CHAPTER IX
In Jail with Two Murderers—Testing Railway Conductors—Tramping as a Hobo through Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, California and Texas—Robbery of the Treadwell Gold Mill in Alaska—We Capture the Thieves and Recover the Gold.
From now on I shall merely skim over the surface of some of my experiences, as I find that one medium size volume will not contain it all if given in full.
One of my important operations was for the A. & B. C. Ry. Co. My friends, Doc Shores and Ed Farr, had charge of the work. And Attorney Charlie Johnson prosecuted the case.
Dick Manley and Young Anderson had started out on a robbery crusade, and had killed one man and wounded another. I spent three weeks in the Pueblo jail with these two young outlaws and secured a full confession from them.
In Walsenburg, Colo., I appeared on the witness stand, with the result that Dick Manley was sentenced to seventeen years in the penitentiary; but after serving several years, I used my influence in getting him a pardon from Governor McIntire. His sister, Mrs. Birmingham, whose husband had been a former cowboy companion of mine in Texas, had pled for Dick’s release, as he had promised to lead an upright life in the future.
Young Manley kept his promise about two months, then killed a man at Red River City, N. M. A few months later he held up a bank in Breckenridge, Colo., killing two officers, and being killed himself.
During the years 1893 and ’94 I led an exciting life.
About three months of this time I was posing as a wealthy mining man in Denver, under the name of Chas. Le Roy. Our client was A. B. Farnum and the victim was N. D. Lewis, the case being a $25,000 mining suit. Our side won through Lewis being so foolish as to let me hear the secret discussions with his lawyers.
While on this operation I hobnobbed with my friend, Dan V., of Mudsill mine fame, without his knowing that I was the same Chas. Leon who had once put him “on the bum.” He was Lewis’ chum and adviser.
After finishing the Farnum case I put on bum clothes and became one of the unwashed Coxeyites, in Wyoming, for the Union Pacific Railroad Co.
The Debs’ A. R. U. strike was then raging through the West over the Pullman Car Co. dispute. I saw much “scab” blood spilled by union sluggers jumping onto unarmed non-union railway employes.
I also put in several months “testing” freight and passenger conductors all over one of the greatest railroad systems in Colorado and Texas.
On leaving Denver in a freight caboose, a drunken Irishman and I had a swift ride down a mountain side from Hilltop. Three loaded freight cars and the caboose had broken loose from the train while the crew were at the station of Hilltop. “Micky’s” prayers to the Virgin Mary, and a white cow asleep on the track, saved our lives, after going around ten miles of crooked mountain curves at a gait of about ten miles a minute.
My work took me over ground in the Panhandle of Texas, where I had run cattle, and many of my old cowboy chums were met. But I had to tell them whopping big lies about how I was on the lookout for a “bad” man.
One of my operations was playing hobo and tramping over the S. T. & G. R. Ry. through Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, California and Texas. The work was being done for a high official.
I had many new experiences on this trip. At one point on the Mohave desert, I had been put off a train three times and had to walk fifteen miles without water. On this fifteen mile tramp I overtook a crippled Irishman with red sideburns and the map of the “ould sod” smeared all over his face. He walked with a stick and carried a small bundle wrapped in a red handkerchief. I had been walking fast to overtake him so as to have company. We sat down on the end of the ties to rest, and I asked him what he was doing out on this desert. He replied that he was hunting work. I asked if he had lost any work. He smiled and said: “No, begorry, but I’m going back east to find a job that will fit me complexion. I was offered a job last winter in Californy, but I belongs to a union and I won’t work in a state that has so many scab Chinamen. They can all go to the divel, I won’t scab.”
We were both panting for a drink of water. Further on were a house and wind mill half a mile from the railroad track. This was the first house seen for many miles. When opposite the ranch, I wanted Irish to go with me and get a drink of water, but he said he was “peetered out” and couldn’t stand the tramp over the grass and sage brush. He asked me to bring him a drink in a tin can. I then started.
Arriving within a few hundred yards of the house, a tall man came out holding a bulldog by a chain. In a loud voice he ordered me off his land or he would turn the dog loose. I hallooed and told him that I just wanted a drink of water. He called back that he had no water for me and that if I didn’t move on he would turn the dog loose. The white dog was making frantic efforts to free himself, and old Colt’s 45 under my left arm where it couldn’t be seen was ready for a struggle too. I had no fear of the dog, but thought maybe the rancher might have a long-range rifle in the house; so I turned back.
On the way to the house I had noticed a few milk cows in a deep arroyo off to my right and not far from the railroad track. I angled towards this arroyo, in hopes of finding a gentle cow among them. On reaching the cattle I was out of sight from the house. I used diplomacy by sitting down near the cows so they could get acquainted with me. They soon came “nosing” around to satisfy their curiosity. Only one cow would let me go up and rub her head, and she was a Jersey with a bag full of baby-food. While she chewed the cud of contentment, I got down on my knees and milked the fluid into my mouth. This was no new experience with me, as I had practiced it for whole days when a little barefoot boy in Texas, at times when I was afraid to go home on account of a promised whipping.
After I was full to overflowing, I went up on high ground and called Irish. He came and I told him about the rancher and the dog, and of what a soft snap the old cow was. Irish didn’t think that he could connect a stream of milk with his mouth, so I gave him my white felt hat to use for a cup by crushing in the crown and using the outside for a vessel. His old straw hat was put onto my head. When Irish reached the bottom of the arroyo, the cows raised their heads and tails and flew for the house. If that isn’t luck, what is it? I told Irish that I thought the cows had smelled his red side-whiskers. He tried to smile, but was too downhearted.
A walk of five miles brought us to the first little town. Here I put a “jolt of the critter”—good old red “licker”—under Irish’s belt and then took him to a Chinese restaurant and filled him up on “scab” grub.
On this operation, which lasted a few months, I had some narrow escapes and saw many funny sights. Once I was locked up in a box car loaded with scrap-iron, and for awhile I sweated blood in fear of a wreck. And once I had to stand off a crew of railroad men, with my pistol, who wanted to pound me to death because I was found among some heavy timbers on one of the freight cars after I had been put off the same train three times. On the trip I spent half my salary feeding poor bums whom I thought deserved pity.
