A cowboy detective

In Jail with Denver & Rio Grande Holdups—Aspen Ore-Stealing Case—Testing Railroad Conductors—The Mudsill Mine-Salting Case—In Longmont as a Bronco-Buster—In the Bull-Pen With Hoboes.

My next operation out of the city was a train robbery case upon the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad. Doc. Shores, the popular sheriff of Gunnison County, Colorado, had charge of the case. He and I went to a town in northwestern Kansas, Cawker City. Doc. Shores remained until I went twenty or thirty miles out in the country to work for a farmer by the name of Smith.

The train had been held up by three men, two of whom were supposed to be the Smith brothers, sons of this old farmer. The holdup occurred near Green River Station in western Colorado, and the Smith boys were seen in the neighborhood under suspicious circumstances, just before the holdup.

Farmer Smith had a pretty black-eyed daughter and I made love to her, as well as figuring on buying his farm. The girl showed me a letter from her brothers, written and mailed in Price, Utah, after the holdup, showing that they were in hiding in that neighborhood. In the letter they stated they were going to a certain town in Arizona soon. I also saw photos of the Smith brothers and secured their descriptions. Then my heart grew cold for this pretty maiden and I “hiked” back to join Mr. Shores. He at once wired his brother-in-law, Roe Allison, who was his undersheriff, to search around Price, Utah, for the Smiths, as their letter had been mailed there.

We then started for Denver. There we boarded a 9 P.M. Denver & Rio Grande train for the line of Colorado and Utah to take up the trail. After retiring in the sleeper, Shores received a telegram from Roe Allison at Green River, saying that they had captured the Smith brothers and Rhodes, and would meet our train with the prisoners at Montrose. After dark next evening our train arrived in Montrose ahead of the eastbound train containing the prisoners. Shores and I held a consultation and decided that the best plan was for him to put his handcuffs and leg-irons on me and pretend that I was a desperate character whom he had captured up the Gunnison River that day.

When the train pulled into the depot I was taken aboard and placed in a seat near the other prisoners. I acted sullen all the way to Gunnison, where we arrived about 10 A.M. The whole town of Gunnison turned out to see the desperate prisoners. We were marched with our leg-irons on through the streets to the Court House and jail, a distance of half a mile. The snow was over a foot deep and the sidewalks were lined with people, so that we had to walk in the street single file. I brought up the rear and gave the people some hard contemptuous glances. Mr. Shores told me afterwards that several people said I was the toughest looking criminal in the bunch.

All four of us were shoved into a steel cage just large enough for us to lie down in. We were given a few greasy quilts and blankets and our meals were put into the cage. There were no other prisoners in the jail and it was my wish that we be kept in close confinement for a day or two, as confessions can be secured much easier in that way.

Shores had been sheriff of this county for three terms and had his residence over the jail in the second story. Owing to my being a prisoner Mrs. Shores saw that we were well fed. She often brought the meals herself.

Our cell was still spattered with human blood, where a short time previous a man had cut his throat from ear to ear, in the presence of an officer who was unlocking the cell to take the fellow into court. After cutting his throat he laid the knife carefully on a shelf and shaking his fist at the officer fell over dead. Shores told us this story when we asked about the blood. We also learned that this cell had been the home of the man-eater, Alfred Packard, who had killed and eaten the choice parts of five men. He had been taken to the penitentiary for life a few years previous.

My three bedfellows were a dirty lot and were alive with vermin, as they had been in hiding on an island in Green River for several weeks. And one of the Smiths had a bullet wound through the head, which gave out an odor that put on the finishing touch to the already foul air in the cell. Smith had received the wound in a fight among themselves; at least that was their story.

After a few days of solitary confinement I secured a full confession of how the train was held up, and they told how up to the time of their arrest, they had remained in hiding on an island in Green River.

After being in jail two weeks I was taken out by a supposed officer from Wyoming, who was taking me there to be executed for murder.

