A cowboy detective

To White River as an Outlaw—The Ute Indian War—Riding and Roping Under Name of “Dull Knife” at a Denver Cowboy Tournament—Off for Wyoming as an Outlaw.

A rest of a few days in Denver, and Supt. A—— instructed me to get ready for a trip among the Ute Indians who were then reported to be on the warpath.

It was the fall of 1887. The work was to be done for a wealthy widow by the name of Mrs. Tice. She and a Mr. C—— owned a small cattle ranch in western Colorado. She suspicioned that she was being robbed by their foreman and her partner. So, for there I started out in my cowboy rigging.

In Rifle, on Grande River, I left the Denver & Rio Grande train and on the upper deck of a civilized pony I started north over the mountains for Meeker, on White River. A moderate ride of a day and a half brought me to the town made famous by the “Meeker Massacre.” On my arrival in Meeker the excitement of a late Indian war had subsided. A week or ten days previous, a battle had been fought on the head of White River, a day’s ride from Meeker, and on leaving Denver I was instructed to investigate this battle for an official of the U. S. Government, after finishing the cattle operation.

From Meeker, a day’s ride down the river brought me to the cattle ranch owned by Mrs. Tice and C. With the foreman and cowboys I played myself off as an outlaw Texan, and by being an expert with a lasso I soon won their friendship.

In the course of two weeks I had secured sufficient evidence to show that our friend, Mrs. Tice, was being robbed.

I then returned to Meeker and from there went to the head of White River to investigate the killing of some Ute Indians by the sheriff and a crowd of ranchmen.

Before leaving Meeker I wrote a letter to Mr. Geo. L. Golding, of Denver, asking that my name be put on the list of wild-horse riders and steer ropers, in the grand Cowboy Tournament soon to take place. I signed myself “Dull Knife,” with Meeker as my home, so that no one would know me.

The name “Dull Knife” was selected on account of it once having been my nickname on the cattle ranges of Texas. It was given to me by cowboy companions who were in the habit of borrowing my pearl-handled bowie knife, and always finding it dull, from having killed so many rattle snakes. Through years of practice I had become an expert in throwing the knife from my horse’s back. By holding the point between my thumb and forefinger I would throw it at the snake’s neck and seldom failed to pin his snakeship to the earth by burying the blade through his neck or head into the ground. Often the blade would sever the snake’s head from his body. Of course the knife was kept dull from being stuck into the earth so often.

On the head of White River I visited the few ranchmen and hunters and was shown the battle ground where the Ute Indians were murdered by the bloodthirsty Whites. From what I could learn from eyewitnesses, it was cold-blooded murder. The fight was started by the long-legged, wild and woolly sheriff of Garfield County, who soon after absconded with the county’s funds. The excitement of the “Great Indian Uprising” caused the militia to be called out, and made fat pocket-books for the ranchers who had horses, hay and grain for sale. Besides, the sheriff lined his pockets with free silver at the county’s expense.

This was my first peep behind the curtain of a great Indian war, as illustrated by glaring headlines in the daily press. We wondered who are the real savages, the Whites or the Reds.

On leaving the head of White River for Denver, I concluded to take a short cut across the Flattop mountains, a distance of sixty miles between ranches.

The start was made from the cabin of a hunter at the head of White River. From him I had bought an extraordinary fine pair of elk horns. These I undertook to carry on my pony by holding them up in front of me with the skull resting on the saddle-horn. In traveling that lonely sixty mile stretch over the old Ute Indian trail, I had plenty of leisure to ponder over that wise saying: “What fools these mortals be.”

Crossing the “Flattops” I saw more deer than I ever expect to see again. There were hundreds of them in sight at all times and they were very tame. Often they would stand by the side of the trail and allow me to pass within fifty paces of them. I saw one herd of elk, but they ran into the heavy timber near by before I could get out my Winchester rifle and shoot. I would have followed on their trail, as I had never killed an elk, if it hadn’t been for the pair of elk horns. I pitched camp about sundown and killed a fat buck for supper. I had brought with me some salt and cold biscuits. The venison was broiled on a stick over the fire.