At Isleta Station, twenty-two miles south of Albuquerque, N. M., I found an honest tramp. He was hungry and wet after having been put off a train during the night in a rain storm. When I saw him first, early in the morning, he was under the watertank wringing the water from his clothes. He was a tall, well-built man, and he claimed to be a son of Judge Caldwell, a once popular judge of the Lone Star state, and he said that his widowed mother then lived in California; that about a year previous he had sold a mine in Hillsboro, N. M., for $20,000 and had gone to Europe to blow in the money; that now, he was getting back, flat broke. How much of this story was “hot air,” I had no way of knowing. After the honorable fool Caldwell had donned his wet clothes I took him up to the Indian village where I had stopped all night at an Indian house, and filled him up on tortillas, frijoles and hot coffee. Then we both boarded a southbound freight train, secreting ourselves in a loaded box car of coal. When the “brakey” found us I gave him fifty cents for my fare to Los Lunas, as far as I wanted to go with that crew, and one dollar for Caldwell’s fare to the end of that division.
On bidding Caldwell goodby, I gave him $1.50 more to pay his way to Hillsboro. He insisted on having my address, so that he could send me this borrowed money when he reached his friends in Hillsboro. I gave him the address of Chas. Le Roy, El Paso, Texas, and on reaching that town a week later, I found a postoffice money order for the amount of the debt, $2.50, also a nice letter of thanks. This shows that there is honor even among tramps.
About February, 1895, Superintendent McCartney called me into his office and told me to get ready for a trip to Alaska. He went on to tell of the importance to the agency of this operation. He advised me to do my best to make the operation a success, as our Portland office, which had lately been established under the superintendency of Mr. Wooster, had lately made a failure of the work. He also went on to tell me how the Treadwell mine, on Douglas Island, had been robbed during the winter of $10,000 worth of gold; that the next day Mr. Durkin, superintendent of the big Treadwell mine, had sent a letter to Victoria, B. C., on an outgoing steamer, to the Western Union Telegraph office with instructions to wire the Dickenson National Detective agency in Portland to send three good operatives to Juneau, Alaska, on the first steamer; that Mr. Wooster complied with the request, not knowing the nature of the work; that these three operatives remained in Alaska for a month or two, but failed to get a clue as to what became of the gold; then Mr. Durkin called the operation off and sent the operatives back to Portland; that soon after the work was called off as a failure, Mr. Durkin went to San Diego, Cal., on a pleasure trip, and there, by chance, met Mr. Wm. L. Dickenson; that the subject of the failure to recover the stolen gold came up, and Mr. Dickenson laid the failure to the fact that he (Durkin) had not written the agency the full details of the robbery instead of wiring for three operatives, for then, operatives who were fitted for that kind of work could have been secured from other offices in case the Portland branch didn’t have them; then Mr. Dickenson told Superintendent Durkin that although it was late now to make a success, he believed they could select men who would get a clue as to what became of the gold, and possibly get the gold itself; that then Superintendent Durkin told Mr. Dickenson to go ahead and put two men on the case, regardless of expense; that Mr. Dickenson then wrote Superintendent McCartney recommending me for the operation. This, of course, put me on my dignity, and I determined to do my best.
It was agreed that a few weeks later, Operative W. O. Sayles would be sent to Alaska to assist me.
In the early part of March I boarded the Topeka, at Tacoma, Wash., for Juneau, Alaska. The trip on smooth waters, among whales and “totem-poles” opened my eyes to a new world of which I had never dreamed.
On arriving in Juneau, a swift little city built on stilts mostly, I at once wrote to Superintendent Durkin on Douglas Island, across the bay, of my arrival. At night in a secluded place I met Mr. Durkin and his assistant, Mr. Bordus.
It was agreed that I apply for work in the big Treadwell gold mill, the largest in the world, in a regular way, and Mr. Bordus would make a place for me. No one but Mr. Durkin and Mr. Bordus were to know of my identity or my business. I secured a job as machine oiler. This work took me to all parts of the mill where I could make the acquaintance of all the employes. Part of the time I was on the day-shift, then I changed to the night-shift. In oiling the machinery, I had to climb around in ticklish places where a misstep or a false move would land me in the “kingdom-come.”
Once I came within a hair’s breadth of going down into the midst of revolving wheels. I had barely room to walk between two large revolving belts. I had stooped to oil a piece of machinery and in raising up, swerved a little to the right and was struck on the head by the belt on that side. My hat, I suppose, is going yet, for I haven’t seen it since.
By the time Operative W. O. Sayles arrived, three weeks after my arrival, I concluded that we had a clue and that Charlie Hubbard and Hiram Schell, two mill hands, who had quit work and bought a small schooner and sailed westward a month after the robbery, were the thieves. No one knew what had become of these men, as they didn’t tell any one where they were going with their little schooner.
Operative Sayles and I discussed matters in Juneau, between drinks, at the big dance hall where fish-eating Indian maidens do the dance act to relieve the noble white man of his dollars.
We decided to buy a large canoe, one that would hold two cowboys (Sayles had been a cowboy in Montana) and twenty-five gallons of whisky and go on the trail of Hubbard and Schell. We had both trailed horses, cattle and men, but never a schooner on water.
It was agreed that Sayles keep his weather eye open for a good Indian canoe, while I returned to the mill to break my arm and recover from the wound. In order to keep down suspicion, it was necessary for me to have an excuse for quitting my job, therefore I concluded to break my arm that night.
It was on the night-shift, and after midnight lunch, I found a secluded place in the basement, and started the scheme. The point of my left shoulder was rubbed with chips and stuff until the skin was almost off, and it looked red. Then I went to work in the upper stories of the mill. At the foot of a slippery pair of stairs there was a floor covered with slush and mud. Here was just the place for me to land, so as to put on a muddy appearance. Near the foot of these stairs stood two men working at the “plates.” I waited until their backs were towards me, then I went tumbling down the last flight of the stairs. I landed broadside in the mud, and my lantern was struck with such force against the floor that it flew all to pieces.
