A cowboy detective

A Mining Case in Kelly, N. M.—Big Robbery in Prescott, A. T.—Incendiary Case in Wyoming—Mrs. Shaw Kidnapping Case in Pueblo, Colo.—Chase After “Bad” Man in Sonora, Mexico—Cattle Case in Wyoming and Montana—“Frenzied Finance” Operation in Roswell, N. M.

Soon after my return from the Dr. Wentz case in Kentucky and Virginia, I was hurried south to Magdalena, New Mexico, on the A. T. & S. F. Ry. From there I went to the mining camp of Kelly to meet Mr. Cochran, the manager of the Kelly mine, on a stagecoach.

Mr. Cochran started me to work on certain mining men of the camp to gain certain information for the benefit of him and his associates.

My name here was Chas. T. Lloyd. I remained over a month and did the work successfully.

En route back to Denver, Colo., I stopped off a few days in Santa Fe to visit my pets at the Sunny Slope ranch. Two of my pet horses, Lulu and “Glen” had crossed over to the happy hunting ground where, if the Indians’ religion is correct, they may be ridden by the noble red men on buffalo hunts. I felt grieved over their death.

A few days spent in Denver and I was off for Cheyenne, Wyo., to meet U. S. Marshal Hadsell and his deputy Joe LaFors, and the client who is a high-up statesman.

The Warren Live Stock Company had had their home ranch on Pole Creek, twelve miles north of Cheyenne, burnt along with a lot of stock, causing a loss of about $40,000.00. It was known to have been set afire, but there was no clue as to who did it. Joseph LaFors had worked on the case and found suspicious circumstances connected with an ex-convict named Bert H. Hence it required that I win the confidence of cowboy Bert H. and get a confession from him if he committed the crime. Bert H. was known to be somewhere on the Laramie plains about seventy-five miles north of Cheyenne.

In order to hail from the adjoining state, Nebraska, I went there on a U. P. Ry. train, and from Sidney, Nebraska, I took a B. & M. train to Torrington, Wyoming, near old Fort Laramie, where years before I had attended dances on crutches. Here I bought a horse and saddle and rode west for the Laramie Plains, several days’ ride distant.

Bert H. was found at the Jim K. ranch. He had a contract to put up some wild hay for Jim K. He did the hay-cutting all alone in the gulches and low places far from the ranch, the country being wild and unsettled.

Bert H. and I became fast friends and we made trips into the settlements. He told me all about himself and we planned big horse-stealing raids into Nebraska. He had been sent to the Wyoming pen for stealing horses, and he now kept a small band running on the range as a nest-egg to draw on.

During this fall of 1904 while working on Bert H. I took in the great cowboy tournament at the Frontier Day Celebration in Cheyenne, and while there I was kept jumping sideways to avoid running into Bert C. of “Wild Bunch” fame and others whom I knew.

This cowboy tournament was a great treat to me, especially the “bronco-busting” contests. The riders did fine, but in the roping contests the ropers, as a whole, were “on the bum,” which would have been considered disgraceful to the early-day cowboy. But this can be accounted for by the fact of the present-day cowboy not getting much every-day practice.

One day when Bert H. and I were five miles from the Jim K. ranch we saw a streak of flying calico in the air. As it drew nearer, we discovered it to be Mrs. Jim K. sitting clothespin fashion on an old horse who was running his best. As soon as the frightened lady could get her breath she informed us that her only child, a twelve-year-old boy had shot himself in the leg with a pistol.

She and the boy were the only ones at home, as her husband had gone away on a week’s trip and their hired man Joe Cruelty would not be back until night.

As the wounded boy had been left lying on the kitchen floor alone, I put spurs to my horse and galloped to the ranch while Bert H. followed with the team and wagon, so as to take the boy to Chugwater station on the Cheyenne Northern Railroad about twenty miles west.

The boy was found on the floor badly frightened. I discovered that the bullet was lodged deep down in the calf of his leg. After bandaging the wound with wet towels, first cleansing it with diluted carbolic acid, I began to cheer him up, by laughing and telling him of the value of bullet-marks in the making of a good cowboy. He had a great desire to be a wild and woolly cowpuncher.

By the time Mrs. K. arrived I had the boy laughing.

Then I explained the foolishness of making the trip to Cheyenne, just to have the bullet cut out, at an expense of at least $200.00, in the face of the future honor to be derived from carrying lead in his flesh, as in old age he could tell his grandchildren that he was packing lead shot into him by wild Indians when the Laramie plains was a howling wilderness. I assured the mother that the boy would be well and on his feet in two weeks, whereas in Cheyenne hospital he would be kept just as long as she could be grafted out of the doctor’s fees. The result was, when Bert H. arrived there was no need for the team, as the proposed trip to the railroad had been given up.

I finally decided beyond a reasonable doubt, that Bert H. had no hand in the burning of the Pole Creek ranch; therefore, I went near the line of Nebraska to work out another clue which had been given by Senator Warren and Joe LaFors.

On leaving the Laramie plains the wounded boy, who was on crutches and out of danger, sold me one of his half-starved Russian wolfhound pups. He was all legs and hair, and had never had a square meal, as the eight dogs on the ranch were fed once a day on mush by the hired man, Joe Cruelty, who only fed them half enough, the few table scraps all going to his own two shepherd dogs and Mrs. K.’s pet cats.