By daylight next morning the horns and I headed south. We got off on the wrong trail and were lost part of the day, but by hard swearing and a little patience we managed to get down over the rim-rock of the “Flattops” into the Grand Valley about half way between Newcastle and Glenwood Springs. On the road in the valley a boy leading a bronco overtook us. The boy was persuaded to allow me to make a pack horse out of his bronco, so Mr. “bronc” was blindfolded and the horns put astride of his back. When securely fastened with a rope the blind was raised and Hades broke loose. The bronco began bucking and running and the rope which was fastened to the horn of my saddle broke. Then the horns had a swift ride for quite a distance, but as the run was made towards Glenwood Springs no time was lost. The boy and I caught the bronco after he had become exhausted. Then the horns were strapped onto my civilized pony and I rode the uncivilized brute. It was long after dark when we landed in Glenwood Springs. Next day the horns were crated and expressed to Denver, and after selling my pony and saddle I took passage on the same train with the antlers.

On my arrival in Denver I secured permission from my superintendent to enter the Cowboy Tournament at River Side Park. It was to take place in a couple of days and I had no time to lose.

After making a search of all the livery stables in the city I finally found a small white cow-pony which I thought would answer my purpose. He was quick and active, but too light in weight for such work. I also secured an old Texas saddle, as I couldn’t get used to the high horn kind in use by northern cowboys. This old Texas saddle was the cause of my losing the steer roping prize, as the horn flew off when the weight of the steer and pony went against it. I feel confident that I would have won the prize, as the best time made was many seconds slower than the time made by me at a Caldwell, Kansas, fair several years previous, at which time I won a silver cup; and in the Kansas contest I lost valuable time by having to throw the steer twice.

In the wild-horse riding contest luck was also against me. After throwing the big bay bronco in quick time, I sprang off the white pony onto the bronco’s head. Then to prevent him from choking to death, I cut the rope, knowing that he was in my power with both my knees on his neck and a good hand hold on his nose. But when I reached for the hackamore (a cowboy halter) and the leather blind which had been carried under my pistol belt, I found they were gone. They had slipped out from under the belt when I leaped out of the saddle. I saw them lying on the ground just out of my reach. According to the rules, no one could hand them to me, therefore I could do nothing but free the bronco and lose my chance at the prize. In reporting the matter the newspaper reporters had failed to comprehend my situation: They were green and didn’t know why I held the struggling bronco by the nose for several minutes before turning him loose. Of course my cowboy opponents realized the cause of my predicament and cheered with joy, as it made their chances of winning more secure. I had been told that they feared the “dark horse,” “Dull Knife,” from Meeker, and had made much inquiry as to my identity.

This is what two of the leading daily papers of the City—The Rocky Mountain News and the Republican—had to say about “Dull Knife” the next morning. One paper stated:

The other paper gave this account:

Several days after the tournament George Golding and Mr. B. G. Webster, while riding in a buggy, happened to see me on the street. Hailing me as “Dull Knife” they called me to them. They said they had been trying to find me but no one knew who “Dull Knife” was or where a letter would reach him. I was then informed that the judges had voted me $15.00 for skillful cowboy performance and that a check for that amount awaited me at headquarters. Of course I went after the check and still retain it as a relic, as it states that it was presented to “Dull Knife” for skillful cowboy work.

For many years afterwards, and even up to the present time, I meet men who call me “Dull Knife,” from having seen me at this Cowboy Tournament. It was several years after, before Geo. Golding—who is still proprietor of the City Sale Yards and Stables, and has since served as Denver’s Chief of Police—learned of my identity.

In the course of a week or two Mrs. Tice brought suit in a Denver Court to annul her partnership with Mr. C—— or for damages, I have forgotten which. I was the star witness, and on the strength of my testimony as to the way cattle were being stolen, Mrs. Tice won. The foreman and one of his cowboys who were present in court, were surprised on finding that I was a detective instead of an outlaw.

A few days after ending Mrs. Tice’s case I was off for Wyoming as a cowboy outlaw.

Kalter Skoll, the Cheyenne, Wyoming, attorney, who has lately won fame through the conviction and execution of Tim Corn, the stock detective, had written my superintendent to send him a cowboy detective who could make friends with a gang of tough characters on the Laramie River.

Before starting, my superintendent informed me that I was going up against a hard proposition, as Gen. Dave Cook, head of the Rocky Mountain Detective Agency, had sent three of his men up into Wyoming to get in with this gang, but had failed, they being on the lookout for detectives, hence wouldn’t allow strangers to enter their camp.

On my arrival in Cheyenne I called on District Attorney Skoll. He explained the case on which I was to work. He told how Bill McCoy had shot and killed Deputy Sheriff Gunn in Lusk, Wyoming, and of McCoy being sentenced to hang for the crime, but that he broke jail in Cheyenne just before he was to be executed, and was trailed up to the Keeline ranch, which was run by Tom Hall, a Texas outlaw and his gang of cowboys, who were supposed to be ex-convicts from Texas. He felt sure that McCoy was in hiding at the Keeline ranch, but he said it would be a difficult matter to get in with them as they were on their guard against officers and detectives.

