A cowboy detective

Chasing Leon Carrier through the Republic of Mexico—Running down bad men in Arizona—Big Ore Robbery on Bull Hill—Golden Fleece Ore Stealing case—Hobo operation—Big Mining Suit in Arizona—Running down Banker’s Son in British Columbia.

My next big case was chasing Leon Carrier, a noble son of a noble member of the Canadian Parliament, from one end of Old Mexico to the other.

Carrier had stolen thirty carloads of merchandise from the Westerly Pacific Railroad Company, and the Dickenson Agency was employed to run his noble “nibs” down.

In Mexico, Carrier changed his name often.

This operation afforded me a chance to visit my friend, Daniel Turner, Supt. of the Wells Fargo Express Co. in the City of Mexico, and to see the sights of that ancient Capital once more.

I never heard what they did with Mr. Carrier on getting him back to Canada. But the chances are, his noble father paid the bills and put the young man on the stool of repentance.

Soon after this, Mr. McCartney sent me to Arizona to run down the noted John Zillman.

The big insurance companies of New York had been trying to locate John Zillman since 1879, when he was supposed to have been killed and buried, in Barbour County, Kansas. The insurance people who had insured his life a short time previous to 1879 for $75,000 in favor of his wife, had what they thought was good proof that a drunken cigar maker had been murdered and buried for Zillman, so as to beat the companies out of the insurance money.

Mrs. Zillman, backed by her friend, Levi Baldwin, a rich cattleman, had sued the insurance companies in several courts, and always won their suit. But the companies would just as often appeal to a higher court, in hopes of finding Zillman. The case was due to come up in court again soon, and the insurance people felt sure that if they could run down two men, Fletcher Fairchild and Bill Herendon, one of them would prove to be the much wanted Zillman.

Supt. McCartney informed me that all I had to work on, was the fact that Bill Herendon was a desperado who smuggled between Arizona and Old Mexico, and was always on the jump to avoid arrest. In the case of Fletcher Fairchild, no one knew where he was living. The last account had of him was a year previous, when he left the Levi Baldwin cattle ranch in the Datil mountains of western New Mexico, riding a bob-tail horse, and headed west towards Flagstaff, Arizona.

After being given a description of Zillman, with a photo taken when he was a young man, I started.

In Holbrook, A. T., a cattle town on the Atlantic and Pacific Ry., I bought a horse and saddle, and later another horse. Then followed hard rides over deserts and mountains. My work led me through the wildest parts of Arizona. Part of the time I was in the Superstitious Mountains where “Apache Kid” and his cut-throat band of Indians were in hiding, my only companions being the two saddle ponies and “Phoenix,” a Scotch terrier dog stolen for me in the territorial capital. The “chambermaid” in the livery stable stole this high-toned dog with a brass collar, because he needed a silver dollar to quench his thirst.

Both of my men were finally run down. Bill Herendon and his two outlaw chums who were well mounted gave me the liveliest chase. They were arrested in the Salvation Army mountains on the border of Old Mexico. As neither man proved to be the muchly wanted Hillman, “Phoenix” and I boarded a train for Denver. I had been on the operation three months, and used the name of Lee R. Davis.

My next Big case was for the Spion Gold Mining Co., of Cripple Creek, Colorado. I built a cabin on top of Bull Hill among the Western Federation dynamiters and sweated much blood for fear of being blown up at night.

A Coeur D’Alene member of the Miners’ Union, Oscar W., recognized me as the C. Leon Allison of Gem, Idaho. He had figured in the killing of Johnny Kneebone and had fallen heir to that “scab” blacksmith’s pistol, after his murder at Gem, Idaho, in 1894. Oscar W. promised not to disclose my identity to the dynamiters, and he kept his word.

My several months hard work in the Cripple Creek district disclosed a big steal wherein our clients J. A. Hill, Horace Union, Dr. J. T. Remy and James Cownors, had lost about half a million dollars through the theft of rich gold ore. The superintendent of their mine, the Pikes Peak, and three of the directors in the Union Gold Co. were in the steal. I had to appear on the witness stand in Colorado Springs.

My next operation was a big ore-stealing case for Geo. Lakes, D. K. See and Attorney Dobbs of Denver. They were being robbed blind in their Golden Fleece mine at Lake City, Colorado, though their superintendent, Mr. Aker, was an honest man.

My work disclosed the slickest system of daylight robbery that was ever carried on in a civilized country.

I became one of the thieves after taking lessons in an assay office run by one of the gang.