I named the pup “Jimmie Long-legs,” as a name should always be founded on facts, and the fact of Jimmie having long legs was a reality.

On leaving the ranch one morning to make a hard ride without water, Jimmie played completely out and couldn’t navigate.

I was uncertain as to whether the bronco which I had just traded for, would consent to carrying double, but it was a case of “pushincy,”—something had to be done to get Jimmie to water.

Riding up by the side of the pup I reached down and caught him by the nape of the neck. Then swinging him across the saddle in front of me, the bucking contest began. Here was a bronco-busting contest going to waste on the desert with no one to see but the Lord, and if His all-seeing eye gathered in any fun from this free show He failed to let it be known by slapping me on the back and saying: “Well done thou good and faithful bronco and dog buster.” The pup was being “busted” too, or at least would have been had his stomach contained anything but the lingering memory of his last mush supper.

Every time the bronco came down on his front feet with his hind parts up in the air, my whole weight was thrown against the pup’s empty mushbasket, and of course the air was full of yelps. I wanted to smile but didn’t have time.

On reaching the creek where there was a small lake, I shot a mudhen for Jimmie. Then I had to pull off my boots and pants and wade out into the muddy lake to get the hen. While ripping the mudhen open preparatory to skinning the feathers off, the “purp” which was sitting on his long tail eyeing the operation, smelled the blood and made a grab for the hen. I tried to take it away from him but he held on, so turning my hold loose I told Jimmie to pick his own duck; but bless you, he ate feathers, bill, feet and all. It was filling that he was after, and not dainties.

Here I changed Jimmie’s name to “Eat ’Em Up Jake” and he retains that name to this day.

Later in Cheyenne City, I put E. E. U. J. in a crate and expressed him to Santa Fe, New Mexico, there to join my other pets.

My next few weeks’ work solved the fire mystery. The secret was locked up in the brains of two wealthy brothers who had cattle on a thousand hills. They were bitter enemies of Senator —— and his company. I became quite chummy with one of them and he told me enough to satisfy me as to their guilt.

I spoiled one scheme which the brothers were using against the —— Company. They had an extra ’phone instrument which was used to get the secrets passing between Senator —— and his manager, Mr. Willson in Cheyenne City, and the foreman of the Pole Creek Home ranch. A wire would be attached to this private telephone line and then fastened to the extra receiver on the ground. My informant told me in confidence of how after the fire, he lived on this telephone line catching all the secrets of Joe LaFors’ sleuthing work.

In Cheyenne city I met Senator —— at his home and the case was discussed. We decided that it would require a long siege at great expense to secure evidence enough to convict, more so, as the secret was locked up in the heads of two “foxy” men who had money to fight the case to the bitter end.

The senator said that he would read the “riot act” to these brothers so as to let them know that he knew of their guilt and how they had stolen his secrets from the telephone line, and how they used to kill and cripple his fine range horses by running them into barbed wire fences, one of their favorite schemes being to raise the wires which fenced in a windmill and trough, so that the thirsty Warren horses could crawl through to the water. Then the wild animals would be stampeded through the wire, many being ruined and some killed. On the strength of this information from me, the senator disposed of his range horses.

It was agreed that the operation be discontinued, therefore I returned to Denver.

My next operation out of the city was to Salt Lake, Utah, to do secret work on a son of Banker O’Gormley of that city; also on his friends, all young “bloods” and “high rollers.”

I passed myself off as a mining man and secured the information wanted, relating to a copper mine and new smelter in one of the southern territories. Then I dropped out of sight and returned home.

Soon I was hurried off to Prescott, Arizona, to work on a big robbery which had just taken place.

Jim S. was the treasurer of Yavapai County, Prescott being the county seat, and on the morning after election, his party being defeated, S. was found by his daughter bound and gagged, and locked in the vault of the court house. All the cash, many thousands of dollars, was gone.

Jim S. claimed that two strangers overpowered him after midnight and locked him in the vault, after which they took the cash and skipped. But his bondsmen had a suspicion that he did the job himself, hence the Dickenson agency being called into the case.

I arrived in Prescott, Arizona, about 10 P.M., and after securing a room strolled down “Whisky Row” fronting the court house, and there on the street my friend Joe Hobbs in company with the county treasurer Jim S. was met. Of course I was introduced to S. and we three went into a saloon to “irrigate.”

This illustrates how good luck often helps a detective, though it would have been an unlucky meeting had I not previously played my cards right with Joe Hobbs. He and I had been partners in a mine when I was working on the Jersey Lillie mine-salting case. He had been used then as a cat’s paw to pull my chestnuts out of the fire, and now I intended to use him again for the same purpose, as he and S. were bosom friends.

Joe Hobbs knew me by the name of Lee Roy Davis, therefore that name had to be used.

After midnight I invited Mr. Hobbs and S. to have a feast with me, and while we were in a cafe eating, two officers came in and arrested S. on a warrant sworn out by his bondsmen.

Hobbs and I accompanied the Texas gentleman to jail and saw him safely put to bed behind cold steel shutters.