Of course the men heard the fall and ran to my assistance. I was picked up and the company doctor sent for. I complained the most about the pain in my left shoulder, which I said had struck against an upright timber in front of the stairs. My shirts were pulled off and the doctor made an examination of the seat of the pain. He looked wise and decided that the shoulder was not broken, but that the muscles of my arm were badly bruised from the contact with the post. What fooled him was the fact that I couldn’t raise my arm beyond a level. He saturated cotton with liniment and put it on the shoulder. Then the arm was put in a sling and I was put to bed with much sympathy from the hired men who assisted me to my bunk. The next day at noon I was able to take my place at the table where a hundred or more men ate their meals. “Reddy” sat next to me and wasted much of his valuable time cutting my meat as I only had one hand, the other being in a sling. And poor “Reddy” kept up his sympathetic lick for several days until I drew my pay and left for Juneau.
Just before drawing my wages and quitting the mill job, Sayles had found Hubbard and Schell and their schooner lying on the water front among the other boats in Juneau. He had been watching for the little schooner which we had a description of. She had mysteriously slipped into port one evening and just as mysteriously slipped out next morning. But while she lay in port that evening, Sayles went aboard and searched the locker. Later, when the owners came from uptown, Sayles got into a conversation with them and found their names were Schell and Hubbard, and that they had just come from the west coast of Admiralty Island, but what particular place he couldn’t find out.
The news of Schell and Hubbard having been in Juneau, cured my sore shoulder quickly. On my arrival in Juneau we bought one of the large Indian canoes which Sayles had “spotted.” It was forty feet long and painted with all the colors of the rainbow. Her bow and stern were built high above the water to ward off the heavy seas.
After our new ship was rigged up with a sail which could be taken down, mast and all, we loaded up with the necessaries of life, including twenty-five gallons of good Canadian rye whisky. The main object in taking the whisky along was to pass ourselves off as whisky peddlers among the Indians, and as bait for Schell and Hubbard in case we found them. Before starting, we bought a fine chart of the Alaskan coast.
So as to prevent hard feelings, I suggested to Sayles that we take turns about being captain or boss of the ship; that when he was captain I was to be the slave, and vice versa. He agreed to this.
Sayles was captain the first day out and we had smooth sailing, but the next day we got caught in a mighty storm and were tangled up in a tide-riff. We had never heard of a tide-riff, where two tides meet, and in a storm make the sea “choppy” and very dangerous for small boats. But we were not long learning that the Indians dodge these tide-riffs, “all same” a Kansas Populist dodges prosperity and cyclones.
During this storm on an inlet several miles wide, Sayles turned pale and began bossing as to what was best to be done, but I laughed and told him to keep his “fly-trap” shut, as he was only a slave. He tried to smile but couldn’t, as his heart was not in a smiling mood; besides, he was kept busy bailing out the water which washed over the canoe’s side to the windward. I sat in the stern manipulating the Indian paddle used for a rudder, and the sail. The only thing that kept me from getting scared was the importance of my position as captain. It was amusing to me to have “Hold Hengland” at my feet begging to be saved. You see, Sayles was an Englishman, or at least, a misborn Irishman, he having been born in Ireland of quite wealthy English parents, therefore missed the chance of being born at home. Sayles had had very little experience on salt water, while most of my barefoot days were spent on the Gulf of Mexico in southern Texas, chasing coons, crabs, oysters and sea-fowls. Therefore when it came to handling a small sailboat I was right at home.
It is said that “An honest confession is good for the soul,” so I must confess that before being out a month Old England had America at her feet, begging for mercy. We were crossing the mouth of Hood’s Bay in a severe storm which was drifting us out to the big water ten miles across, Hood’s Bay itself only being three miles wide. I begged Sayles to turn back after we were out from shore only half a mile, but he just laughed and reminded me of the fact that he was captain that day. He had learned to be fearless on the water.
On reaching shore on this, our second day out, we had to both jump out in the white-capped breakers to keep our canoe from being pounded to pieces against the rocks; for in these Alaskan inlets and channels it is a hard matter to find a safe landing place. The heavily timbered mountains with their craggy edges come right down to the water’s edge, the only sandy beaches being at the mouth of fresh-water streams, or at a projecting point.
On landing, a big Indian slipped out of the timber and, jumping into the water, helped us pull the canoe out high and dry on the shore. Then Mr. “Ingin” helped us get a fire started in the rain, by using wide bark for a shelter from the water which was falling. For this kind help we filled his hide full of Canadian rye-juice, and he was soon laid out on the dry side of a large spruce tree. Of course Sayles and I didn’t forget to put a few “jolts” of the rye under our belts, as we were wet and cold. For the next few weeks we were sailing unknown waters, and most of the time among Indians who couldn’t speak any English. Often the channels would be so narrow that we could throw a stone on either side and hit the land, while other times the water would be ten miles across.
From Indians, who could talk and understand a little English, we heard of our little schooner and the two strange white men sailing westward. Thus we knew we were on the right trail.
From now on, we had some narrow escapes from being swamped. Once in a storm we got our canoe tangled up in about a hundred acres of sea-weed, and couldn’t get out for a long time. But at last, we made a landing on a small island and camped for the night.
We finally learned by experience that the storms all came in the daytime, so then we travelled at night when the water is generally as smooth as glass. But there being no wind at night for our sail, we had to take turns about rowing.
The sun went to roost between 9 and 10 o’clock, and from that time until 11:30 P.M. it was dusk, almost as light as day. Then at 1:30 A.M. day would begin to break.