W. O. Sayles helped me wind up the operation, which lasted a couple of months. In the eruption, 150 miners on the Golden Fleece lost their jobs. Twenty to thirty thousand dollars worth of rich ore had been stolen each month; hence the clients were happy over the stopping of this leak in their fat incomes.

Here another tramp hobo job fell to my lot. McCartney gave me $150 of expense money, and sent me south to round up Tim Corn, the afterwards noted stock detective hung in Cheyenne, Wyoming. He was needed to testify in court, hence I was instructed to finish his bum operation, which he was doing for private parties.

At Coolidge, New Mexico, I found Corn early one morning with a tough gang of hobos. They were holding a council of war as to how they were all going to eat on the quarter of a dollar which one of them had.

Corn had lost his $100 expense money a few days previous, gambling in Albuquerque, hence he was really “on the hog.” He was ashamed to wire home for more expense money so soon after leaving Denver. I finally got a chance to slip Tim Corn a few dollars to take him to Albuquerque, from whence he could wire for more money.

When ready to start, Corn gave a brakeman one dollar to take him to Albuquerque. It was a cattle train loaded with steers, and the “brakey” opened the trap door on top of the car, through which the hay is put into the racks which hang on the inside of the car. Horn being a big six-footer it was a tight squeeze for the “brakey” to shove him through the small hole. When inside, the trap door was fastened by the “brakey” and poor Horn couldn’t get out if he wanted to. He was a Horn among horns, as he had to lie in the hay rack above the clashing steer horns.

Just then a redheaded hobo came and sat down by me on the depot platform and said: “Say, Cully, did you see de ‘brakey’ shove dat tall guy in wid de steers?” I replied “yes,” as he had seen me watching the proceeding. He then continued: “Dat guy is a fly cop for de Dickensons. De gang was goen to do him up tonight and get his big gun and watch. He said he didn’t have no rocks (money), but I bet he did. If he didn’t, where did he get dat big plunk (silver dollar), dat he give to de ‘brakey?’”

I asked the hobo how he knew that he was a fly cop. He replied that the fellow had made a confidant of an old Indian scout from Arizona, who now lived on a ranch at a spring near Coolidge; that they were drinking together in the saloon the night previous, and that the scout had told the secret to the barkeeper who gave it out to his friends on the quiet. Then one of these friends put “de gang next.” I was worried for fear the train crew might know the secret and kill Corn, but my hands were tied, as the train had pulled out, so that I could do nothing to warn him. Had the train crew killed him, he would have avoided the trouble of being hung in disgrace. Besides, many lives which he snuffed out for pay, while acting as stock detective for the cattlemen of Wyoming, would have been saved. He told me of killing two of these supposed cattle thieves, one of them being a cowboy named Matt Rash.

I never think of Tim Corn but that his bulky form and big ears loom up in my mind’s eye as he was being shoved into the roof of that cattle car.

I tramped it all the way to Los Angeles, California, and back through Arizona and New Mexico. The work was being done for the S. T. & G. Ry. Co. On this tramp job I saw enough of life in box cars and under water tanks to write a large sized book.

In Denver, a couple of months later, I put on my good clothes and was transformed from a hobo to a city gentleman.

I was finally sent to Minas Prietas, a large mining camp in the State of Sonora, Old Mexico. Howell Lines, who was a third owner and manager of five gold mills in Minas Prietas, had sent to the Denver Agency for a good mining detective who understood the Mexican language and customs, to run down $20,000 worth of amalgam which had disappeared mysteriously from one of his gold mills.

After spending over a month in Minas Prietas, eating fresh oysters on the half shell every meal at the Hotel Colorado, and enduring the heart-rending cruelties to the poor horses and mules which hauled the freight and ore, the $20,000 worth of amalgam was found where it had run off with the quicksilver into the tailings dump. Carelessness on the part of employes had caused the loss. It was recovered, and my fun, drinking mescal and dancing with pretty Mexican girls, was cut off.

While on this operation, I had made one trip out into the wild mountains with a saloon man and a blacksmith, who were suspected of being into the supposed steal. We went to examine a mining prospect which the blacksmith owned. Of course, we took along a good supply of mescal, a Mexican liquor which makes drunk come quick, for snake bites.

I also made one trip to Guaymas, a seaport city on the Gulf of California, to work on an old man who was suspected, and while there, I came within a hair’s breadth of crossing the dark river of death, from whence there is no awakening. Still, our old mythical devil would, if he could, have awakened me to scorch my whiskers for hopping around on the face of the earth and sipping more than my share of the honey of life between hops.

