CHAPTER XII
Kansas Daisy and Butterfly Mine-Salting Cases—Tramping on the Oregon Short Line Railway Company’s System—A Big Ore-Stealing Case in Salt Lake City, Utah—Trip to British Columbia—Playing Outlaw in Cripple Creek, Colorado.
During the next couple of years I led a strenuous life unraveling ore-stealing and mine-salting cases.
First came the Kansas Daisy case, of Prescott, Arizona. A Mr. B. of that enterprising town had put out a bait and caught some big fish in England. When the aforesaid big fish, who were organized as the Anglo-Continental Mining Co. began to smell a “mice,” they called on the Dickenson Agency to investigate and see if their corn-crib really contained rats. Hence, I was sent to do the cat act.
While in Prescott, and after satisfying ourselves that the Kansas Daisy mine had been salted, some mine experts, with Detective Willis A. Loomis (now Chief of Detectives in Denver) to guard the samples of ore until safely in the Wells Fargo Express office, arrived from Denver to sample the property. On these samples being assayed in Denver, they showed an average value of $1 per ton of ore, instead of the $8 per ton as reported by the German expert sent from London by the company, and on whose advice the mine was bought at a high price.
The Denver law firm of Thornes, Bryan & Wye had charge of the work, and they gave orders that I dig up evidence as to how the trick was done.
Finally, I went into partnership with a saloon man named Joe Hobbs, a brother-in-law to the noted Deputy United States Marshal Joe La Fors, of Cheyenne, Wyoming (whose testimony hung stock detective Tim Corn), and with a miner named John Forbes, in the mining business. We bonded a gold claim on Groom Creek and started a shaft down on the vein. I had made the acquaintance of Joe Hobbs while working on the John Hillman operation in Jerome, and he knew me only as Lee Roy Davis. He had a brother-in-law, Jeff La Fors, in Prescott, who gave me much assistance without knowing it.
One day in March when the streets of Prescott were covered with a deep snow, Alex G. and I boarded a train for Los Angeles, California, there to prepare for a trip to Alaska, as Mr. G. thought.
Before departing from Prescott, I shook hands with my many newly-made friends, among whom was “Bucky” O’Neil, afterwards a Captain in Roosevelt’s Rough Riders, who was killed by a bullet through his head in the charge up San Juan Hill in Cuba.
Next morning Alex G. and I awoke in the land of roses. The contrast was indeed great, from deep snow to roses in bloom on nearly every vacant lot. In Los Angeles we settled down to a life of ease, at the expense of the Anglo-Continental Co. I had been to this city before, but as a bum tramp only.
Alex G. and I made pleasure trips to all places within reach of Los Angeles. We even went to Tia Juana, Old Mexico, and spent a week or two at San Diego.
After I had secured a full confession from Alex G. as to how he and Mr. B. had salted the old German expert’s samples as they were being taken from the Kansas Daisy vein, and also after being hoisted to the surface and there sacked and sealed, Attorney Bryan arrived from Denver to assist me in closing the operation; that is, as far as my work was concerned.
Attorney Bryan and I met to arrange for the windup. I had already planned most of it in my reports which had been read by Mr. Bryan.
At 10 A.M. one day, an officer of the United States Commissioners Court arrested Alex and me in my room. I was indignant at the arrest, while Alex G. was frightened. On the way to court Alex whispered to me not to give anything away which he had told about the Kansas Daisy.
When brought before the United States Commissioner I was put on the stand first. Attorney Bryan went at me as though he thought I had worked on the Kansas Daisy at the time of its sale, and finding that I had not, he asked if I had ever heard any one say that the Kansas Daisy had been salted. I kept avoiding the question and wouldn’t give a direct answer, as though I didn’t want to give Alex G. away. He frowned at me once, as much as to warn me to “stand pat.” But finally Mr. Bryan pinned me to the wall so that I had to answer yes or no. Then I had to admit that Alex G. had told me all about the way he and Mr. B. had salted the samples. When I started to tell the truth, Alex turned pale and became nervous.
After finishing my testimony, Alex was put on the stand, and just as I had guessed, he confessed the whole crime rather than make me out a liar and ruin his chances of the trip to Alaska. He made a sworn confession, which implicated Mr. B. and made the German expert an “easy mark.”
