A cowboy detective

In Idaho with Dynamiters—A Cowboy Operation in the Bad Lands of South Dakota—I Resign from the Dickenson Agency.

During the first half of 1907 I led an easy life, with nothing to do but keep old Colts 45 well oiled for dynamiters and assassins.

I had to accompany that greatest of all detectives, James McCartney, who broke up the Molly Maguire gang—hanging twenty-three and sending thirty-two to the penitentiary—wherever he went. But during these noted trials McCartney would remain at his hotel, or visit with friends, while I helped guard Harry Orchard, the star witness for the prosecution. His life was too valuable to take chances on his assassination.

Orchard made a splendid witness at the different trials in Idaho. Thus did he make partial amends to society for the twenty-six men he helped to murder.

In summing up the Orchard evidence the judge on the bench, Fremont Wood, said he certainly told the truth, as no man could tell the same story at different times and not get mixed up in his statements; more so, under the cross-questioning of such able lawyers as Darrow and Richardson. Furthermore most of Orchard’s testimony was corroborated by telegrams, letters and reliable witnesses.

At the windup Albert E. Horsley, alias Harry Orchard, was convicted for the murder of ex-Governor Steunenburg and sentenced to death. But shortly after, the death sentence was changed to life imprisonment, which was certainly just. In fact he should be put under parole and given his liberty. I would willingly stake my life that he has had a change of heart since that guiding angel, Geo. A. Pettibone, of the Western Federation of Miners, drilled him in the art of manufacturing bombs and exploding them. For according to the evidence it was this drill-master and his pupil who set the bomb for Judge Gabbert, of Denver, and blew the poor stranger, who picked up the pocketbook, into fragments. The pupil placed the bomb and pocketbook while the instructor looked on from a distance of two city blocks.

The State of Idaho, through her leading attorneys, Senator W. E. Borah and James H. Hawley, secured two “gun-men” to help guard Orchard when taken from behind the penitentiary walls. Their names were Bob Meldrum and R. Barthell; Meldrum being the man-killing town marshal of Dixon, Wyoming, at the time Jim F. of “Wild Bunch” fame, and I took in that burg.

When Mr. McCartney introduced us in Boise under my own name it was comical to see Meldrum’s surprise. He remarked that he had met me as Harry Blevins, in Dixon, Wyoming.

Since our meeting in Boise, Meldrum has added to his record as a killer, by shooting a man in Telluride, Colo.

During the summer, in Boise, Idaho, I had a few years added to my life through the meeting of that great actress—Miss Ethel Barrymore.

This beautiful young actress was dying to see Harry Orchard before returning East. But no one except court officials and his guards were allowed to see him, by strict orders from Governor Gooding.

Miss Barrymore had already pled with the governor, so I was told, but his heart was like a chunk of chilled steel. Then some one suggested that I might help her out. Just one smile and a “good-fellow” handshake, and she had me kneeling at her feet, figuratively speaking. I informed her that my hands were tied without the consent of Mr. McCartney but that if she would act her part according to my instructions we could get his consent. She agreed.

I had learned that all men, no matter how old, have a weak spring in their makeup which can be snapped asunder by fair women, if they only go at it right. Of course I hated to put up a “job” on Mr. McCartney, but who wouldn’t to make a pretty girl happy.

Mr. Gifford Pinchot, Chief of the United States Forest Service, was also anxious to see Orchard, therefore he accompanied Miss Barrymore and me to Mr. McCartney’s private reception room. Mr. S. S. McClure, of the McClure Magazine, and the wife of the principal owner of the Idaho Statesman, Mrs. Calvin Cobb, also went along.

On introducing Miss Barrymore I started the ball to rolling by telling Mr. McCartney that I had assured the lady that he would not deny her request.

The play started when the young actress moved her chair close up to the gentleman, so that she could look him in the face.

When the one-act drama was over we all started in a carriage for the penitentiary. Mr. McCartney had given me orders to let the lady see Orchard, but under no condition to let her speak to him. That was sufficient, as all I wanted was an entering wedge.

On reaching the penitentiary I had warden Whitney bring Orchard from his steel cell to the warden’s private office. Then I turned the natural born actress loose in the room with this star dynamiter, and she talked with him to her heart’s content.

And I was repaid for all my trouble by having Miss Barrymore ’phone me after midnight to be at her train and say goodby. This I did, and her happy smile and warm handshake lingers with me to this day—nearly two years later.

During the Steve Adams trial in Wallace, Idaho, which terminated in a hung jury—that being no surprise, considering the large slush fund put up by the Western Federation of Miners to save his neck—I had the pleasure of visiting Gem where I made my getaway by sawing through the floor. Mr. McCartney’s private secretary, Robt. Shollenbeger, went with me on horseback.

We saw bullet holes through old walls as reminders of those exciting times in 1892. I recognized many old landmarks—but only one live one in the person of Dan Harrington and his flowing grey beard.