On the train, en route to Guaymas, I met my Bull Hill friend, Mr. M., one of the Union Gold Mining Co. directors, who had been mixed up in that big ore-stealing case. He gave me his hand and assured me that he held no ill-will against me, as I had done only my duty and had told the truth on the witness stand in Colorado Springs. He was accompanied by a friend whom I suspected of being mixed up in this same steal, though I had never met him before. Of course, he knew all about me.

On arriving in Guaymas, we three went to the same hotel, the Alameda, I think it was called.

That night we took in the sights, and hired an Indian to take us out into deep water in the Gulf, so we could catch barracuda, a large, slender, deep-water fish. We were to start at daylight next morning in a small sailboat. I felt that it might be a “job” on the part of M. and his companion to drown me in revenge for the part I had played against M. in the Cripple Creek district.

After midnight we three climbed the broad stairs to our rooms, which fronted on an open court. I had a separate room adjoining my two companions, and Mr. M. agreed to wake me at daylight.

In going to bed my corduroy pants were put under the pillow, and then noticing that my old Colts 45 was lying on the center table, I placed it on top of the pants.

Next morning while the room was still dark, a loud rap came on my door. I jumped up, half asleep, and grabbing the legs of my pants which hung over the side of the bed, with the intention of putting them on before going to the door, I jerked them out from under the pillow. In doing so, the pistol landed on the floor and struck on the hammer, which rested on a loaded cartridge.

The report of the shot in the close room was deafening, and the powder smoke and dust from the falling plaster almost choked me. I stood still, with the pants in my hand, wondering if my friend M. had thrown a bomb into the room. Just then I saw the silver mounted pistol on the floor, and realized the truth.

M. and his friend were at the door trying to get in to see if I had committed suicide, rather than get up so early to go fishing. I let them in and the smoke and dust out, by opening the door.

The only damage was a few yards of torn plaster from the ceiling, and a red streak across my forehead, where the bullet had barely stung me. Luck again gets in her fine work in my behalf.

We went out in the Gulf about ten miles, and had a fine day’s sport catching fish and drinking something which was not sea water.

Finally I landed back in Denver, Colorado, to wait for some other exciting operation to turn up. But I didn’t have long to wait, as a hurry-up call came from Arizona for a good sleuth.

This operation was for N. V. Parke, owner of the United Birdy Copper mine, of Jerome, Arizona, and now a United States Senator from Montana. And while on the work, I got a peep behind the curtain of “Frenzied Finance.”

In Arizona a big fight was on over the ownership of the Equator mine, five miles south of the great United Birdy.

I was sent to Jerome and Prescott a month or two before the case was to come up in court at Tuscon. No one was to know me but Asst. Supt. Allen and Supt. Joseph Giroux, of the United Birdy mine, also Eugene Giroux, brother to the superintendent.

Later, poor Mr. Allen got an overdose of “Frenzied Finance” mixed with high wines and corn juice, and shot his head off. I adopted the name of Lee Roy Davis.

In Prescott I met some old-time friends who knew my right name and occupation, but I had no fear of them giving me away. They were Mr. and Mrs. Goldsworthy and their son, the railroad agent at that point, and Mr. Johnny Kinney, with whom I got on my first champagne “drunk” in Las Cruces, New Mexico, in 1881, while a cowboy, and on trail of cattle stolen in Texas by the notorious “Billy the Kid.” Up to that time I had never tasted champagne.

The A. T. & S. F. Ry. was then building down the Rio Grande river, and had reached Rincon, forty miles above Las Cruces, and La Mesilla, the twin towns. I was working on Johnny Kinney secretly, so as to get in with the noted “Hurricane Bill” and his gang of cattle rustlers and desperadoes. Kinney then owned a butcher shop at Rincon, the terminus of the railroad, and much of his fresh beef came through “Hurricane Bill” and his gang.

In Las Cruces I was invited by Kinney to accompany him to La Mesilla, and attend a wedding in a wealthy Mexican family. I did so, and champagne flowed like water, giving me my first taste of high life, and a champagne headache.

Of course, on being recognized by Kinney, in Prescott, we had to “hark back” to that wine supper and dance in La Mesilla. We did this between drinks at Mr. N. V. Parke’s expense.

In Prescott I made the acquaintance of Mr. Duke, the big man on the opposing side, so as to work on him at the trial in Tucson. I also made the acquaintance of many of his witnesses and thereby learned some of their secrets.

At the trial in Tucson, Parke’s and Duke’s money flowed like water down a duck’s back, swift and easy. Money was crowned King for the time being, Justice being hog-tied and losing her scales in the shuffle.

Albert Ezekiel, a Deputy United States Marshal, who afterwards joined the Dickenson force, was Duke’s secret man.