I boarded the Cheyenne northern train and went north to its then terminus. There I bought a horse and saddle and struck out, ostensibly for Fort Douglas, about 100 miles north.

The second day out I stopped for dinner at “Round Up No. 5 Saloon.” This place was run by Howard, an ex-policeman and saloon keeper from Cheyenne. His wife was an ex-prize fighter and dance hall “girl” during the palmy days of the Black Hill excitement in Cheyenne. She was now getting old, but could still hide large quantities of liquor under her belt. After dinner I proceeded to get drunk so as to kill time. Mr. and Mrs. Howard drank with me. In telling of my past I told just enough to lead them to believe that I was a Texas outlaw headed for the north.

About 4 P.M. I saddled my horse and made a start for Fort Douglas, but on shaking hands with Mr. and Mrs. Howard, they being the only people beside myself present, and bidding them goodby, they persuaded me to have one more drink at their expense. Then, of course, I had to treat before making another start. This program was kept up for half an hour.

I had never mentioned the Keeline ranch, which I knew lay over a small range of mountains five miles east. As winter had set in, there was very little travel on this Fort Douglas road, and the cowboys had all gone into winter quarters. Howard depended on the summer cattle round-ups for his business. He said he and his wife merely existed during the winter seasons. His saloon was located at No. 5 round-up grounds.

Finally, I mounted and made another start, pretending to be drunker than I really was. As I rode off, Howard wished me well. Checking up my horse I remarked that I would be all right if I could run across some Texas boys up at Douglas. Then I asked if he knew of any Texas boys in that part of the country. He replied: “There are several Texas fellers not far from here, but they are in trouble and won’t let strangers into their camp.” At this I wheeled my horse around and rode back. I asked where they could be found. He replied: “No use going there, for they would run you off and perhaps kill you. The officers have been trying to get detectives in with them. They swear they will kill the next —— that looks suspicious.”

I answered: “If they are from Texas I’m not afraid of them. Just tell me where they are and I’ll take chances on the killing part.”

He pointed out a bridle path around a high peak and said I would find their camp on the other side of this on the edge of a clump of cottonwood timber. We then went into the saloon and had two more drinks and I bought a quart of his best whiskey, which was the same as his worst, though labeled differently.

I explained that the boys could drink with me and then run me off if they wanted to; but Howard plead with me not to go.

On mounting I buried the spurs into my horse’s flanks and gave a cowboy yell and away we flew through the heavy grove of cottonwood timber. There was no trail, and my horse had to jump fallen logs and trees and I dodged projecting limbs. I wanted to prove to Howard that I was a reckless cowboy who had no fear of danger. Looking back I saw Howard and his wife watching me. The saloon was finally lost to view and then I rode slowly and began to lay plans, though it was quite an effort as the whiskey had gone to my head.

Howard had told me that there were fourteen men at the Keeline ranch, but he wouldn’t tell me what kind of trouble they were in.

On reaching the foot of the high peak I struck the bridle trail which had been pointed out. This I followed over the range. When on the opposite side, my horse was made to gallop in the most dangerous places, for I figured that my horses’ tracks would be examined. In a rocky place where the trail went around a point and where a horse on a gallop could hardly keep his feet, I stopped. Here I knew the horse’s tracks couldn’t be seen. At this point I got above the horse and gave him a shove over the rocky bluff. He landed on his side in the soft sand in the dry arroyo, twenty feet below. The fall knocked the wind out of him, but he soon recovered and jumped to his feet. I held one end of the rope so that he couldn’t get away. The impression of the horse and saddle showed plainly in the sand. Climbing down on the rocks I fell on my left side, leaving the impression of my body in the sand where it would have been had I fallen with the horse. I then jumped up, and dragging my crippled left leg through the sand, led the horse to a place where we could get back to the trail. Here I pulled off my left boot and ripped the seam of my pants’ leg nearly to the knee. Then I rolled the knit woolen drawer’s leg up above the knee. This made a tight roll which checked the flow of blood, causing the knee to become red. It also had a tendency to shove the flesh downward and make the knee look swollen. I then rubbed the knee with dry grass and poured some of Howard’s “rattlesnake juice” on. After tying the left boot to the saddle I mounted and headed for the large grove of cottonwood timber on the bank of the Laramie River.