Of course, my friend Hobbs was “hot under the collar” over the arrest being made at night when bonds could not be given for his friend’s release.

At 8 P.M. next day, in Lawlor’s office, I met the bondsmen who had employed the Dickenson agency. They were: Mr. James Wardner, Mr. Tony Motts, Mr. John Lawson, Mr. Robt. Howe and his partners in the Palace saloon and theater, Messers Smith & Belcher. They gave me all the facts in the case, of how Jim S. on the morning after the election had been found by his daughter who was the assistant treasurer, locked in the vault and all the county funds gone.

My visits at the home of Mr. Hobbs were enjoyed, as Mrs. Hobbs was a nice little soul and had three sweet little children. Besides, she was a good cook and gave me an opportunity of testing her culinary art. She was a sister of my friend Joseph LaFors, the deputy U. S. Marshal of Wyoming. On this account I disliked using her and her hubby as cat’s paws.

Of course it was impossible for me to stay in Prescott without being recognized by my old friend Johnny Kinnie, who still owned mining interests there. After we had come together, I found that he still loved “red licker,” “all same” twenty-five years previous, when he and I went to a swell Mexican wedding in La Mesilla, New Mexico, and got “loaded” on champagne.

As Kinnie was a good Democrat, same as Mr. Hobbs and Jim S. and knew the inside workings of the Arizona brand of political whisky-soaked corruption, I used him also as a cat’s paw, though with his consent.

Johnny Kinnie and I went to the strong Miners’ union camp of McCabe where I did some secret work among old Coeur D’Alene, Idaho, dynamiters, who knew me well, but who failed to recognize me. Kinnie was fearful lest one particular rabid dynamiter from the Coeur D’Alenes might know my face and voice; for only a few weeks previous he had told Kinnie of that Dickenson detective “Allison—Siringo” who had joined the Gem union and turned traitor. He said he would know me should we ever meet, but the fellow drank at my expense many times and told me all about the prospects for a man of wealth like myself, investing money in that camp.

Before court sat I made a trip to Phoenix, the capital of the territory, and to Tempe and other places. On these trips I was gathering evidence to be used against the schemes which Jim S.’s friends were manufacturing to clear the county treasurer.

Finally the day of trial arrived, and after the jury were selected I informed our clients that the defense would “fix” a few of the jurymen so as to be assured of a “hung jury”; and later our clients were given the names of the “fixed” jurymen, as I had got the information from headquarters, but it was too late now to remedy the evil, as the case had started.

During the trial a Catholic priest did a little stunt on a court official to save one of his church members of wealth and influence who might be sent to the penitentiary in case Jim S. was convicted.

As soon as the jury were dismissed the four “fixed” jurymen met Hobbs, Jim S. and myself in one of the saloons. Then drinking began, and these jurymen told of how they had worked for an acquittal. One of these “fixed” jurymen said he wouldn’t have brought in a verdict of guilty had he been at an upstairs window in the court house and seen Jim S. carry off the county funds.

Thus is Arizona justice blind-drunk sometimes.

Of course Jim S. was put under bond for a new trial, he being convicted at the fourth trial, and sentenced to the penitentiary for four years.

The next day I bade my friends goodby and pulled out for Denver stopping en route at Santa Fe, New Mexico.

I found a wonderful change in Eat ’Em Up Jake. He had grown to be almost as large as a young colt, and his ribs were covered with good solid fat. Mr. and Mrs. B. C. Volk who had charge of my ranch kept him filled up as per my request. E. E. U. J. knew me and seemed to take great delight in showing how easily he could pick up a jackrabbit. The pleasure of seeing him outrun a swift jackrabbit in a few hundred yards race amply repaid me for the trouble and expense of getting him to Santa Fe. Besides, he was a beautiful specimen of the Russian wolfhound breed, and it was a satisfaction to know that I had “brought him up” from a lanky half-starved pup to his present lordly state. His hair was now long and curly and as white as snow, with the exception of a few cloudy spots. It was also a pleasure to think back to the time when he and I slept together and “busted” broncos on the sagebrush flats of Wyoming.

Soon after returning to Denver I was sent to Mt. Carbon, a coal mining camp in Gunnison county, Colorado, to investigate a fire which had destroyed a “tipple” and other buildings.

I found Mt. Carbon to be a desolate place on the snowy crest of the great rocky mountain divide. Here at midnight, with the snow from two to ten feet deep, I walked out into the hills and with old Colts 45 shot out the old year 1904, and ushered in the new year of 1905. It was a single handed New Years celebration at a height of over 10,000 feet above sea level, with the whole face of nature wrapped in her purest robe of white, and with the large flakes of snow falling thick and fast. My mind naturally drifted back twelve months to when old Colts 45 and I smoked in the new year just dead, among the “moonshiners” of “Old Kintuck.”

I finally decided that the fire which destroyed the tipple was an accident caused by defective electric wires.

Then I “hiked” back to Denver to await a new operation.

For the next few months my work was on short operations in the city or the nearby towns.