I had confided in my companions, telling them of breaking out of Wyoming jail after being sentenced to hang. The “boys” really shed tears when I shook hands with them previous to being handcuffed to the officer.

I didn’t have to appear as a witness against these men, as they confessed to the train holdup after they were convinced that Shores had a “cinch” case against them. They were each sentenced to a term of seven years in the Colorado penitentiary.

This was the beginning of a lasting and warm friendship between C. W. Shores, his lovely wife, two bright sons and me.

Soon after my return home, a “Frenzied Finance” cyclone of small calibre struck our Agency in Denver and knocked Superintendent A. sky high. Mr. W. L. Dickenson came out from Chicago and discharged him and all his pets. Mr. Dickenson had at last discovered that his Agency was being robbed. Superintendent A. had become so bold in his high finance that he started a patrol system to furnish merchants and others with private policemen. He did this on the sly and had the bookkeeper Lawton as a partner. They were coining money on the strength of the Agency’s reputation. A new set of employes were sent from the East, I being the only one of the old “bunch” left. This swelled my head, of course.

Mr. James McCartney, who had gained a world-wide reputation through his good work in hanging twenty-three miscreants, was made superintendent in A.’s stead.

McCartney had been sent to Denver a short time previous to see how matters were working. His eagle eye soon caught on to the true state of affairs, with the above result. A patrol system to furnish uniformed policemen was organized and Captain John Holmes was imported from Chicago to take charge of it, under the supervision of Mr. McCartney, and a nice young lady, Miss Mollie Rucker, was sent from the east to act as chief clerk and cashier; but a few years later Captain Holmes nailed her to the matrimonial cross and we were minus a pretty cashier. This caused the Dickensons to put a veto on the fair sex as office employes in Denver. No doubt they didn’t like the idea of making a matrimonial bureau out of the Agency. However, they gave the newly wedded couple a good send-off by presenting them with a fine set of bedroom furniture.

Shortly after McCartney took charge, I was sent to Aspen, Colorado, on my first mining operation. It was an ore-stealing case, and the parties were the Aspen Mining & Smelting Company, J. B. Wellman being the president and Fred Rucklan the general manager.

At that time Aspen was a booming silver mining camp. I went to work in the mine as a common miner, although I was green at the business. Of course, the foreman, Fred Comb, and the shift-boss, Tom Qualle, knew my business and overlooked my slow work while learning to strike a drill. I hadn’t been at work long when my partner, who had taught me to mine, had both eyes blown out and both hands blown off, besides suffering other injuries. He had taken out his knife and was opening a new box of caps when they exploded, with the above results. He begged to be shot, and told me that he had no desire to live in that condition; but he did live and was sent to his mother somewhere in the East.

I came very near being killed myself while at work in this mine. Qualle and I had started down a ladder 100 feet long. Qualle was ahead, while I followed. I held the lighted candle and sharp pointed steel candlestick in my right hand and in some way the sharp point of the candlestick got stuck into the flesh under one eye. The pain was so sudden that I turned loose the hold with the left hand, but like a flash realized where I was and grabbed a round of the ladder with my right hand and thereby saved my life by a mere hair’s breadth. Had I fallen my body would have knocked Qualle off the ladder and we would both have had a free ride of 70 to 80 feet straight down.

After working a month I quit mining and joined “Paddy Mack” and his gang of ore thieves.

Paddy McNamarra was the slickest ore thief that ever did business in the West, and he bragged of how he could tell a detective by his actions. He told me that he had handled over one hundred thousand dollars’ worth of stolen ore in this camp alone, and that he had made a fortune in Central City and Blackhawk in the same business. His main graft was handling ore stolen by the miners and bosses of packtrains. He initiated me into the mysteries of the ore-stealing business and I soon became an expert.