One of our narrow escapes happened one night about 11 P.M. The water was like crystal, not a breath of air was stirring. Sayles was rowing and I was steering with the paddle. Seeing a black object like a small island ahead, I steered for that. When within a few hundred yards of the supposed island, Sayles’ bump of caution began to work and he advised me to steer away from it as it might be a sleeping whale. He said they were very dangerous when suddenly awakened and that they were liable to scoot straight towards us, which would mean possible death to both. He confessed that his knowledge on the matter had been gained from books, so I told him that actual experience was the best teacher. It was my night to be captain, so that he had no right to “chip in.” My phrenology bump of curiosity was at work, therefore I steered just a little to the left of the half an acre of black substance. When nearly opposite at a distance of about 100 yards, we discovered that it was a whale without a doubt. There could be no mistake, for there was his head and about one or two hundred feet further down the line was his tail. Sayles was pulling hard, and apparently sweating blood. He said we must get further away before the thing woke up. Just then a new thought struck me and I said, “Holy smoke, Sayles, here’s the chance of my life to shoot big game!” As I raised the large caliber Winchester rifle which reclined by my side Sayles threw up both hands and said, “For God’s sake, don’t do it, Charlie!”
I had aimed just back of Mr. Whale’s gills or throat. The bullet hadn’t more than struck him when I wished I had taken my partner’s advice. He went around and around with the rapidity of a cyclone, churning the water into a foam, the waves reaching our canoe. Then straight down he went, leaving a hole in the water. This hole filling up again, sucked us toward it, and I imagined I could see Hades at the bottom of the hole. But here, luck got in her work in my favor again, and the hole was closed up before we reached it. This was my last shot at that kind of big game. I hit him all right, for there was much blood on the water.
Sayles “sulked” the balance of the night, and when he tried to drown me in the mouth of Hood’s Bay in that storm I believe he was trying to “play even” on me and the whale.
At a place called “Cootch-in-aboo Head,” which was designated on our chart, we concluded to explore the mouth of what looked to be a river. The tide was running into it like a mill-race, so we went at a swift gait up the stream. By night we came to a large Indian village and the Indian bucks came down to the water front with rifles to meet us. We let them smell and taste our “firewater” to see if it was the right kind to use as a blind, in passing ourselves off for whisky peddlers. Finding these Indians friendly and hospitable, we lay here all next day and I tried hard to fall in love with a young maiden whose sire and dame encouraged my suit, but she smelled “fishy” like all the Alaskan Indians do from living on fish, and I couldn’t get my phrenology love-bump in working order.
After leaving this village and returning to “Cootch-in-aboo Head,” we laid over a day to fish for halibut. They are plentiful here. We had brought along two halibut lines which were over 100 feet long.
There is no end to the different kinds of fish, crabs and clams which inhabit these waters. We tried them all and towards the last began to smell “fishy” ourselves.
On this trip we stopped at Funter’s Bay and visited a noted character, old man Willoby, who was about eighty years old and had four Indian wives and a good undeveloped gold mine. He had come to that country twenty-five years previous as a missionary, and after seeing these fat, pig-eyed squaws he fell from grace.
Often we would travel for days and never see even an Indian. Then we would begin to feel lonesome. The Indians we met were mostly Chilcats, Sitkas and Chiekes. Many of them had their faces and hands painted black to guard against the swarms of mosquitoes and flies.
We had very little fresh meat on the trip, as the many deer, bear and goats were too poor at that season of the year to make good eating.
After following the mainland and searching many channels and inlets, we crossed over a wide water to the east coast of Bishcoff Island, thence south nearly to Sitka, the capital, thence east across the big water to the west coast of Admiralty Island. This island is over a hundred miles wide, and I think from one hundred and fifty to two hundred miles long. After traveling about 600 miles, counting the waste miles when we were lost and went backwards, we found the little schooner up in Chieke Bay, about twenty miles south of Killisnoo, a place where steamers plying between Juneau and Sitka stop. She was anchored in front of the Indian village of Chieke.
We found Schell and Hubbard taking life easy. Here they had a friend by the name of Hicks, a re-constructed Missourian, from his looks. He was married to “Hias” Jennie, the richest Indian woman in the village, her wealth being in the form of blankets. She had tons of them. They have no other kind of wealth. “Hias” means big, and Jennie was indeed a large Indian woman, but we found her to be a pretty good old sister, after she became acquainted with us and our Canadian rye.
Hicks had saved up some money and had recently gone into the stock business. He had sent his money to a stock-dealer in Seattle, Wash., on one of the steamers, and wrote him to send a start of hogs, chickens and cattle. They were finally unloaded at Killisnoo, and Schell and Hubbard brought them from there to Chieke in their schooner.
The stock consisted of a razor-back barrow hog, one dozen Leghorn hens, no rooster, and a black muley cow which had a papoose shortly after her arrival. Many of these Indians had never seen or heard of cattle before, and they regarded old muley and her black papoose as evil spirits. Even “Hias” Jennie wouldn’t go near them or drink the milk, so muley and her calf were turned out on the tall grass to rustle for themselves. But while we were there, they were kept pretty busy fighting flies and mosquitoes.
The big barrow hog was the most contented animal in the village, for he had the leavings of all the fish caught by the several hundred Indians, but no doubt Hicks is out of the hog business ere this, as there was no chance for an increase.
The chickens were kept scratching for sea-fleas along the water edge, both day and night, to keep body and soul together. These sea-fleas are the size of mustard seed, and the hens seemed to like them, but it required so many to make a mess. The hens had twenty hours of daylight to scratch in. No telling what became of the poor “biddies” the following winter when there were but three hours of good daylight.
We didn’t tarry long in Chieke Village, but went on up to the head of Chieke Bay, three miles distant, to look for the “Lost Rocker” gold mine, which tradition says is near a water-fall which falls over a cliff about 2,000 feet high. In Killisnoo we had heard of such a water-fall being at the head of Chieke Bay, so this was our excuse for going there. We found the water-fall to be grand and near it we pitched our tent. Then we began prospecting for the gold that never was there.
Here is where the bait we brought along proved a winner, for Charlie Hubbard liked the bait and put in most of his time in our camp. He thought our Canadian rye was fine. At first he had to pay for it, same as other Indians, but when he became one of our family, it was free to him.
In selling whisky to the Chieke Indians, we stirred up a hornet’s nest. One night a crowd of drunken bucks made a raid on our camp and tried to force us to sell them more whisky. We had to stand them off with firearms, and Sayles and I had to sit up all night, as they were out in the brush around our camp singing weird songs and howling like coyotes. The next day the chief of the tribe gave us orders to sell no more liquor to his people, as some of them had nearly beaten their wives to death during the night. We promised, of course, for we were ready to quit, as our reputation as whisky peddlers was established. Besides, we needed what whisky there was left as bait for Hubbard to keep him in our camp.