During this time I made one “big catch” in the person of Joseph Adams, alias many other names. He was a member of the noted Knox-Whitman gang of check forgers and had been chased all over the United States and Europe. In the crowded postoffice one Sunday morning I recognized him as resembling the Adams photo which was carried in my pocket. After this “foxy” gentleman had gotten a letter at the general delivery window he went out into the rainstorm and tried to cover up his tracks by going through out-of-the-way streets and alleys. On turning a corner he would stand concealed to see if any one were following him. Here my early training in “shadow” work came in play. He finally went to his room on 14th street. Then I stepped into a nearby drug store and ’phoned to Assistant Supt. Geary that I had the muchly wanted bank forger located, giving the number of the street where his room was located.

Soon Asst. Supt. B. and operative “Dick” H. were sent to assist me.

When Asst. Supt. B. and one of the city officials arrested Adams in the afternoon, when he had finished a meal, I dropped out of sight, as we poor operatives are compelled to do in order to hide our identity. But not so with the assistant superintendents; they can swell up and look wise as though they are the whole “cheese.”

Next morning the daily papers came out with glowing accounts of the great detective ability of our Asst. Supt. Mr. B. in the running down of this great criminal. Of course Mr. B. didn’t “load” the newspaper reporters. He merely looked wise and they did the rest. I mention this to illustrate how an operative in the Dickenson institution is a dead duck so far as the public are concerned. Adams was sentenced to a long term in the penitentiary, so I was told.

During the early spring I was sent to Leadville and Cripple Creek to make an investigation on mining matters.

On returning to Denver I was sent to Pueblo, Colorado, to work on the Blanche Haws kidnapping case.

Mrs. Haws was the principal witness against Republican officials in recent election frauds in Pueblo, and she had just been kidnapped and spirited away to parts unknown.

On reaching the city of Pueblo I met our clients, District Attorney S. H. Grave, Geo. E. Lord and J. A. Boothly, both of the Daily Chieftain, the leading newspaper of the city.

A couple of days later Mrs. Haws was found in a wagon, being in the hands of her kidnappers en route to Canyon City.

Mrs. Haws and several men were thrown in the county jail. I had found out enough to convince me that Mrs. Haws “stood in” with the “play” and had been kidnapped by her own consent.

She was a good-looking young woman of the free and easy kind, and swore by all that was holy that she had been kidnapped by force. A few days later in the same jail where I had been a prisoner with the cold-blooded murderers Dick Manley and Anderson, many years previous, I broke Mrs. Haws down and she made a full confession. Undersheriff Tim O’Leary assisted me.

While on the Haws case in Pueblo I had the pleasure of inspecting President Roosevelt’s teeth without his knowing it.

He was returning to Washington from his noted bear hunt. He made a short speech from the rear of his private car. The chief of police, McCafferty, who knew my business, had given me a “tip” as to where the President’s car would stop. Therefore the widow, on whom I was working, and who thought I was a rich mining man, and I, secured a choice place to stand. We stood within a few feet of “Teddy” the Great, and I could look into his mouth while he was talking, and see every tooth in his head, and a finer set of teeth I had never seen before. Every one seemed to be perfect, and they were set into jaws that were built for wear and tear.

While making his heart-to-heart talk to the great audience, the President showed his regard for the safety of others, and also the activity of his massive brain.

On the rear end of the coach dozens of children were hanging. The engine backed up to the train and the jolt knocked some of these “kids” off onto the track where they would have been run over had the coach moved a few feet further. With outstretched arms ready for action, the President sprang forward and grabbed at some of the urchins who were still hanging onto the car. The coach came to a standstill before any damage had been done, and quicker than a flash the President’s whole countenance changed, and with a smile he said: “Look out boys, little apples always go to the bottom of the barrel!”

Of course this put himself in the big apple class, which caused a roar of laughter. But the point which struck me forcibly was the quick action of both thought and speech.

I had seen “Teddy” Roosevelt once before at Trinidad, Colo., when on his way to the Rough Riders’ Reunion at Las Vegas, New Mexico. This was before he became President. At that time too, I stood near the end of his car, though dressed as a coal miner and being in company with a gang of striking miners.

Finally I returned home after doing all that could be done against the “Grand Old Party” of President Lincoln and Ben Butler.

I had found out enough to satisfy me that the Republican party had corrupted decency and the sacred franchise in the city of Pueblo, but that is not saying that the Democrats wouldn’t have done the same had they been in control of the political machinery.

In Denver, where the Democrats had been in power for many years, they had carried corruption with such a high hand that even a Pattersonian anarchist of the sic-em-tige kind ought to hang his head in shame, and blush every time he sees a statue of the Goddess of Liberty.

At one of these corrupt elections in Denver, I was instructed to put on “bum” clothes and join the hobo gang in the slums, so as to secure evidence. I only voted a few times,—eight in all,—three times before the same judge of election. Others of my hobo chums voted all day as they needed some “easy” money.

The notorious Jack Hall of the old Clifton Hotel had charge of the Democratic slush fund, where I did my voting that day. My earnings for the day only amounted to $1.75, at 25 cents a vote, as the paymaster skipped out with the funds after my last vote was deposited, just before the polls closed. On finding out that the “money-guy” had vanished, there was much swearing and gnashing of teeth among these poor downtrodden American citizens who help make our laws.