As I was supposed to be a tough cowboy out of a job, Duke got me to do a little extra detective work for him. He had me watching Joseph and Eugene Giroux, so as to find out their plans. Often I would report of hearing conversations between the Giroux brothers at the Xavier Hotel, which indicated an important meeting after night at a certain place. I would then have the Giroux brothers help carry out my scheme as a blind, and Duke would help me “shadow” them, which convinced him that I was working faithfully for his interest.

It was a puzzle to Mr. Duke as to why I refused to meet and consult with his leading attorney, Mr. V. E. Block, now a United States Congressman from Colorado; my excuse to him being that my cowboy friends would mob me if they knew I was acting as a detective. So for that reason, I wouldn’t trust anyone but himself. The truth of the matter was, I had met Attorney Block in Colorado Springs, Colorado, while with Dr. J. T. Remy, on the Spion Gold Mining Co. operation, and feared being recognized by him.

The Duke crowd won the suit. The jury was bought outright, after being locked up. An additional $10,000 of the slush fund drawn out of the bank at the last moment did the work. A county officer, who was on the jury, told each juryman who was sticking out for N. V. Parke, to go out in the toilet room, which would be to their advantage. The bailiff, who was into the scheme, would accompany the stubborn juryman into the toilet room where a man was planted with the cash. There the bargain was arranged for high stakes, and our side was left floundering in the “soup.” I was on the “inside” and knew what took place. My particular friend on the jury held out until the last one. That night when they were dismissed from the jury after bringing in a verdict for the Duke side, this fellow almost shed tears over the fact of going back on us, but he said he couldn’t resist the temptation of the fancy price offered him in the toilet room.

The only consolation I could get was in helping him spend some of this “tainted” money.

The next suit came up in Prescott, and it was rotten to the core. My friend Johnny Kinney assisted me here.

Robt. and Joe Morrison, Prescott attorneys, were assisting Attorney Block at this trial, and Joe Morrison recognized me as C. Leon Allison whom he had met in Santa Fe, New Mexico, when he was in the United States Land Office there, with his father, Judge Morrison. This affected my work, as he was suspicious of me working against his client, Duke.

In Prescott I had two operatives from Denver assisting me.

Albert Ezekiel had come from Tucson to work for Duke.

Thousands of dollars of Parke’s and Duke’s money were squandered every night on “Whiskey Row,” where a dozen saloons stood in a solid row fronting the Plaza and Court House. The “girl” singers and the music on the raised platforms in the rear of some of the saloons, had a tendency towards making the old “Hasayampa” sinners forget that they were born with Nature’s full allowance of manhood, and that the courts are intended to deal out justice, regardless of the amount of “dough” (money) in sight.

After another hard fought monied battle, the Duke side won again. Of course, Duke had an even “break” from a legal and just standpoint, but without their big slush fund to act as sauce for the roasted gander, they never could have won.

The case went to the higher courts, and was later settled mutually, so I was informed by Congressman Block, whom I met under false pretenses many years later, in Yampa, Colorado.

On this operation I had gained valuable lessons in high finance and the ease of committing perjury, by otherwise good men and citizens.

Another operation on which I was detailed about the year 1897, was the running down of a banker’s son. He had gotten away with large sums of money in a north-middle State, to save his old father in a middle State, from going to the wall financially. After putting the father on his feet with the stolen money, the young man crawled into a hole and pulled the hole in after him so far as any trace of him remained. From a former chum of this banker’s son,—whom we will call Get-there-Eli,—our clients received a “tip” that he was somewhere up in British Columbia. Then I was sent to run him down.

After I had located Get-there-Eli in Greenwood City, a new mining camp on the Kettle river, in British Columbia, I proceeded to make his acquaintance and to win his friendship, which I did finally. I found that Get-there-Eli was the manager of a mine in Greenwood City, and he was making piles of money selling stock at fifteen cents a share in his new company, which had as officers some of the “big guns” of Canada. He was going under an assumed name, but looked exactly like his photo which I carried, and answered the description to a dot. On investigation I found him to be one of the solid men of this new mining country. He was considered an expert on mines, though on getting acquainted with him, I found his knowledge on mining was of the “graft” kind picked up from books, etc., as bait to catch “suckers” and I soon found that the country was overrun with “suckers” ready to grab any kind of bait which smelled of dividends.

In Prescott, A. T., I once asked my friend, Johnny Kinney, how he managed to make such an easy living, and as to how Prescott prospered as a mining center with so few pay mines tributary to the little city. He replied: “You must remember that we get many English capitalists to look over our country every year. Englishmen are like those fish with the big mouths, called suckers. Their mouths are always open ready to receive a bait that looks like a dividend. Of course, they get hooked, but then new ones are coming out all the time.”