Days ran into weeks, and while Sayles and I were out hunting for the “Lost Rocker” mine, we would come back to camp and find Hubbard and a warm supper. Hubbard knew where the whisky was cached out in the timber, therefore he helped himself during our absence. He had a small canoe of his own, and he could go and come to and from Chieke at his pleasure.
Sayles and I were always testing rock for gold. We were both posted on assaying, and we talked a good deal on that subject.
Finally, Hubbard asked us the best treatment for chlorination gold. We told him, and now we were satisfied that we were on the right trail, for the $10,000 worth of gold stolen from the Treadwell mill was chlorination gold taken from the bottom of a tank.
One evening Hubbard came from a visit to Schell in Chieke, where no doubt they had both talked matters over, and confessed that they had stolen $10,000 worth of gold from the Treadwell, and he offered us $400 to melt it into pure gold for them. Of course we had to swear secrecy. We explained that it would be necessary to expend some cash for material to build a furnace to treat the gold.
That same night after the sun went down about 10 o’clock, Hubbard took me and a quart bottle of rye-juice to where they had the gold cached. It was across Chieke Bay from the Indian village, three miles, and about four miles from our camp. On arriving at the place, Hubbard dug up a frying pan, the inside of which was coated with at least $200 worth of gold. This was as far as he and Schell had got with their treatment. They succeeded in melting the stuff, but on trying to pour it into a mold to make a brick, it would cool and stick to the frying pan. He also showed me their bellows, made of a cracker-box and a raincoat. They had used bark for the fire. He designated the place where the rest of the gold was cached, but wouldn’t tell me the exact spot, nor did I press him to know.
We got back to camp about 2 A.M. and woke Sayles up to get a drink out of his bottle, which was kept under his head, as ours was empty.
Hubbard and I were soon in the “Land of Nod,” and my dreams had a gold lining, as I felt sure we were on the road to final success.
For several days following, we three discussed the subject of melting the stolen gold.
I had previously told Hubbard of scrapes which I had been into down in Texas and New Mexico, and how officers of the law had chased me out of that country. Therefore, he seemed to place confidence in me.
It was agreed that I go alone to Juneau and secure material to build a furnace, and the chemicals and crucibles for melting the gold.
Leaving Sayles in camp with Hubbard, I started in a canoe with an Indian, whom I had hired to take me to Killisnoo, a distance of twenty miles. Arriving in Killisnoo, I put up with the superintendent of the big fishery there. He kept a boarding house for the hired white men. The place was nothing but an Indian village. The passenger steamers, the Topeka and Queen, made weekly trips between Sitka and Juneau, and next day I caught the Queen for Juneau.
At Superintendent Durkin’s residence on Douglas Island, I met Mr. Bordus and Durkin and told them of our plans.
After securing some clay to make a furnace, and material to melt the gold, I returned on the Topeka to Killisnoo. Before leaving, I arranged for Deputy United States Marshal Collins to be on board a United States man-of-war which was spending the summer at Killisnoo, on a certain day two weeks later, so that he could help us make the arrests, for fear the Indians might assist the prisoners.
Next day after my arrival in Killisnoo I hired an Indian to take me and my freight to Chieke. He had his family with him in the canoe, and in order to buy some food for his family he requested that I pay in advance. This I did, but whisky was bought with the money. By the time we were ready to start there were several drunken Indians, and they had a regular “Kilkenny” fight in the sand on the beach, the women folks joining in. After the “scrap” there was hair enough on the ground to make a nice hair bridle, but not a drop of blood in sight.
On starting we found the canoe loaded to the guards. Besides the freight, there were three Indian women, two bucks and one sixteen-year-old girl, besides myself. The girl and I sat in the stern, she steering the canoe. The wind was in the right direction, so that the sail could be used. The Indians kept passing the jug of whisky around, against my protest.
When out on the big strait, a storm blew up from the shore and the water became rough. One unruly Indian man wanted to steer the canoe and the others were trying to hold him. In doing so, they came very near turning the canoe over. I became desperate and knocked the unruly fellow down on his back in the bottom of the canoe. I then pulled “old Colt’s 45” and threatened to kill the first Indian who got up on his feet. Then the women, including the girl, began crying. The girl was afraid to sit with me, so she joined her mother and they sat down on the unruly buck so he couldn’t get up. Soon he fell asleep. We landed at our camp about sundown, and on unloading the grub and other stuff brought along, I dismissed the Indians and they started to Chieke.
I then walked up to camp 100 yards from the shore and found Sayles cooking supper and Hubbard sitting by the fire. I could see that something was wrong, but pretended not to notice it.
The camp fire was outside and Sayles stepped into the tent to get something and while in there he wrote on a scrap of paper, “It’s all off. They are suspicious of us and say they won’t dig up the gold.” This was slipped into my hand the first opportunity. Later I read it in the tent, but I continued to look cheerful against my will. There are times when a detective earns his salary, deep down where the public can’t see.
By the time supper was over it was dusk. I then asked if the kiln of charcoal which I had helped start before leaving for Juneau had been burnt, as though I knew nothing about the deal being off. Hubbard spoke up and said: “No, Lee (I was then going by the name of Lee R. David), the fire has gone out and we haven’t started it up again.” As though surprised I asked the reason. Hubbard replied: “Let’s walk up there, Lee, I want to talk to you.”
We then started up the heavily timbered gulch for the charcoal kiln, a distance of several hundred yards. Nothing was said on the question at issue until we reached there. Then Hubbard straightened up to his full height, six feet one inch, and facing me said: “Lee, that partner of yours is a d——d policeman and Schell and I have concluded not to dig up that gold now.”
I asked in surprise, what he meant by a policeman. He replied: “I mean he is a fly-cop—a detective.” I said: “D——d if that ain’t news to me. If I thought he was I wouldn’t sleep until I had him anchored out in a deep place in the bay where no one would ever find him, for he knows things about me that would put me in the pen the rest of my natural life.”