Denver has made great strides though, in the matter of buying votes, since the time that Wolcott put up his good hard cash to become a Republican senator of these glorious United States, where every man is a king, with the sacred right to vote. At that time the Republicans had control of the city, it being about sixteen years ago. But at that time they had no “scab” voters; they paid union prices,—a new two dollar bill for each vote.

My next operation was trying to run down a hard case in the State of Sonora, Old Mexico.

Operative J. V. Marke, now one of the Asst. Supts. of the Denver office, had just worked up a big steal in Colorado City, Colorado, and this man was wanted in connection with that case. He had been seen by a traveling man at a fiesta in the town of Magdalena, Mexico, and had told of owning a placer mine out in the La Briesa mining country, about 100 miles east of the railroad town of Magdalena. But as to the name he was using down in Mexico we were ignorant; therefore I had only his description to work on.

In Magdalena, a small city, I failed to get a trace of my man, as at the time he was seen there the city was full of strangers attending the fiesta.

From here I went overland by stage, private conveyances and on horseback to the La Briesa mining camp owned by Col. W. C. Green. From La Briesa I scoured the wild mountain regions for fifty miles around, wherever gold had ever been found. I did this on horseback and had some trying experiences with the half-starved Mexican ponies breaking down.

I concluded that my man had never been in this La Briesa country.

On returning to Magdalena I boarded a train for the south and scoured the country through to the city of Guaymas on the Gulf of California. In Hermosillo, the capital of Sonora, I enjoyed life for a week, and also took in the dives and tough places where my man would naturally hang out, as he was a gambler by profession.

There was great excitement throughout the State of Sonora over the Yaqui Indian war, Indian prisoners were being brought into the capital and shot, then their bodies hung up to trees to rot down, it being a crime to remove a corpse from its necktie swing. I could have seen five of these warriors shot and hung up about five miles north of Hermosillo, but I had no desire to witness the scene.

In Nogales, Arizona, on the Mexican border, I found a hotel proprietress who had seen my man as he was leaving Mexico. He had stayed at her hotel while waiting for the northbound train.

From here I went to Naco on the train, thence back into Old Mexico to the large mining camp of Cananea; thence back to Bisbee and Douglas, Arizona. In Douglas I met my old cowboy friend Jim East and his good wife.

After putting my case in the hands of the Arizona Rangers, I returned to Denver, stopping off a few days at Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Soon after my arrival in Denver the Captain of the Arizona Rangers wrote me that they had my man located and asked if they should arrest him. This letter was turned over to our clients in Colorado Springs so they could make their own terms with the Arizona Rangers. This ended my connection with the operation. I had gone under the name of Chas. Tony Lloyd on this trip.

I reached Denver just in time to see the State Legislature seat Peabody in the Governor’s chair for a second term, in spite of the protests that his opponent Alva Adams had been elected and was entitled to the seat.

It was predicted that Governor Jas. H. Peabody would be assassinated if the legislature confirmed his election; therefore the Dickenson agency was called on to furnish two bodyguards for the governor, who could shoot straight and were not afraid to die. Yours Truly and old Colts 45 were selected as one of these bodyguards and we were itching to plant six 45 caliber bullets where they would do the most good for society. Mr. Pace, one of Capt. John Howard’s patrolmen, was the other bodyguard.

After the legislature had seated Governor Peabody, a big reception was held at night in the Peabody mansion on Capitol Hill, and there I experienced a touch of high life, and at the same time had a couple of years added to my life by the governor’s pretty daughter, Miss Jessie, pinning a carnation to my coat and smiling her sweetest while doing so.

In order to keep peace in the Republican household, Governor Peabody resigned his office later, and the legislature appointed Jesse McDonald, a good Republican from Leadville, as the new executive. Thus did I lose my job and the chance of high living, also the opportunity of killing members of Western Federation of Dynamiters, or the spilling of my own Texas blood for the benefit of society and the corrupt politicians.

A few days later I was en route to Sheridan, Wyoming, to work on cowboys and cattlemen to secure secrets of a “Frenzied Finance” nature for a live stock commission trust of the east.

I was given a letter of introduction to Chas Long, a cattle inspector and deputy sheriff at Sheridan. Mr. Long was a cowboy of the old school, and assisted me in my work.

In Sheridan I made the acquaintance of an old Texas cowboy by the name of George Carroll. He was now a prosperous cattleman. I went with him and his young son to their cattle ranch on the Rosebud river in Montana, and while on this trip I lived my old cowboy life over again by eating fine fat beef stuck on a stick and roasted over a camp fire.

After about a month spent in and around Sheridan, I secured the coveted sworn affidavit from the McKinley brothers, cattlemen. But I sweat blood until the affidavits were in my pocket, as the “boys” didn’t want to mix up in the affair as it was no fight of theirs, they being honorable men.

I then returned home, wondering what the next operation would be.

After a short stay in Denver I was detailed on a case in Colorado Springs, which turned out to be a two weeks’ pleasure trip in that noted summer resort. The tourist season was then at its height, it being midsummer; therefore my stay in that clean little prohibition city was a pleasure indeed.

The work was in the nature of an investigation to decide who had stolen a big lot of street car tickets, though only a few of them had been used.

The operation was being conducted by Mr. G. A. Carpp, the president of a principal national bank. I was assisted by Mr. O. J. Lewis, Mr. Wm. Boyd, Dr. Tice and Supt. Latham of the street railway system of that place.