On leaving Wallace and the Coeur D’Alene country we stopped for a few days in Spokane, Wash. We were accompanied by that whole-soul honest man, ex-sheriff Harvey K. Brown of Baker City, Oregon. But the poor fellow soon after met the same fate as ex-Governor Steunenburg, and in the same manner, a bomb being placed at his residence gate. Here is Brown’s dying statement, as copied from the Denver Post of October 2, 1907:

This illustrates the danger of being an important witness against that bloodthirsty dynamiting bunch, who some well-meaning people believe are angels.

Another prince of a good fellow blown up with dynamite, but not killed, soon after giving his testimony against this “noble order” was Mr. Bulkley Wells, manager and part owner of a rich mine in Telluride, Colo., the former manager of this mine, Mr. Arthur Collins, being shot and killed through a window by that villain, Steve Adams, according to his own, and Orchard’s, sworn confession.

We have been expecting to hear of the assassination of Governor Frank Gooding, as his life has been threatened more than any one else, unless it is ex-Governor Jas. H. Peabody of Colorado, who has escaped two attempts at assassination.

All law-loving citizens should adore the names of these two governors who did their duty in the face of hourly danger. This dynamiting brigade had, no doubt, figured that the blowing up of ex-Governor Steunenburg would put the fear of death in the hearts of other officials who believed in law and order. But they didn’t reckon on that noble trait implanted in the breasts of some men which defies death, and even torture, when it comes to sacrificing principle and justice.

When the trial of Haywood, secretary and treasurer of the Western Federation was ended, and Mr. McCartney and I were back in Denver, Colorado, I resigned from the Dickenson Agency to try the “Simple Life” on my Sunny Slope ranch at Santa Fe, New Mexico.

I had not been out of the agency long when I was requested, by Mr. James McCartney, to undertake a cowboy operation up in the Bad Lands of South Dakota. Members of the South Dakota Stock Growers’ Association, Mr. James Craig being president, and Mr. Frank Stewart secretary, were short thousands of steers and could not figure out what had become of them. Hence I was sent up there to unravel the mystery.

I spent the fall and winter in South Dakota working on cattlemen, cowboys and Indians. Much of my work being on the Pine Ridge and Rosebud Indian Reservations.

My reports showed where thousands of steers had been stolen and butchered, the year previous to my arrival, to furnish beef for the grading crews of the two new railroads, the Milwaukee and St. Paul, and the Northwestern, building west through that country.

Some of my cowboy chums, on whom I worked, had become well fixed financially by butchering these cattle. Most of the stealing was done through half-breed Indians who lived on the reservations.

Much of my time was spent in Rapid City, Interior Kadoka, Wasta and the White Owl country. My name was Chas. Tony Lloyd. I experienced some hardships from the terrible blizzards which rage in that country during the winters. On closing the operation in the White Owl Country I had to ride in a cold blizzard for over one hundred miles, with snow belly-deep to a horse, in places, to the railroad town of Wasta.

I was indeed glad to get back and bask in the warm sunshine of New Mexico, and to be with my pets, Eat ’Em Up Jake and Rowdy, my favorite saddle stallion, the offspring of Lulu; also Miss Pussy-cat, who has a history in connection with the “Wild Bunch;” she having been given to me when a wee kitten up in Ft. Steel, Wyoming, by cowboy Charlie Ivey, who little dreamed that this supposed Harry Blevins had once been a cowboy companion of his, in the early-day cattle business of Texas.

Mr. Geo. S. Tweedy, who was in charge of my ranch, had cared for my pets during my absence.

Now, dear reader, in closing my twenty-two years of experience in studying human nature, let me say that I have come to the conclusion that there is more good than bad in mankind. I believe most of the viciousness in man could be smothered by doing away with liquor and greed for the almighty dollar. For through these great evils I have seen bitter tears enough wrung from the eyes of men, women and children to float a washtub.

Saloon men should not be condemned for the liquor evil, for there are good, pure-hearted men among them. They are conducting a lawful business so long as they pay a license to the government. The people as a whole are to blame for not putting a stop to it by law; and at the same time establish poor men’s club rooms to take the place of saloons, which are a blessing to a cold and hungry stranger when he lands in a town broke. Good men sometimes run short of cash and cannot pay for lodging in a warm hotel. Then is when the saloon is a godsend.

Every greedy old “Money-bag” in the land should be sat down on hard. I would be in favor of screwing his hands to a long-handle shovel, or a heavy wheel-barrow, for months at a time, to let him know how it feels to work ten hours a day to keep body and soul together, while such as he do nothing but gloat over gold, and wring the life-blood from humanity.

It is a great pity that old Father Time and Mother Nature cannot get married and start a new breed of cattle, with cows giving a large flow of the milk of human kindness. For then we would have something to feed to greedy capitalists and bloodthirsty labor union agitators.

Had I the power our glorious American flag would be constantly waving over every school house in this fair land. On one side would be printed in large letters of gold:

And on the other side:

In bidding you adieu I ask if the world has been benefited by my having lived in it? I answer, yes. For have I not planted trees and grass on a sun-kissed desert at the end of the old Santa Fe Trail—at the very spot where once grazed the tired oxen and mules after their journey across the plains?

The bible says he who makes two blades of grass to grow where only one grew before has benefited mankind. And that hits Yours Truly.

THE END.