Then Hubbard asked: “How long have you known Sayles?” I replied that I had never met him until a few months previous, in Juneau, when an old Arizona friend of mine introduced us; that this friend lived in Juneau and knew all about my past history; that he knew enough to send me to the pen, and that I knew sufficient to hang him, and that he assured me Sayles could be trusted even with my life, as he had seen him tested when they were partners in the smuggling business between Canada and Montana. I assured Hubbard that if he was a detective my friend didn’t know it, but that he may have turned to be a detective since my friend and he separated a few years previous, and if he had, I wanted to know it. So I asked Hubbard on what grounds his suspicions were based. He answered: “D——n him, he just looks like a policeman, and he has traveled over the world too much. He has told me all about his travels.” I laughed outright and told Hubbard that he was foolish for getting suspicious on those grounds, and that I felt relieved, as I supposed that he had discovered good grounds for his suspicions.
I then told Hubbard how my friend had met Sayles in Canada on the line of Montana, at a time when Sayles’ wealthy relatives in the old country had quit furnishing him any more money, as he was wild and reckless; that then Sayles joined my friend in the smuggling business and that they turned a few other tricks besides smuggling.
I told Hubbard that unless he felt perfectly safe that I would advise him to let the gold stay where it was; that, of course, it would hurt me a little, as I had spent some money on the trip, on the strength of the $400 they were to give us for melting the stuff.
After studying a moment with his head down, Hubbard grabbed my hand and shook it, saying: “Lee, I never doubted you for a minute. We will call the deal on again and go ahead; but I am only going to bring about one-fourth of the stuff at a time. When we melt the first batch you can take $100 worth out for your part. Then I will cache my part and bring in more; then there won’t be any danger of us losing it all if he is a policeman.” This I told him would suit Sayles and me.
We then returned to camp and had a round of drinks, and I told Sayles to bring some fire on the shovel and we would start up the charcoal kiln so it would be ready by the time the furnace was finished. Sayles wore a satisfied smile the balance of the evening. We all three went back and started up the kiln in good shape.
How quickly dark, threatening clouds can be banished with the proper use of “soft soap” or “taffy”; in other words, good hard innocent lying.
Next day after Hubbard had returned from an interview with Schell, we selected a place for the furnace and started to build it. The site chosen was in a grove of timber on a knoll, about 200 yards from our camp, a place where no one would ever think of visiting. Sayles bossed the job of building the furnace, as he took a great interest in such matters. Hubbard and I played the part of hod-carriers, though we held no card in any Union; consequently we were “scabbing.”
When the furnace was completed, we figured it would require several days to dry, so as to be fit for use, and during this time I concluded to visit Killisnoo and buy a few luxuries as well as a bottle of Carter’s Little Liver Pills, as I pretended to need some medicine.
I went to Killisnoo in a canoe, and on arrival there consulted with Deputy United States Marshal Collins on board the man-of-war. I set a day when we would aim to have the first batch of gold melted. On that day it was agreed that Collins be at the extreme head of Hoods Bay and camp on the south side in the open, so that we could find him. I described the place that he should camp at. Before finding Hubbard and Schell, Sayles and I had been to the head of Hoods Bay. We knew by the maps and the lay of the country that the heads of Hoods Bay and Chieke Bay were only about five miles apart, and my aim was to travel this five miles afoot after Collins, when matters were ripe for arrest.
I then returned to camp and found the furnace and charcoal ready for business.
One night after dark, Hubbard brought in what he thought was about a fourth of the gold. It looked just like black mud and was very heavy. Next day we made experiments and melted some of the stuff into fine gold nuggets. This was the day Collins was to go to the head of Hoods Bay and remain there until one of us came. The day following, the furnace was kept going, and some nice nuggets were turned out. Hubbard worked hard, as he was anxious to get this batch finished so that he could get the nuggets cached in a safe place. But Sayles and I had agreed that we wouldn’t quite finish the batch, so we worked with that end in view, although we had not planned a mode of action. That was left to my two by four brain, to act whenever I got a “hunch” that the time was ripe. The main point was not to let Hubbard recache this gold.
Towards sundown I had a fine supper cooking,—clam chowder and pies. I went out to see how the boys were getting along. Hubbard was sweating like a “Nigger” at election, in his haste to finish the batch before supper time. While I was out there we weighed the nuggets and made an estimate of the value of the gold, including that just put into the crucibles to melt. This would make $1,900 worth. Here I went back to see that my clam chowder wasn’t burning. I knew how long it would take to melt the stuff now in the furnace, so I regulated the cooking accordingly.
Hubbard and I slept together on one side of the tent, while Sayles slept on the other. Hubbard kept his rifle under the head of our bed, buried out of sight in the grass which we slept on. I secured this rifle and was looking for a safe place to hide it. Near the camp there was a deep hole of water not less than ten feet deep. All of a sudden I got a “hunch” that this would be a good place to hide it, so out the rifle went in the pool, which was quite wide, and no doubt it is there yet, as we never looked for it. Then I cached my Winchester rifle, so I could get it without Hubbard seeing me.
Now supper was ready, and I began to call the boys. Ten minutes passed and they didn’t come. I called with an oath attached, to let them know I was getting angry. After another minute’s wait I ran out to where they were at work. They had just emptied the crucibles and Hubbard was insisting that they fill them up with the last “mud” on hand, as he would rather finish than go to supper. As he had agreed to stay and keep the furnace hot, Sayles had to give in, as he had no excuse. So I found them preparing to put the last “mud” in the crucibles. I began swearing and said my nice supper was getting cold. Hubbard began to make his talk about finishing, but I told him that there would be another day, tomorrow, to work in, and so saying, I grabbed the crucibles and “mud” and cached it behind a log near by. I then picked up the can containing the nuggets and started out in the brush to cache them. Hubbard followed me and helped dig a hole in the moss by the side of a log, where the can was deposited. This was quite a distance from the furnace, so that Sayles couldn’t see us.