Soon after my return to Denver, this same old German expert got caught with another salty fish-line, which caused the Anglo-Continental Mining Co. a heavy loss. Mr. A., of Denver, had baited the hook, and the Swede saloon keeper, Knute Benson, of Silverton, Colorado, who owned the Butterfly mine, did the rest. When the $20,000 mill was completed and started up, it was found that they had no mine.
The honest, easy-going old German expert had been salted again, and I was sent to Silverton to work on the saloon man, Benson. He and I became chummy and made several trips out in the mountains. He said that he went into the deal so as to get a $20,000 mill put up free; that he knew the company would forfeit it according to the contract, rather than pay the balance of the purchase money, and then he and Mr. A. would develop a pay mine to furnish ore for their mill.
We failed to secure evidence enough to convict any one, so the Anglo-Continental Co. lost what they had invested, unless they possibly squeezed something out of A. and Benson, on the strength of my reports. I never learned how the matter came out, except that I heard the mine and mill fell back to Mr. Benson, and that the German expert washed his hands of the whole American continent.
I had been on this case a couple of months, and on the Kansas Daisy about four or five months.
About this time another tramp operation fell to my lot. It was on the whole system of the Oregon Short Line Ry. in Wyoming, Utah, Idaho, Montana and Oregon. The work was being done for the manager of that company. Mr. Roycroft of Salt Lake City, Older Galvan, and Mr. Vanderman, officials of the road, also had a hand in the operation.
On this work I had several narrow escapes from death, once from a wreck, when the end of a box car in which I was riding was smashed in, and another time in Idaho an angry brakeman came very near kicking me off a freight train while running twenty-five miles an hour. It was a cold night, and I was lying face down on top of a box car to shield myself from the cold wind that was blowing. He slipped up on me and gave me a kick in the ribs which nearly sent me rolling off the car. In an instant my hand was on old Colts 45, and I thought seriously of shooting the fellow, but satisfied my wounded feelings by calling him all the pet names in the cowboy dictionary which has never been printed.
He slowed the train down so that I could get off, but I made him stop it to a standstill. We were both standing on top the car, and he was kept at a distance by threats of killing him. I didn’t propose to have a wrestling match in a place of that kind.
A week or two later, I caught this same “brakey” by being with a squad of bums. He didn’t recognize me, and we all paid him for a ride to the end of his run.
While I was on this bum operation, deals were made for whole box car loads of sheepshearers, and often I would be one of them. We would be packed like sardines when the crowd was large, so as to get us all into one box car, then the door would be fastened from the outside. A fine chance for a jumbled-up mess of human hash, in case of a bad wreck. With the freight crews this traffic in sheepshearers was fine “picking” from a financial standpoint, for they traveled from place to place in droves, a mixture of all nationalities, even to the chili-eating sons of old Montezuma. The fares were $1 apiece for each division.
While on this operation I visited the great Mormon Jubilee, the fiftieth anniversary of the settlement of Utah in Salt Lake City. It was a free show which beat anything I had ever seen. Every Mormon in the State who could raise the “price” was there.
On the day of the big street parade I had the experience of knowing how a hobo feels when he falls in love.
I was standing on the sidewalk in the hot sun, trying to get a view of the parade in the middle of the street. Directly in front of me stood a beautiful young lady. She was small, and I could have seen the parade over her head if it hadn’t been for her silk umbrella. I finally became impatient, and tapping her on the shoulder, asked if she wouldn’t let me hold her umbrella so that I could get a view. She turned square around and faced me. Then was when Cupid first got in his work. Up to this time, I had not seen her pretty face. She looked me in the eyes, then glanced down at my dirty and ragged clothes. I smiled and said: “You need have no fear of me stealing your umbrella. All I want is to make the umbrella do double duty by shielding both of us from the sun, and at the same time allow me to see the parade.”
She gave me the umbrella. Soon she became talkative, and explained some of the interesting sights in the parade. Among them being her aunt, Mrs. Watson, sitting on the deck of the Brookline—a ship that represented the one that brought her aunt over the ocean. Hence, I concluded that this pretty little lady might be named Watson. I had made up my mind to ask her name, but just then a “Weary Willie” chum of mine stepped up saying: “Say, Cully, drop dat rag—meaning the umbrella—and I’ll steer you to a joint where they sell two whopping big schooners (glasses of beer) for a nickel.”
Turning around and seeing my unwashed and ragged chum the lady reached for her “rag,” and at the same time gave me a look with her pretty dark eyes which froze little Cupid to a “stand still.”