While in Colorado Springs I visited my old friends, Postmaster Dana, Chief of Police Alex. Adams; the cowboy author, Andy Adams, and last but not least, C. W. Kurie, the mining man, and his lovely wife and sons.

Mr. Kurie and his eldest son gave me my first automobile ride in their brand new $4000.00 “Red Devil.” I enjoyed it immensely.

As the result of my work a high up employe of the Electric Ry. Co. lost his job. I felt sorry for the poor fellow when I accused him of being the guilty man. The blood rushed out of his face and he became as pale as a ghost. His ears became so transparent after the blood had left them, that I could almost see through them. But the head officials had no disposition to prosecute him.

I had previously confronted other trusted employes on whom a slight suspicion rested, and accused them of the theft as though I had good proof, but they looked me square in the face and showed their innocence by every look and action. Among these were Mr. Carpp’s young nephew and an old Union soldier eighty years of age. It was comical to see this old hero of bloody battles climb upon his dignity when accused.

I then bade my friends goodby and returned to the Queen City of the Plains, Denver.

Supt. J. S. Kaiser at once detailed me on an operation in Roswell, New Mexico, just the place I wanted to visit, as I hadn’t been there for twenty-three years.

Although my instructions from Asst. Supt. “Hank” Geary who had charge of the case was to do nothing to retard justice, as the agency couldn’t afford to work against his “royal nibs,” Uncle Samuel; still, knowing my failing, I felt sure that once in the battle I would fight to win, even though my big Uncle did get his corns stepped on.

Before starting on my trip to Roswell, the manager of our six western offices, Mr. Jas. McCartney, called me into his private office to inform me that I had been promoted to the position of assistant superintendent under Supt. John S. Kaiser of the Denver office; that on my return from New Mexico I was to take the place of Asst. Supt. Carver, who had just resigned to accept a place under Special Agent Ben Williams of the A. T. & S. F. Ry.

I told Mr. McCartney that I didn’t want the position of assistant superintendent, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He told me to take a week to think the matter over carefully, and then to write my decision to Supt. John S. Kaiser, so that my letter could be forwarded to the eastern headquarters.

After reaching Roswell, New Mexico, I wrote a letter refusing the promotion, under the pretense that I didn’t think office work would suit my complexion after having led an active outdoor life so long; though in truth I refused it because I didn’t consider my education finished. For to accept the assistant superintendency, would be like a pupil in a college taking a position as assistant professor. The facts are, I started out in the Dickenson school to serve fifteen years. Then the time was extended to twenty years, as I found there was much more to learn of the world’s ways.

On starting out with the Dickensons, I had just finished “fifteen years on the hurricane deck of a Spanish pony,” in the strenuous cowboy school, and I concluded that another fifteen years in the equally strenuous Dickenson College would complete my education; but this school was found to be great and broad, so that a twenty years’ course would be short enough.

Boarding a Colorado Southern Ry. train, I started for Amarillo, Tex. There a transfer was made onto a Pecos Valley train of the A. T. & S. F. system.

The journey from Amarillo, Texas, to Portales, New Mexico, an all day ride in a railway coach, was over the level staked plains, and was a rare treat to me. Over this same ground I had ridden horseback, with not a single inhabitant between the L X ranch twenty miles north of Amarillo, southwesterly to Roswell, New Mexico, a distance of about 200 miles. This was in 1877 and 1878. Now my train speeds along through a country of fine white ranch and farm houses, with a windmill on nearly every section of land. What a wonderful change in about twenty-seven years.

On coming in sight of the Paloduro (head of the Red river) Canyon to our left, I saw the once favorite camping place for Indian and Mexican buffalo hunters. Here after the New Year in 1877, W. C. Moore (the cowboy outlaw seen in Alaska) Jack Ryan, Vanduzan and myself camped, down in the breaks of the Paloduro, where Vanduzan had killed a fat bear. And that day I saw my first Indian buffalo hunt with lances.

Leaving my companions in camp, I had joined a band of fifty Apache Indians and we rode out to a large herd of buffalo which were grazing where my train is now gliding along. The herd numbered about 20,000 to 50,000 head. When within half a mile of the woolly beasts our Indian chief placed us all abreast close together so as to fool the buffaloes who couldn’t figure out what kind of an animal we were. They would have stampeded from the sight of horsemen approaching them in a haphazard fashion; but as it was, we were within 100 yards of them before they broke into a run. Then the race of life and death began. We were soon right in the midst of the herd at the tail end. For awhile I did nothing but watch the Indians do their expert lancing. Each buck would run up by the side of a buffalo and reaching over, stick the sharp steel or stone lance, which were fastened to long poles, into the animal’s loin. Down the poor brute would go, helpless, but not killed. Then Mr. Buck would select another and another victim for slaughter.

One old grey-haired Indian buck on a large yellow horse, leaned far over in his stirrup and drove the lance home, but his weight on the handle broke it, and off he tumbled and rolled over and over in the short buffalo grass. I happened to be following close behind. It was comical to see this Indian, after he had gained his feet, dodging the buffaloes which were bringing up the rear. They tried to keep out of his way, but in his excitement he would run in front of them. One old bull jumped almost over his head and knocked him down. Then he sat still and the rest went around him.