We then went to supper. Hubbard didn’t feel good until after we had taken a couple of appetizers before sitting down to the nice meal.
My supper didn’t agree with me, for I began to have cramps in my stomach an hour afterwards; this, of course, being a blind. I went to bed the same time Hubbard and Sayles did, but I couldn’t sleep. In the course of an hour or more, when I thought Hubbard was asleep, I got up and put on my boots and clothes, but Hubbard was awake and asked where I was going. I told him I was going to make a hot toddy and see if it wouldn’t help my stomach-ache. After putting on water to heat, I made the toddy and went back to bed. Another hour passed and I got up again to make another toddy. This time Hubbard was asleep. Still, the toddy was made and I sat by the fire awhile. Finally, with my Winchester on my shoulder I slipped through the brush to where the gold was cached. Securing the nuggets and the balance of the “mud,” I struck out for the northeast through the timber. Half a mile from camp I recached the gold, then continued up an open glade covered with skunk-cabbage, on which the hundreds of bears feed. Sayles and I had been to the head of this open glade where the heavy timber and underbrush started in again. From the head of this glade over to Hoods Bay, was an unexplored territory to me.
By this time it was quite dark. I could see the bears running into the timber at the head of the glade, just where I had to go. This made me feel a little ticklish, as I had heard it said that Alaska bears were dangerous when they had young ones, or if surprised by a person coming on to them suddenly.
Since pitching our tent here on Chieke Bay, one night a large bear stuck his head under our tent and grunted as though something was hurting him. Sayles and I woke up at the same time. While I was figuring whether to shoot Mr. Bear or invite him to walk in, Sayles gave a yell that caused the poor bear to nearly break his neck getting away. We could hear the brush cracking for half a mile.
At this time of year these bears were unfit for use. They were poor in flesh and their fur was no good. Their habit was to come to the coast from the high mountain range in the center of this large island, and live on skunk-cabbage and berries until the salmon began to “run” up the fresh-water streams. Then Mr. Bear would get fat on fish and return to his winter quarters in the high mountains.
From the head of the glade I found it hard navigating, owing to the fallen timber and “devil-clubs,”—a tough briar bush with thorns like an eagle claw, which is poison to the flesh. They take hold of one’s clothes and hang on like grim death to a dead “Nigger.” I had to follow the bear trails. Often I had to crawl on my hands and knees for a hundred feet or more, under fallen timber. During all this time I would whistle or sing to scare the bears out of my path. Judging from the sound of the brush cracking ahead and up the sides of the mountains, there were a great many of them.
On top of the mountain range I came to a lake. There were no bear trails around it, and to go through the brush was too slow and tiresome, so I waded around the edge of the timber in the lake, up to my waist in water. Reaching the opposite side of the lake I found myself going down a creek, and by keeping in the middle of it half-knee deep in water, I could make pretty good time. In going down this creek I couldn’t resist the temptation of firing my pistol twice, once to kill a large dog salmon, and the other, at a large bald eagle. I cut the eagle’s claws off as relics.
It was after daylight when I woke up Deputy United States Marshal Collins in his tent. While he was dressing I made some coffee. Before starting, he gave orders to the two Indians to take his camp outfit back to Killisnoo.
We returned the way I had come.
On reaching the top of a high hill overlooking our camp, we saw Sayles and Hubbard getting breakfast. We slipped down through the brush and reached the tent on the opposite side from the camp fire. Stepping around the tent we advanced towards Hubbard. Collins pointed his pistol at him and demanded that he throw up his hands, as he was a prisoner. I had cautioned Collins not to shoot Hubbard under any condition, unless he should break to run or pull a gun. I explained that he had no gun as I had thrown it in the waterhole.
I was standing still, smiling, with the butt of my rifle resting on the ground. Hubbard paid no attention to Collins’ demand, but straightening himself up to his full height, with both thumbs under his suspenders, he walked up to me and looking me square in the face said: “Davis, how in h——l can you ever face the public again, after the way you have treated me?” I laughed and told him that my business was mostly with individuals, not the public, hence my conscience wouldn’t bother me on that score.
Poor W. Roxward Sayles felt relieved. Hubbard had gone out when they found me missing, and discovered the gold gone. Then he raised h——l with Sayles who assured him that I would be back soon; that I might have heard Indians prowling around while sick and sitting by the fire, and had recached the gold to keep them from finding it. Hubbard had then searched for my tracks on the beach, but failed to find any. Both canoes were on the beach, so he was satisfied I would return.
The matter wound up by Hubbard and Schell being taken back to Juneau in the Lucy, a steam launch. The Deputy Marshal, Sayles, and myself accompanied them. Arriving in Juneau, Mr. Schell was put in jail, while Hubbard remained in my company. He had given me his word that he wouldn’t attempt to escape. I believed him, my object being to “job” him by having him make a written confession of the theft, so that Sayles and I wouldn’t have to stay there as witnesses until court sat late in the fall.
For a week Hubbard went everywhere that I did, free from handcuffs. We slept together over in my cabin on Douglas Island, Sayles remaining in Juneau.
After Hubbard had confessed the robbery and agreed to testify to the theft in court, I had to turn the poor fellow over to the jailer to be locked up. This hurt me worse than it did him, but I made arrangements for him to receive better treatment than the other prisoners were getting.
This ended our work. The company got back their $10,000 worth of black “mud,” as it had all been found and dug up where Schell and Hubbard had cached it. The gold-plated frying pan was also taken along, as it was worth a few hundred dollars, there being that much gold sticking to it.
When the United States Court convened late in the fall, Hubbard and Schell were sent to the penitentiary. Hubbard received a sentence of only one year in the Sitka Pen. Schell received a longer sentence, so I heard.
During his stay in the Sitka Pen, Hubbard used to correspond with Sayles and me regularly. The last letter received was after his sentence had expired, and while he was preparing to start for the Dawson City gold diggings to make his fortune. We only hope that he has become rich, for the world is full of worse men than Charlie Hubbard. Whiskey was the cause of his downfall.