That night while riding in a box car loaded with hobos I vowed this would be my last tramp operation, for I had had more than my share of that kind of work. I had made one hobo test on the D. & R. G. Ry. system, in addition to the ones recorded herein.
I arrived in Denver after being absent about two months.
Later, I was told of how on the strength of my reports, every freight brakeman between Salt Lake and Butte City, except one who was in the hospital, got “fired” from the Oregon Short Line service. Also many freight conductors and engineers “got it in the neck.”
Tramping on a railroad is a fine schooling for a detective, but very tough on one’s sensitive nature; hence only one in twenty operatives make a success at playing hobo.
These train crews had been “coining” money, and they had become so greedy that often a poor hobo who was known to be sick and out of money, would be put off the train between stations on the desert, just because he refused to give up some little relic, such as a ring, watch or pin, possibly remembrances from dear ones at home. The “brakeys” would even take pocketknives for fares. It seems that greed for the “almighty dollar” is planted in some bosoms, be they high up in the social swim or low down in the muddy pool. But in my tramp work I have found hundreds of “brakeys” whose hearts would melt at my pitiful tale of woe of being flat broke. Some have even offered me money to buy a square meal, besides giving me the free ride.
Next I was detailed to go to Salt Lake City, Utah, to assist operative Billy S. on an ore-stealing case which he had been working on for a couple of months. Billy S. had made himself “solid” with one of the leaders who were stealing ore by the wholesale, but as yet he had no positive evidence.
I landed in Salt Lake City, the big town with wide streets and pretty swift girls, as an outlaw from New Mexico and Texas. My name was Lee Roy Davis. As an outlaw I didn’t go to killing men, but I soon had some of the gang afraid of me. Once when I had filled up on “puss cafe” in the New Resort saloon, with Billy Best as mixologist, I made the gang think I was on the warpath. I pulled out my old Colts 45, and striking the table with it, declared I was a wolf and that that was my night to howl. The result was, Billy S. had to help pull Joe Buttinski out from under the table and assure him that I wasn’t as bad as I looked.
To illustrate the splendid memory of some men, I will cite the case of an ex-cowboy by the name of O. D. Brown, who is a trusted official in the Salt Lake City postoffice. On first arriving in the city, I called at the postoffice to ask for Lee Roy Davis’ mail. Brown stuck his hand through the window and said: “Hello there, Charlie Siringo, shake.” I told him my name was Davis. He replied that he would remember the name and forget my right one. He then told where we had run cattle together in Texas, over 20 years before. Then I remembered him and shook his hand.
We were together many times during my couple of months stay, and he thought because I had committed a crime, was why I had changed my name. Of course, this didn’t sit well on my pride, but I thought it best to let matters remain as they were.
Brown finally secured me a fine job to take charge of a mule train for a friend of his in Peru. I was to accompany the mules on the ship and become one of them, as it were. In introducing me to this friend, Brown told him that I was just the man he wanted, as I could ride anything that wore hair, talk Mexican, and could be trusted. Both were greatly disappointed when I declined the position at any price. Brown took me to one side and said I was making a mistake by leading a wild life and remaining here where I might be captured any time. I told him that I would rather be in the penitentiary in America than associating with mules in a Peru, South America, mining camp.
In the course of a month or so, Billy S. and I began to note results from the tons of beer and liquor consumed while with the gang. Often Billy S. and I would make night raids on a sampler or a smelter to get samples of the stolen ore-pile, which was called the “Jessie,” by the ore thieves. Then again, we would break the seals on cars loaded with stolen ore, so as to get samples as evidence.
On one of these night raids into a carload of stolen ore, I flim-flammed our client, Banker Z. B. James, a reputed millionaire, who also owned mines and a smelter. We would notify Mr. James on what nights these raids were to be made, and he would sit up at his residence waiting for us. In his presence, the samples would be marked so that we could identify them in court.
In order to mark a chunk of ore different from the rest, I asked Mr. James for a silver dollar to mark it with. He gave me the dollar, and when through with it I put it in my own pocket, and on reaching the street Billy S. remarked that I was the slickest daylight thief he had ever seen. We had a big laugh over the matter, and at the New Resort saloon the dollar was blown in for mint juleps, and they tasted sweeter “all same” stolen watermelons.