At the windup I emptied my Colts 45 pistol and killed three bulls; my aim being just at the lower edge of the hump. Here the bullet enters the “lights” and does the work.

After the battle was over there were several hundred crippled buffalo scattered along the trail. They were unable to rise to their feet, but otherwise much alive.

I remained to see the several hundred bucks and squaws who had followed behind, kill the wounded animals. Then I rode back to camp in time for the bearmeat supper. Of course I had brought along the humps of the buffalo killed by me.

Soon the train rounded the head of Paloduro Canyon, and here to the right, a few hundred yards, stood the log cabin house built by the Dyer brothers (brothers-in-law of Cattle King Charlie Goodnight) in 1878; this being the first house built between the L X ranch and Roswell. At that time Charlie Goodnight had his ranch at the mouth of Paloduro Canyon about twenty-five miles further east. All around this old Dyer log house now waived fields of ripening grain, and nearby stood up-to-date farm homes.

Finally we crossed Running Water, thence past a large “dry” lake which had looked good to me in the summer of 1881. At that time I was returning with the remnants of my men from a raid after “Billy the Kid” and his gang and the cattle which they had stolen and run into Lincoln County, New Mexico, the winter previous. This raid had resulted in the killing and capture of the whole gang.

We struck this “dry” lake with 2,500 head of famished cattle which had had no water for two days and nights; hence were almost crazy. We and our mounts were about dead for water, too. The bottom of this lake bed contained about two feet of rainwater, which proved a godsend to us. We had been lost, but wouldn’t give up the ship by turning the cattle loose.

My cowboys were Frank Clifford (“Big-foot Wallace,” afterwards an outlaw), Tom Emory and Lon. Chambers. The last two were in the battle which put “Billy the Kid” out of business, and placed two of his gang, Charlie Bowdre and Tom O’Falliard under the sod. They and Jim East, another of my men, were with Sheriff Pat Garrett when the fight took place.

On flew the train over familiar ground, finally stopping in the lively town of Portales. Here at Las Portales Lake, “Billy the Kid” and his gang had their headquarters in the early days, while stealing cattle. At a fresh-water spring coming out of a cliff of rock they had a camp and a stone corral.

From here the train descended from the staked plains down into the Pecos Valley, and in the evening dumped me out in the beautiful little city of Roswell, New Mexico.

Late that evening I walked down the main street of Roswell, and there in front of a real estate office sat my old cowboy friend Tom Emory.

But seeing Emory so often in the weeks following brought back memories of bygone days; for right here in this very spot in the spring of 1881 I had left him to guard the steers which we had recovered from parties to whom they had been sold by “Billy the Kid,” while I took Lon Chambers and “Big-foot Wallace” down the Pecos river to attend the round-up on John Chisolm’s range, in search of other stolen cattle.

At that time, John Chisolm, whose home ranch was five miles below Roswell, and which is now the beautiful home of millionaire J. J. Hagerman, ranged 60,000 cattle, where now live nearly that many human beings.

And within a stone’s throw of where Tom Emory now sits smoking, stands the same adobe residence where Emory took his meals with the family of Capt. J. C. Lea,—one of nature’s genuine noblemen, now dead,—during my absence.

In those days Roswell contained two stores, one owned by Capt. J. C. Lea and the others by a Mr. Cosgrove. There were not to exceed a dozen houses in the town, and Emory used to graze his steers where the busy streets now are, and watch them from the Lea store where he was wont to sit and smoke in the shade, just as he is doing now.

During the forenoon the day after my arrival, I stepped into the Citizens National Bank to make a deposit, and my old friend John W. Poe, the president of the institution stepped to the window to wait on me. I gave him my name as Chas. Tony Lloyd and this threw him off the track. We met several times afterwards and he never recognized me.

Seeing John W. Poe brought back other memories, for I was the direct cause of his first coming to New Mexico, where he has lived ever since and accumulated an independent fortune by having the foresight to see the future of Roswell and the Pecos Valley.

In the winter of 1880 I had followed a herd of cattle supposed to be stolen, to Las Cruces on the Rio Grande river, and there from the notorious desperado “Hurricane Bill” I found out their destination was Tombstone, Ariz. Then I wrote to my boss, W. C. Moore in Texas, to send a good man by rail and stage to Tombstone, Ariz., to investigate this cattle herd, as I couldn’t go that far from my outfit, then in White Oaks.

John W. Poe was a deputy U. S. Marshal in Mobeeta, Texas, with a name for honor and bravery, so Moore employed him for the trip to Arizona; but he reached there too late, the herd having been scattered over that wild country and all trace of them lost. Then Moore ordered Poe to Doña Ana and Lincoln Counties, New Mexico, to prosecute the parties who had “stood in” with “Billy the Kid” in the stealing of L X cattle, as per my reports.

Later when Pat. Garrett’s term of office expired, John W. Poe was elected sheriff of Lincoln County, which then embraced a wild territory almost 200 miles square.

After becoming settled in Roswell, I called on Attorney W. W. Gatewood, then my operation was started.