I found Greenwood City swarming with this kind of fish. The king fish of the bunch was a fine fellow named Germain. He was past middle life and had accumulated a nice little fortune in the drug business in London, England. Hearing of the great Boundary Mining District, he sold out his drug business and came to Greenwood City, arriving there a couple of months ahead of me.

The snow lay deep on the ground, and he found many old “stove-warmers” at the saloons, who had rich prospects to sell cheap, though they were covered with several feet of snow which would prevent a prospective purchaser from examining the veins until the snow melted in the late Spring. So, for that reason, they would sell cheap for cash. When Spring came, poor old Germain had most of his fortune invested in these kinds of mines.

On the Queen’s birthday, Get-there-Eli had got me to sell some of his mining shares. On that day the English “suckers” bite better than any other time. Of course, I wanted to make myself solid with Get-there-Eli, by selling a good bunch of his stock. It was “wild cat” stock then, but the mine, which I examined, had the ear-marks of a possible producer in the future.

I have always been a good fisherman when I didn’t have to wait too long for the bite, and the larger the fish the better. Therefore, my hook was baited and thrown towards Mr. Germain. His mouth was open and I landed him for $600 in cash, my commission being $80. During the day I hooked a few smaller “suckers” and made good wages.

Shortly after the Queen’s birthday, Mr. Germain informed me that he had started two men to work on one of his mines, as the snow had gone off in that neighborhood, a few miles north of town. He said he had great confidence in my judgment on mining matters, and would like for me to advise him as to the best way to develop this mine quickly, so as to make a dividend payer of it.

He and I walked up to the mine one morning. We found the two “Micks” down in the six-foot holes working like Turks to keep warm. On our arrival the two miners stopped work and Germain jumped down into the open cut. He asked me to come down into the hole so as to get a better look at the fresh ore. I told him that it wasn’t necessary as it was all alike, just a big blue limestone ledge. The two miners looked daggers at me, as I was taking the bread and butter out of their mouths by knocking them out of a job.

The smile faded from Germain’s face like the dew from a sun-kissed rose. With a look of despair, he asked if I meant that he had no mine there. I told him such was the fact. He then said: “What if my other mines turn out like this one? If they do, I am a ruined man.” I advised him not to take my word for it, but to hire a certain mining expert who lived in town and who had a good reputation, to come up the next day and examine the property. My advice was taken and the two miners lost their jobs.

Germain’s other mines were examined by the same expert and when I was leaving Greenwood City, poor Germain was packing up to leave the “bloody swindling country” to return to his family in London, England, a poorer but wiser man. I was truly sorry for the poor fellow, and the $80 of his money which was in my pocket seemed to be hot. I felt like giving it back to him, but didn’t dare to, as it would have placed me on the fool list.

Germain was not alone in his misery when the snow went off; the woods were full of the same kind of sick “suckers.”

When the time came for swooping down on Get-there-Eli, our friends sent an agent from the east to pick the poor fellow’s financial bones. On the arrival of the agent I steered Get-there-Eli to his room after supper, as the agent was a supposed friend of mine from Texas, who wanted to invest in mines. He and Get-there-Eli were old friends, and to see the look on Get-there-Eli’s face when I shut the door and locked it and introduced him to his former friend under his own name, was worth a trip to British Columbia.

After shaking hands with the agent, poor Get-there-Eli sat down on the bed, and with pale face, told me that I had played my cards splendidly.

A deal was made to return the stolen money,—many thousands of dollars,—if we would promise to not expose him in British Columbia, where his reputation was above par, and his chances of becoming a millionaire good.

Our friends wanted their money back, and I had been playing my hand with that object in view.

The agent started right back to the boyhood home of Get-there-Eli to get the money from his parents, while I remained to keep an eagle eye on G. T. E. We became bedfellows and greatly attached to each other. He was a fine, portly young man, with more than the average allowance of brains. He and I kept up a correspondence for a couple of years, and he reported good fishing and schools of new “suckers” arriving, eager to take the hook. Since then I have lost all trace of him.

Finally I received a letter to discontinue and return to Denver, as matters had been settled.

On this trip in British Columbia, I met two of the old Coeur D’Alene dynamiters, Jack Lucy and “Spud” Murphy. The latter threatened to kill me, but my friends Geo. Mimms and Millionaire Jim Clark, in Grand Forks, persuaded him out of the notion, as I was pretty handy with a gun myself. I had helped send “Spud” Murphy to the pen in 1892 from Coeur d’Alene City, Idaho.

I reached Denver after an absence of about three months.