Of course, there was no necessity of my stealing this dollar from Banker James, as he was a liberal client, and allowed us to spend “all kinds” of money for drinks and high living. But I wanted to play “foxy” and flim-flam a millionaire banker before his own eyes, and it was done so easily I told Billy S. that next time I would get a $5 gold piece out of him.
A couple of nights later we made another raid, and I asked Mr. James for a $5 gold piece to mark a certain piece or ore, so that the marks would be yellow. He gave me the gold piece, but when I had finished, his strong right hand was extended ready to receive back his five gold “plunks.” Of course, it was returned as though I had no intention of keeping it. I caught Billy S.’s eye and he was grinning like a ’possum eating yaller-jackets. This time it was “foxy” James instead of “foxy” yours truly. No doubt he had noticed me put the silver dollar in my pocket, hence concluded to keep a string on the gold piece.
After a couple of months’ work, we had sufficient proof to land half a dozen men in the penitentiary, one wealthy man among them. This big fish had a nice family who swam in the same social pool with Banker James, and Mr. James hated to injure the family. Therefore, he concluded to make out a bill for the many thousands of dollars’ worth of ore stolen, and for the expenses incurred by Billy S. and me, and present it for payment, the bill to be backed up with the proof of guilt. If paid, matters would be dropped with a warning to sin no more, especially against the James’ family. But if he failed to toe the mark, then the services of Billy S. and myself would be required longer. A settlement was no doubt made. Mr. James told us with one of his broad-gauge smiles, which denoted victory, that our work was ended and we could return to Denver.
In this case one big fish instead of swallowing the little fishes saved a lot of little ones from going to the “pen.”
On arriving in Denver, I got a jolt which shook my globe-trotting desires to the very foundation.
I had been receiving letters from Supt. McCartney for the past three weeks, asking if I couldn’t crowd the Salt Lake City operation and finish it up soon, so as to return to Denver, as he needed me. I would answer back that the work couldn’t be hurried, which was a lie of the deepest dye. The truth was, we could have closed the work two weeks sooner than we did. But I didn’t know but that he had another tramp operation for me. I didn’t believe in dropping a good thing so long as it could be held onto without injuring the Agency.
Mr. McCartney informed me that my friend, W. O. Sayles, had started two days before for New York City, there to ship for London, England, to meet our clients, and from there go to South Africa to work up a big ore-stealing case, which would take a year or two, and that the New York office and Mr. Roy J. Dickenson had selected me for the operation and had been waiting on me for nearly a month, but that the clients in London got tired of waiting, and then Sayles was detailed to go. He was allowed to take along another operative, Hiram Oker, to help him.
My bones ached for a week on account of losing this trip to Europe.
Next, I was sent to British Columbia to run down a George H., who had salted a mine in Old Mexico. Mr. Wheezer being the victim, and Thornes, Bryant & Wye being our clients.
It would require too much space to record my many ups and downs in British Columbia trying to find a trace of Geo. H.
On the way to Ft. Steele after leaving the head of Lake Kootenai, I had a tussle with a blizzard when the thermometer registered forty degrees below zero. It was December. I was in an open cutter and for twenty-eight miles the wind kept whistling a tune through my whiskers, which sounded like: “Say, old boy why didn’t you save your summer’s wages and buy an overcoat?” I had on only a light leather frock coat. This pure and innocent new-born blizzard from the frozen north would never have asked the question, had it known of the many inducements for spending a summer’s wages in Salt Lake City. It may have frolicked behind the curtains in an Eskimo Indian village, but that isn’t sporting by gaslight in the Mormon capital.
Finally I decided to end this wild goose chase in the region of the North Pole, and start right by going to California and working on the relatives of Geo. H.’s wife. This had been tried, without success, but not by yours truly.
At the foot of Mt. Shasta, the snow-capped mountain of northern California, in Siskiyou county I landed in a sleepy little town called Gazelle. I put up in an old fashioned country hotel with a large fireplace and plenty of wood to feed the fire which was kept burning night and day. This country hotel was the home of the Edson brothers, wealthy cattlemen. It was here that Geo. H. formerly lived and married one of Siskiyou county’s pretty daughters. The parents of Geo. H.’s wife lived on a ranch in this county and so did a married sister.
I spent a couple of days roasting my shins before the log fire and getting my breath after those cold rides in the north. And while doing so, I hobnobbed with English royalty in the person of a royal son, or grandson, of Lord Nelson, the Dewey of England. He was a fine young man, and was on a bear hunt around the world. I happened to see him kill a neighbor’s pet coon by mistake as he swore to the enraged rancher; but whether he mistook it for a bear or a wildcat, I never knew.
