the grain was threshed and other work done. About an hour after we went to the stacks I told him again I wanted the money, as I desired to leave the next day. Bonacina said: ‘You d——d lousy s—— of a b——, I won’t pay it, but I’ll pay you now.’ At the same time he reached over towards his weapon, the rifle lying by his side and his revolver under his head. I then drew my pistol, which was lying by my side loose, and shot him, or shot at him, and he fell back saying something I could not understand. I then shot at him again with my revolver; did not shoot the shotgun, which was under my head. Bonacina was about six feet from me when I shot. I am not positive where either bullet hit him. I was excited, and shot the second time because I thought he was not dead. I did not know what I was doing.

“I took my shotgun and went to the house, and called Mrs. Newton by the name of Belle. I went there with the determination of killing her, as I was afraid she would give the alarm, and cause my capture before I could get away. She was at the window at first, and upon my calling came outside the door. I told her, ‘they were around,’ meaning the men who had attempted to burn the stack. She asked: ‘Where are they?’ I said: ‘They are around, and George (Bonacina) is running after them.’ My shotgun was cocked and at a make-ready position. I was about fifteen feet from her at the time. I pulled the trigger and fired, and she said ‘Oh!’ and went back into the house. I then went to the barn, back of the house, and remained there about ten minutes, doing nothing, but very much frightened. Afterwards I walked back to the front window of the house, and heard Mrs. Newton walking inside. I could see her moving in there as there was a light in the room. Then I went back to the stack and rolled Bonacina up in the buffalo robes and threw his rifle into the straw. I think the rifle was full cocked, but can not positively state. I then moved my bed to a diagonal position against his, and took sheaves of oats and covered his body. Then I went to bed and slept only a little that night. After daybreak I heard what I thought was a wagon passing, and at the same time I saw Mrs. Newton come out of the house. She walked to the bridge before she cried to the man to stop. He did not stop. She kept on, and looked towards the stack, and went towards Lyman’s. When she got away I went down into the brush and went up to the top of the hill. I did not know what I was doing. I remained there a short time, when I saw Lyman coming towards the place with a span of horses and no wagon. He went first into the barn, and then to the stacks, hitched up Mrs. Newton’s wagon and drove back home. I then went back to Mrs. Newton’s house, got something to eat, and took a bottle of whisky. Then I went down into a field the other side of Lyman’s to get a horse, and got the horse, took him to the house, saddled him and started south. This was about 9 o’clock. I had a shotgun, a revolver, some whisky and a loaf of bread. I struck the road and went over the Divide.

“I was so excited I did not know what I was doing. I thought at first I would go to Cañon City and then into the mountains. On second thought I concluded to go to Pueblo. Had no thought of being captured, but if anybody had attempted to take me prisoner I should have fought. I traveled the day I left the ranch to a point about two miles south of Sloan’s mill; the next day I continued the journey and got to Woodbury’s, when I was captured that night. While at the foot of the Divide I sold the horse to Mr. Wilson for $75, and continued to Woodbury’s afoot. If I had retained my senses and not drunk any liquor, I wouldn’t have been captured so easily.”

This confession of the condemned man was delivered in a straightforward and plain manner. During its delivery Meyers lighted fresh cigars occasionally and assumed a pleasing expression, now and then interlarding the recital with quiet and dry jokes. Soon afterwards Judge Harrison, of his counsel, was admitted, and the prisoner gave way, the only time at which he manifested any great concern. This interview was truly affecting, and was the occasion of a copious shedding of tears. Meyers spoke feelingly, even pathetically, of his aged mother and his noble sisters, and handed the judge a lock of hair which he desired should be enclosed to them, accompanying a message of love to all.

The next morning, a little before the fatal hour, Sheriff Cook, accompanied by the officers under him, and one or two friends, stepped to the door of the prisoner’s cell. He arose from his mattress, extended his hand, and assured him that he felt comfortable and resigned.

Sheriff Cook then spoke as follows:

“Mr. Meyers, by the law, the painful duty of carrying into execution the sentence of the court passed upon you is imposed upon me. That sentence is in the following document, which I will read.”

The sheriff then read the death warrant to the doomed man.

The procession started from the jail, then on Larimer street near the Cherry creek bridge, at precisely 2 o’clock. The prisoner, before leaving the inside, bade the remaining inmates an affectionate and touching farewell, and then stepped firmly upon the sidewalk, leaving tearful eyes and aching hearts behind. He was dressed in a suit of black, given him by a philanthropic citizen, and his feet free from the chafing shackles. He entered a carriage—Sheriff Cook and Deputy Smith in advance, then the prisoner, and in the rear the two clergymen, Fathers Robinson and Borg. The carriage moved toward the scaffold, near the mouth of Cherry creek, on the West Side, followed by the Denver Scouts on foot. In the neighborhood there was, of course, considerable excitement. Men and boys, and even women, lined the sidewalks and clambered to observation points. The upper windows and roofs of many of the buildings were crowded with spectators.

The carriage containing the prisoner, together with the officers and ministers, was driven to the foot of the scaffold. The prisoner walked firmly on to the platform, placed himself beneath the rope, and facing to the east, the officers and ministers standing around him. One of the fathers offered up a fervent prayer, though in a voice scarcely audible to the crowd, in which he implored God to give the dying man strength to pass through the trying ordeal, and to receive his soul as it escaped into the shadow of death.