I made many new acquaintances here and was taken out buggy riding often, among the flowing artesian wells and lovely farms and orchards. It was indeed a treat to see the change from an untamed cattle country to fruit and flowers. And a drive through “Lovers Lane,” the former ranch home of John W. Poe, on a hot summer’s day is next to paradise, especially if the girl is a “good-looker.”

In Roswell I became well acquainted with Gen. Sherman Bell, who dished out to the Western Federation of Miners in Colorado, some of their own bitter medicine. They made a great howl about being deported from their homes, contrary to the Constitution of the United States; but in these howls they failed to mention the hundreds of non-union men termed “scabs,” dragged from the bosom of their families and set adrift without food or shelter in dead of winter by them. I know whereof I speak, for I helped them do it in the Coeur D’Alenes, and the only crime committed by the poor “scabs” was trying to earn an honest living by the sweat of their brows.

This is not meant to condemn all members of the Western Federation of Miners, as that would be unjust. I venture to say that half of the members of that great and powerful organization are kind-hearted, law-abiding citizens who are deluded and led astray by rank, bloodthirsty blatherskites.

Gen. Sherman Bell was in Roswell for his health, and to hobnob with cowboy Charlie Ballard and U. S. Dist. Att. Maj. Llewellyn, who had helped him and “Teddy” Roosevelt storm San Juan hill in Cuba.

I remained in Roswell over a month, and before leaving, our side came out with flying colors, while poor old Uncle Samuel took a back seat. But during this legal battle I learned some new lessons in high finance and official trickery, which would have caused President Roosevelt’s model teeth and massive jaws to snap together like a steel trap, could he have peeped behind the curtains.

One day previous to my departure, I couldn’t resist the temptation of making myself known to my old cowboy chums, Phelps and Tom White, nephews of the old-time Texas Cattle Kings, George and Jim Littlefield; the White boys being now wealthy.

Of course we had to “hark back” to old times, and in doing so, Phelps White added a little new history to my cowboy life.

In the late Spring of 1877 at St. Joe, Texas, mounted on my pet racehorse “Whisky Pete,” and wearing a satisfied smile decorated with a sprouting mustache, I hired out to the boss of one of the Littlefield trail herds numbering 3,700 head of mixed cattle, en route to Dodge City, Kansas. I was given the job of horse wrangler,—taking care of the “ramutha,” about 100 head of saddle horses.

In crossing through the ten mile belt of heavy blackjack timber near Red River, which is the Texas and Indian Territory line, the boss detailed Phelps White, who was then too young to support a mustache, though old enough to “tote” a Winchester rifle and a Colts 45 pistol, to help me through the “blackjacks.”

I was trailing the “ramutha” several miles behind the cattle herd, taking my time, when young White and his heavy artillery appeared on the scene. He was informed that his help was not needed as the horses were no trouble. Still, he remained and helped me through the timber.

And now after keeping silent twenty-eight years he comes out with the truth that I was suspected of being a horse thief, and they feared that my Indian Territory pals might be in hiding in this “crosstimber” to help me steal the whole “ramutha.” Hence the boss sending him back to help me.

They could hardly be blamed for their suspicions, for I was a tough looking kid and had spent the previous winter among the Chickasaw Indians in the Indian Territory.

While with Tom and Phelps White they introduced me to my old friend Tom Emory, and I found out that he had once recognized me down in Casas Grandes, Old Mexico, but having heard that I was with the Dickensons he thought it best not to speak to me.

I was also made known to my old friends J. S. Lea, now county treasurer of this, Chaves County, and Andy M. Robertson, a prosperous business man of Roswell.

Phelps White pointed out to me old “Uncle Henry” Stephens whom I knew in my boyhood days when he was one of the largest cattle drovers of the old Chisholm Trail, between southern Texas and Kansas. He now represents a Kansas City commission firm, as his great wealth has taken wings and “flewd” away.

In leaving Roswell on my return to Denver, I concluded to try J. W. Stockard’s new automobile passenger line over the 107 miles of unsettled country to Torrance, at the junction of the new Rock Island and New Mexico Central railways. I did this so as to visit my pets at Santa Fe.

Bright and early one morning we started with the big Red Devil and the Little Red Imp loaded with gasoline and half a dozen passengers. It was raining hard and the mud flew thick and fast. About night we had reached Charlie Ballard’s cattle ranch fifteen miles out of Roswell, and a few of us hired a rancher to take us back to the starting point in his carriage. It was late in the night when we reached Roswell.

This was my second and last ride in an automobile. The trip was worth something though, as I learned some new cuss words.

I thought of the story about the western farmer who had never heard of automobiles and the green cowboy who had never seen a hay mower, but had heard of automobiles. The angry farmer was on his way to the crossroad town to get an unruly hay mower fixed, at a time when his hay needed cutting. He met the cowboy whose hide was full of “red licker,” who stopped him and asked:

“Say mister, is that a au-to-mo-bele?”

The hayseeder replied: “I dunno,—the d——d thing au-to-mo-hay, but it won’t.”

That was the way with the Stockard Red Devils,—they au-to have landed us in Torrance, but they didn’t, thus spoiling my chance of swapping smiles with Eat-Em-Up-Jake.

Next morning I boarded a train for Denver, returning over the same route that I had come.