Finally I put spurs to my two by four brain and started out to work on the sister of Geo. H.’s wife.
A short ride on the train brought me to the town of Montague. Two miles from that town was the ranch of the lady’s husband. He owned a valuable ranch well stocked with cattle. We will call him “Huze,” for short.
The night was dark, and it was 8:30 P.M. when I stood at the front gate of “Huze’s” residence in the country. I aimed to get there late so they would have to keep me over night. The only light in the house was in the kitchen in the rear of the building. My mind was so taken up with the operation that I forgot about dogs. In slipping around to a man’s back door, I generally have one hand on old Colts 45, but not so this night. Just as I turned the corner of the house and was within 10 feet of the kitchen door, here came a Siberian blood-hound, which loomed up like a mustang in a fog. She was as large as a good-sized colt. She had sprung out of a dog house in a corner of the back yard. I did a double stunt with lighting rapidity,—sprang for the kitchen door, turning the knob with my left hand and pulling old Colts 45 with the right. The door was slammed in the dog’s face, just in the nick of time to prevent a tragedy. The dog had thrown her weight against the door, and it was all I could do to close it. She was growling and raving.
As soon as the catch snapped in the door, my pistol was back in its place out of sight, and I faced the big fat man and his small young wife. Both were on their feet and thunderstruck. I begged their pardon for intruding so suddenly. The lady replied that it was lucky I did, as the “doggy” would have eaten me up alive, as she had pups and was more vicious than usual.
After introducing myself as a Texan who had made a little fortune in mining, and who was in search of a good cattle ranch, I told of how people in Montague had referred me to them as wanting to sell out. “Huze” replied that he would sell if he could get his price, which was ’way up into the thousands. I informed him that if the place suited I wouldn’t stand back for the sake of a few thousand dollars, more or less.
Then I was invited to stay all night and examine the ranch and stock next day. By 10 P.M. the fat man was dozing after reading a newspaper, and the little lady and I were going over the family album which I had picked up from the table. She pointed out her two sisters’ photographs, one being married and the other single. The single sister was actually pretty, and I told her so. I asked where she lived and she hesitated as though not wanting to answer. I broke the strain by asking if she was now in California. She replied no, that she was with her other married sister up in British Columbia. I looked her in the face and asked what part of British Columbia, as I had made my stake mining up there. She replied: “Oh they live near Victoria.” I said: “Why that’s where I’m going to close up my mining deal. Maybe I’ll see them up there. What’s their names?” The names were given, then I questioned her as to the particular place they lived at. She acted as though she didn’t want to tell, but the questions were so pointed that she couldn’t avoid answering without taking chances of insulting me, and thereby losing a possible sale of their ranch and stock.
After finding out that Geo. H. and his wife and her pretty young sister lived in Alberni, an Indian village on the Alberni canal, a couple of days’ travel by steamer from Victoria, the Capital of British Columbia, my day’s work was finished and I was ready for bed. The fat man showed me to my room upstairs about 11 P.M., and I was soon stretched out between white sheets, dreaming of my coming trip to Vancouver Island, British Columbia.
The next day Mr. “Huze” and I rode over the ranch, and I expressed great delight in everything and declared that I would purchase the place providing my brother liked it; that we were going into partnership in the stock business, hence I would have to wait a few weeks for this brother to join me.
A week was spent at Gazelle and Montague, and I made the acquaintance of Mrs. Geo. H.’s parents. They were nice folks and had one son who has attained distinction in South Africa as a mining engineer.
A few days before Christmas, “Huze” and I took a trip to San Francisco, and I have never seen him since we separated in that city.
Finally I took passage for Seattle, Washington, by rail, thence by steamer to Victoria, British Columbia. In Victoria I took passage on a dumpy little steamer which was loaded to the guards, for Alberni. On the ocean along the southern border of Vancouver Island, we experienced rough seas and squally weather. About half of the time the little steamer was almost standing on end, and I expected to see her turn upside down any moment. Seasick, did you whisper? Well, I reckon yes! The few hours sail up the Alberni canal was delightful, after the rough ocean trip.