Just after the sun had set I came in sight of a group of log houses on the edge of the grove. Not a breath of air was stirring and a column of smoke from a chimney pierced the lead-colored clouds above. I was riding slowly across an open flat. Soon I saw a man come out of the large log house. Then others followed until there were about a dozen lined up against the yard fence. I wondered what kind of a game I was running up against and where it would end. It was a case of forward march, with me, even though it led to death “all same,” a fool soldier who marches up to the cannon mouth to have his head shot off so that posterity can weep and plant flowers on his grave.

As I drew near my body reeled as though drunk. My left leg was kept stiff and out of the stirrup. When within sixty paces of the yard gate where all the men stood, a fine-looking six-footer, who proved to be the boss, Tom Hall, asked: “What in the h—— are you doing here?” I replied that my leg was broken and I needed some help. Hall sprang out of the gate and running up to me asked in a soft, sympathetic voice, how it happened. There was a wonderful change in his looks as well as voice, when he found I was crippled.

Soon the whole gang, all heavily armed, were around me and I was taken off the horse and carried into the house where I was seated before a blazing log fire in the large fireplace. Then Hall got down on his knees before me to examine the wound. I took pains to roll up the pants’ leg which was only ripped part way to the knee, so as to hide the roll of knit drawers, this being the secret of my swollen knee. I had previously been shot with a large caliber bullet through this knee, and there was a large scar where the bullet entered, and another on the opposite side where it was cut out by the doctor. This helped to brand me as an outlaw in their minds.

After pressing the swollen flesh with his hand, Hall asked me to move my toes. I did so, as I didn’t want the leg to appear broken for fear they might haul me off to a doctor. On moving my toes he said my leg was not broken. I asked how he could tell by the moving of the toes, and he explained. Then he asked me to bend my knee and also to twist it around, but this I couldn’t do on account of the pain. He decided that my leg was badly sprained or out of joint. He ordered hot water and a towel brought and my knee was bathed and the hot towel bound around it. Then he demanded an explanation as to how I came to leave the Douglas road to visit them. I explained matters fully, and told the place where my horse fell over the bluff. He asked why I left Texas to come up to such a cold country so late in the season. With a smile I told him that the people of Texas tried to get me to stay, and even followed me to Red River on the Indian Territory border; in hopes of overtaking me so as to compel me to stay. This caused a laugh, as it meant that officers of the law had chased me to the State line.

Here I looked over towards a sullen, dark-complexioned young man whom I had recognized as Jim McChesney, a boy raised in Southern Texas, and I asked him what he had done with his old sweetheart Matilda Labaugh. He was surprised and asked who in the h—— I was, that I should know he courted Matilda Labaugh over twenty years previous. I wouldn’t tell him, but did say that he could call me Charlie Henderson. He then asked if I knew his name. I told him, yes, that it ought to be Jim McChesney. This was another surprise, and he wanted to know when I left the part of Texas where Matilda had lived. I told him that I pulled out one night in 1872 when a boy, but that I had slipped back to see my friends many times since then. His face brightened, and walking up to me he shook my hand, saying: “I know you.” Then he whispered in my ear and asked if I wasn’t one of the Pumphry boys. I told him that my name was Henderson now. I had chosen the year 1872, for at that time two of the Pumphry boys, mere children, had committed murder and left the country. McChesney felt sure that I was one of these boys, and that suited me.

Finally, all left the room to hold a consultation. Two men were dispatched with a lantern to examine the place where I said my horse had fallen over the bluff, and to ride to Howard’s saloon to find out if I had told the truth. Another man was sent in haste to a small ranch three miles down the river, after some linament. Supper was then brought in and set before me. In the course of an hour and a half the man returned with the linament and Hall applied it to the supposed wound, and he bound up the knee so tight with bandages that it pained, but the tight bandages did good in preventing me from thoughtlessly bending my leg and thereby giving myself away.

About 10 o’clock the two “boys” returned from Howard’s. Then all went outside and held a long consultation. Next day Jim McChesney told me confidentially that Howard had confirmed the truthfulness of my story and had told of the reckless manner in which I had run through the woods. He said he was not surprised at hearing of my being hurt, that he expected to see me killed before I got out of his sight.

Several days later McChesney told me of their long council of war, after the two “boys” had returned from Howard’s. He said most of the “boys,” especially the three escaped convicts from the penitentiary in Huntsville, Texas, were afraid that I might be a detective and insisted that I be taken out to a tree and hung up by the neck, just to frighten me into a confession in case I was a detective; but said he and Tom Hall argued against it as they felt confident that I was all right. Hall argued that it would be a shame to take advantage of a poor crippled man. He said if I was a detective that I couldn’t help from showing it before many days and then I could be hung for “keeps.”