After serving his term out, Schell became a desperado. Last account I had of him through the newspapers, was where he and a gang had killed a Deputy United States Marshal, and I believe one or two other men, and were in a stronghold not far from Juneau, standing off an army of men. The papers stated that the outlaws couldn’t escape, as they were surrounded, but I never learned how the fight came out. The chances are, Schell was caught and is now serving a life sentence, if not dead.
While in Juneau one day, I ran on to my old friend and boss, W. C. Moore, with whom I had worked for three long years on the L X ranch in Texas, when a cowboy. While chasing the “Almighty Dollar” in the American Valley in western New Mexico in the early ’80s, he murdered two men and became an outlaw, with a big reward on his head. I was not surprised to see him in Juneau, as a cowboy friend had written me that he was in Alaska, and gave me the name under which he was going. I had also read a letter once, written by himself, under this same assumed name, to Mr. W. L. Dickenson. In this letter he told of being camped with the noted Tascott, the murderer of Millionaire Snell, of Chicago, and of how he would deliver him over to the authorities for part of the fifty thousand dollar reward which had been offered in all the papers. Here was a case of one outlaw trying to turn up another bad man for money.
Even had I not known the name under which Moore was sheltered, I would have known his poor handwriting and bad spelling.
In connection with the Moore letter, I learned a new lesson in high finance, to the effect that the fifty thousand big silver “plunks” offered for Tascott’s arrest, was a fake, the truth being that he was not wanted, owing to the fear of a scandal in high life.
I had poor Bill Moore badly frightened, although I had no intention of having him arrested. He wouldn’t recognize me or acknowledge that he was Moore, and as soon as I left him he pulled out for “tall timber.” Friends told me that he was known as a trapper, and only came into Juneau about once a year. Therefore, he must be living a “hell on earth,” which should be a warning to others not to commit murder for the sake of the “Almighty Dollar.”
No doubt, I had previously been pointed out to Moore as Lee Roy Davis, the Dickenson detective who helped capture Hubbard and Schell. The local papers had been full of news about the great detectives, Sayles and Davis, who recovered the stolen gold.
After receiving the blessings of Mr. Durkin and Mr. Bordus, for getting back their black “mud,” Sayles and I boarded the steamer Queen for Sitka, so as to take in the Capital of Alaska before returning to civilization.
On the return trip from Sitka, we visited the great Muir Glacier, one of the wonders of the frozen north.
At the Muir Glacier I did a little stunt which should forever brand me as a fool.
The tourists on the Queen had climbed the hill and mounted the glacier. Most of the people had rented sticks with spikes in the end to keep from slipping on the ice, but I didn’t, as I regarded them a foolish fad to make one look like a “globe-trotter.”
We finally came to a natural ice bridge across a chasm hundreds of feet deep and about thirty feet wide. The bridge was only two or three feet wide with a slippery surface.
A nice-looking young woman bantered some of the men to show their courage by crossing this bridge. No one responded. Then she gathered up her skirts with the independent air of a Boston school marm, and went across. On the opposite side she laughed, and dared one of us men to come across. Instead of complying with the dare, most of them got further back as though the mere thought of crossing the chasm gave them the shivers. I told Sayles that if some one else didn’t go I would, as women are not built for holding as much courage as men, and for that reason, I couldn’t stand to see the whole male population of the world disgraced by one little woman.
Finally I plucked up courage and started, but before getting half way over I wished to be back on the starting side. If my hair didn’t stand up on end, it surely felt like it. I dare not shut my eyes, and with them open I could see too far below, where there seemed to be no bottom.
On reaching the lady’s side, she gave me the “glad hand,” which helped some, but it didn’t relieve the strain on my mind as to how I should get back, for I was on an icy island with chasms all around. I followed the lady back, but it required every ounce of courage in me to make the start. Hereafter when a foolish girl wants to test the courage of men, she won’t get me for a tool, no matter if she is a “good-looker” with a form like a “two-time winner.”
I enjoyed the trip from Alaska immensely, for it gave me my first chance to study nobility at close range. We had on board a Duke from Italy and a Prince from Germany. The Prince’s name was Bismarck, he being a nephew of the “Heap Big Chief” Bismarck, ruler of the German Empire.
The Italian Duke was a nice sociable gentleman with sense enough not to be a Duke, if it wasn’t for the graft there was in it.
But with the other rooster, his Royal Princeship, he didn’t have a thimbleful of brains. He wouldn’t speak to anyone on the boat but the Captain, and he wouldn’t stoop so low as to eat with the common herd. He got up on his highhorse once because I called him partner. He asked the Captain what that “bloody American” meant by calling him partner. He had taken the wrong route to see an Indian village, when I called and said: “Say, partner, you are on the wrong road.” His Royal ’Iness was on a trip around the world.
One jolly soul on the Queen was a Mrs. Lane, the wife of Millionaire Lane of Angels Camp, California. And Dr. Bean and his lively wife of Pocatello, Idaho, were passengers. Also Mr. John Brown, of Blackfoot, Idaho, a member of the Idaho Legislature. In fact, the steamer was full of live, jolly passengers, which made the week’s trip a pleasant one.
In Portland, Oregon, Sayles and I laid over a day to visit with Supt. Wooster, Capt. Jas. Bivens, Mr. D. G. Doogan, and Philip Berne, of the Dickenson Agency. We then boarded a train for Denver, and en route home I found a Dutchman who had a wonderful memory for faces and the human voice.
Sayles and I had got off the train to get a cup of coffee in a lunch room. The place was crowded. When I asked for the coffee, a man with his back to me said: “Hello, I know that voice.” Then turning around to face me he said: “Hello partner, don’t you know me?” I replied “No.” He then said: “I’m Dutchy, the fellow who put up the turkeys for you fellers to shoot at, in Tuscarora, Nevada, several years ago. You are the feller who had the pretty Colts pistol.”
I then remembered “Dutchy.” No doubt he would make a good sleuth, providing he could harden his conscience and learn to look wise and keep his mouth shut at the proper time.
On arriving in Denver, Supt. McCartney gave Sayles and me the “glad hand” for our good work in Alaska, and the operation was closed after an absence of six months.