There was a “white folks’” hotel in the Indian village of Alberni, and my headquarters were established in it. There were only two star boarders at the hotel until my arrival, then there were three of us who could order eggs for breakfast without danger of raising the roof from the house. One of the star boarders was Judge Keenie, and the other his “niece;” “quien sabe,” as a Mexican would say, for who knows.
The Judge was a tall, preacher-looking old gentleman, and evidently he was a fine man. I used him for a cat’s paw to pull my chestnuts out of the fire. I soon learned that he was a particular friend of Geo. H., who was operating a mine about twenty miles from Alberni. Judge Keenie had practiced law for years in Socorro, New Mexico, hence he and I found much to talk about, as I knew many of his friends and a few of his enemies.
Finally Judge Keenie took me on a visit to Geo. H. and his family. They had a nice home near the mine, in which quite a force of men worked, and the mine which Geo. H. had bought, no doubt with the money secured from our clients, had the ear-marks of being a good one. Some ore was being shipped every week or two on a steamer to the smelter in Tacoma, Washington.
Several visits were made to the Geo. H. mine during the next few weeks. Finally he and his family moved to Victoria and put up at a swell hotel there. Of course, I followed suit and made my home in Victoria also. I had never told of my visit to their old home in Siskiyou County, California. In fact, I wasn’t supposed to be the same man who met “Huze,” as I had adopted a new name.
Valuable real estate belonging to Geo. H. in California was located, and with the valuable mine on Vancouver Island, our clients felt safe, so far as getting their money back when the time came for bringing suit, and until that time Geo. H. would be kept track of by our Agency, who have “correspondents” in all cities and towns where they have no regular offices.
Finally, towards Spring, I returned to Denver and its glorious sunshine. During my stay on Vancouver Island, I saw the sun only a few times. But while Denver beats on sunshine, Victoria holds the winning hand on lack of graft and political corruption, and for just laws, rightfully administered.
I never heard how Geo. H. came out in his war with our clients.
My next important out-of-the-city operation was an ore-stealing case.
One morning Supt. McCartney called me into his private office and told me that he had a hard nut for me to crack, and that he would depend on me cracking it, although one of his good operatives had already failed.
A Mr. R. B. Bursell had become tired of paying our regular rates of $8 per day and all expenses for the services of an operative, with no chance of success. Hence he wrote to Supt. McCartney advising that the operation be called off. But Mr. McCartney asked for a chance to try yours truly for a week or two.
With old clothes on, I landed in Victor, one of the big towns in the Cripple Creek mining district, and in just one week I had secured a confession from Geo. Shaul and Young Wilson, as to how they stole Mr. Bursell’s $2,000 worth of rich ore which was in sacks ready for shipment.
Geo. Shaul was an expert safe blower and bad man generally. He was known to be one of the worst ore thieves in the Cripple Creek district, but he was too slick to get caught.
In order to make myself solid with Shaul and Wilson and their associates, I “shot up” the town of Victor one night. I supposed that I had made my “getaway,” but towards morning my castle was stormed by the got-rich-quick Mayor, Millionaire Jimmie Doyle, and his mob of policemen. My door was broken down and I landed in jail.
Before arresting Shaul and Wilson, the Sheriff of El Paso County, “Win” Boynton, secured permission from my Supt. J. S. Kaiser, and Gen. Supt. McCartney, to let me unearth a murder case in Goldfield, wherein a saloon proprietor and one of his guests were shot down in cold blood one night in an attempt to rob the place.
I put in a month on this murder case, and associated with Shaul and his gang of cut-throats constantly.
A few days before I was ready to close the operation, a blackmailing detective by the name of Hawkins gave me away to the gang, on the sly. He and I had done some work for Attorney Goudy, of Colorado Springs, several years before. He had recognized me.
“Baldy Bob” and his gang had a plan laid to murder me and throw my body into an old abandoned shaft; but Nelly Taylor, a tough dance hall “girl,” put me on my guard, as she couldn’t believe me low down enough to be a detective. Thus my “bacon” was saved by a scratch.
At the trials in Colorado Springs, with me as the star witness, Geo. Shaul and Wilson received a sentence to the penitentiary of six years each for stealing the Russell ore, and “Baldy Bob” got a life sentence for the murder of the two men in Goldfield.
After being sentenced, Geo. Shaul jumped out of a two-story window at the jail and with a broken leg made his way back to Cripple Creek where two days later he was found almost at the point of death in an old cabin. He got well and served his sentence out.