All the men slept on camp beds spread on the floor, except Hall. He had a private room cut off from a corner of the kitchen, and in it he had a single bedstead. This he kindly turned over to me and he slept with one of the “boys” on the floor.

It was after 1 o’clock A.M. when I went to bed, as I pretended that my leg was paining so that I could not sleep, any way. After being put to bed by Hall I took off the bandages from my leg so that I could rest my knee by bending it. I retired with my Colt’s 45 pistol in the shoulder scabbard under my overshirt, and my bowie knife was swung to my waist by a small belt under my drawers. Therefore no one had seen my gun and knife. The cartridge belt containing my supply of ammunition was in my “war-bag,” and this I put under my head. I slept very little during the night. Before daylight next morning, I fastened the bandages back on my leg so as to keep it stiff while hobbling about the house. After breakfast, Hall and McChesney made me a pair of crutches.

A few of the “boys” seemed suspicious of me, especially Johnny Franklin, a bowlegged Texan, who had escaped from the penitentiary in that State, so McChesney told me.

During the day Hall played “foxy” and tried to find out more about me. In speaking of Texas cowboys he asked if I ever knew Bill Gatlin. I told him yes, that I had worked with him in the Panhandle country until he got into trouble and had to skip and change his name again. I told him that Bill Gatlin was a name he had adopted after coming to northern Texas. These were facts, as I had known Gatlin well, but I never dreamed that he was the Bill McCoy I was now trying to locate.

A few days later, after I had convinced Hall that I was all right and was really acquainted with Gatlin and many of his Texas friends, he confided in me and told me how Bill Gatlin, under the name of Bill McCoy, had killed Deputy Sheriff Gunn, and was sentenced to hang, and that he (Hall) and others paid a slick jail breaker from the East $500 to commit a petty crime in Cheyenne so as to be put in jail. The result was that he sawed the bars and liberated McCoy and the other prisoners. A horse was kept in hiding for McCoy and he came direct to the Keeline ranch where they had kept him hid out in the hills until a few days before my arrival, when he was mounted on Hall’s pet roan racehorse and skipped for New Orleans, there to take a sailing vessel for Buenos Ayres, South America. For a pack animal McCoy used a large-hoofed bay horse that he had stolen from the sheriff’s posse who were searching for him. Later, Hall and McChesney told many incidents of how they had fooled the sheriff’s posse of 100 men who were scouring the hills for McCoy.

A week later we all rode 40 miles to attend a dance at John Owens’ ranch, a mile above the “Hog ranch” (a tough saloon and sporting house) at Fort Laramie. I was still walking on crutches, therefore couldn’t dance. The crutches were tied to my saddle en route. Late at night when the “boys” were pretty well loaded with liquor I rode to Fort Laramie and secured a room at the hotel where my first reports were written. About daylight my reports were mailed to Denver, and then I rode back to the dance. The crowd had simmered down to just a few ladies and many drunken cowboys who kept the air outside full of smoke from their revolvers. My friends, McChesney and Franklin, were the worst. I finally succeeded in getting my drunken friends into a room to lay down, but McChesney raised such a racket breaking the windows and furniture with his pistol, that we had to abandon sleep and start back to the Keeline ranch. As I was sober, it fell to my lot to get them all on their horses and headed for home.

Hall and the cook had not come with us.

A supply of whiskey was taken along, and my life was made miserable keeping the men from fighting. To prevent McChesney from killing some one, I slipped the cartridges out of his pistol without letting him know it. Soon after this, McChesney and one of the “boys” got into a fuss while riding along, and McChesney pulled his pistol and began snapping it at the fellow, who pulled his loaded pistol and would have killed McChesney if I hadn’t shoved my cocked revolver into his face just in time. I made him ride on ahead while I kept McChesney behind with me. We arrived at the Keeline ranch before night, and were a hungry, sleepy crowd.

Our next excitement came a few days later, when Howard came running over on horseback one evening to tell us that his wife was dying. He had left her alone while he came after help. All of us, Hall and the cook included, rode over to Howard’s and spent the night. What happened would have made angels weep. Howard turned the saloon over to us and the liquor was free. Whiskey was poured down the poor woman’s throat up to the last breath. She died before midnight and then the “Irish wake” began in dead earnest. Poor Howard, a large fine-looking, middle-age man, cried as though his heart would break. Between drinks he “harked back” to the time when he first met the corpse. Then he was on the police force of Cheyenne, and she was a beautiful young woman who made a living by boxing and singing on the saloon stages.

Until morning, whiskey and wine flowed like water, and my friend McChesney was in clover. Cowboy songs, both nice and vulgar, were sung over the corpse. Tom Hall was the champion singer of the crowd.

Next day the body was put in a rough box and lowered to its last resting place amid the drinking of toasts and the singing of “There’s a land that beats this all to h——l, etc.” One of the songs which was sung at the burial amused me. It ran thus:

When we took our departure the Howard saloon looked like a cyclone had struck it. The walls were shot full of holes and the liquors were gone. Howard left for Cheyenne when he sobered up. Of course, I didn’t have as much fun as the rest, owing to the fact that I had to use one crutch.

With Mrs. Howard under the sod “Calamity Jane” had the field to herself. These two women were noted characters in that part of Wyoming.

Finally my crutch was discarded and we made another forty-mile ride to a dance at Fort Laramie. This time I danced, and pretended to fall in love with a young lady who lived at the terminus of the Cheyenne Northern Railway. I wanted to make the excuse of riding over to the railroad station to see this girl when my work was finished at the Keeline ranch.

Reports were written, and much liquor destroyed, the same as on our previous trip.

Soon after, Hall received a letter from Bill McCoy in New Orleans. He was ready to sail for South America. Hall had given him a letter of introduction to a dentist in Buenos Ayres, South America. This answered the purpose of a passport into a tough gang of outlaws in the cattle country 1200 miles from this seaport, Buenos Ayres. Hall showed me letters from one of the gang there. His name was Moore and he was a Texas murderer. He wrote that they were over 100 strong, and that double their number of officers couldn’t come in there and arrest them.

Hall had been reared at Austin, Texas, and had to skip out and change his name on account of a killing. He also told me of his ups and downs in New Mexico when he was a chum to the noted outlaw, Joe Fowler, who was hung by a mob at Socorro, New Mexico. He told how Fowler, after killing one of his own cowboys in Socorro, had placed the $50,000 received for his cattle and ranch to the credit of his sweetheart, Belle, and that on the day when the mob was collecting to hang Fowler that night, Belle drew $10,000 out of the bank and turned it over to him (Hall) so that he could bribe the jailer and liberate Fowler. Hall said he had the jailer “fixed” but when the time for liberating Fowler came, the mob was collecting and the jailer backed out for fear they would hang him, if Fowler was gone. Then Hall said he hit the “high places” and came North. I didn’t ask if he brought the $10,000 with him, but took it for granted that he did.

It happened that I was already familiar with Joe Fowler’s crimes. He murdered Jim Greathouse, who was a friend of mine, and at White Oaks, New Mexico, in 1880, I knew of his murdering a cowboy whom he had never seen before. Two cowboys had a pistol duel in Bill Hudgen’s Pioneer Saloon. One of them was mortally wounded when Fowler, who had heard the shooting, came running in. He asked the cause of the shooting. Some one pointed to the wounded cowboy on the floor. Then Fowler pulled out his pistol and shot him through the head. The other cowboy was caught and hung to a tree by Fowler and his gang, and by the rope route Fowler’s life was ended.

Finally, I struck out from the Keeline ranch to see my girl at the railroad station. There my horse and saddle were sold and I boarded the train for Cheyenne.

The Grand Jury were in session and I appeared before them as a witness. Hall and his gang were indicted. The sheriff and a large posse surrounded the Keeline ranch at daylight one morning, and the Hall gang were arrested. I was told that Hall remarked when arrested: “That —— Henderson is at the bottom of this.” The fact that I did not come back had created a suspicion.

They were all landed in jail at Cheyenne and I felt sorry for them, especially for Hall and McChesney. My sympathy was overflowing for Hall because he is a prince, and has a heart in him like an ox. The sympathy for McChesney was on account of having known him when a boy, and having known his father in Caldwell, Kansas, years later.

I lay in Denver waiting to be called as a witness against Hall and his gang. But before the case was tried, District Attorney Skoll, who at that time was trying to get away with all the liquor in Cheyenne, had a row with the judge on the bench, McGinnis, and the cases were nolle prossed by Skoll. At least, this is the story told by my superintendent, who was in Cheyenne at the time. Thus my friends were liberated to my great joy, as I didn’t want to see them sent to the pen. I heard afterwards that three of the escaped convicts from Texas were returned there, but as to its truthfulness I do not know.