In order to have a “cinch” case against “Paddy Mack” and his gang, I would have Fred Rucklan and D. R. C. White, the banker and wealthy mine owner, hide in empty freight cars or upper story rooms where they could see the ore delivered to the samplers late in the night. In that way the owners and foreman of the samplers would be caught “dead to rights.”

I shall never forget the cursing that “Paddy Mack” gave me one night when I lighted a match and held it close to his face so that Mr. Rucklan and his friends in an upstairs window could see his countenance. He knocked the match from my hand and gave me a strong lecture and cursing about the danger of being seen if any one were looking out of the windows upstairs. On this occasion we were receiving stolen ore worth $10.00 a pound, and while we were taking it out of the tent and loading it onto burros Mr. Rucklan and his witnesses, who were watching us from an upstairs window, hurried to the R. ore sampler and hid in empty freight cars so as to see us deliver it to the sampler foreman.

Besides being a partner of “Paddy Mack” I was doing business on the side with many other noted ore thieves. One of these fellows had a false cellar under his house and kept the stolen ore there until he got a wagonload. He would then hire a wagon and team and deliver the ore in broad daylight to the B. sampler. I once laid a trap so that Mr. Rucklan and his friends were in hiding and happened into the sampler in time to see the owner, Mr. B., receive the ore.

When the collapse came I was thrown into jail by Sheriff White and his deputy, West Calvin, along with others of the gang. Bonds were soon furnished by “Paddy Mack” and others.

While in jail I found out that Mike M——, one of my chums, intended to jump his bond and quit the country, so I arranged with him to do likewise. He was due to be out of jail a few days ahead of me, so it was agreed that should he skip out before I was liberated, he would write to me, General Delivery, Kansas City, Mo., telling where he could be found. He said he would first go to Omaha, Nebraska, where he had friends in the stone yards, he being a stonecutter by trade.

By the time my bonds arrived through the bank, Mike M. had shaken the dust of Aspen from his feet, so I then went on his trail. In the search for him I was assisted by one of our operatives, John S. Kaiser, later the superintendent of the Denver office. We searched the stone quarries and yards of Omaha and Lincoln, Nebraska, and Kansas City, Missouri without success. Finally I received a letter in Kansas City telling me to meet him in a small town in Oklahoma. This was the finish of poor Mike M. He was landed back in the Aspen jail.

When the case came up for trial, a start was made on a fellow by the name of E. In his case I was not required to show my hand by going on the stand, as he had been caught with the stolen ore, en route to Denver, on the train. We had a “cinch” case against him, but the jury hung and his case was put off to the next term of court. We found the gang had too many friends and too much influence to ever convict any of them. Therefore the cases against the small thieves were continued to the next term of court, which ended the matter. The big fellows,—the owners of the two sampling works where the stolen ore was sold, were let go free with the understanding that they sell out and quit the country.

Poor “Paddy Mack” died from a broken heart soon after being arrested.

Thus one of the worst gangs of ore thieves in the West was put out of business in Aspen, though I met some of them in Cripple Creek and other places in later years, following the same line of business, and prospering.

My next operation out of Denver was “testing” railroad conductors on a great western railway system through the States of Colorado, Nebraska, Kansas, Iowa and Missouri. This kind of work was not to my liking, though I had an opportunity of seeing the country and learning new points in human nature.

There were about a dozen of us operatives on this work.

In Beatrice, Nebraska, on this operation, I made the acquaintance of Gen. Colby and saw his noted stallion, Lindentree, presented to Gen. U. S. Grant by the Sultan of Turkey. Seeing this horse was a treat, as I had never before seen so much horse wrapped in such a small hide.

My next big operation started soon after returning to Denver from the railroad “test case,” our client being the Lord Mayor of London, England, through his Agent Mr. McDermott of New York City. His royal ’Ighness, the Lord Mayor, had bought a gold brick by paying $190,000.00 in cash for the Mudsill Silver Mine at Fairplay, Park County, Colorado, and in addition to the cash payment, he had contracted to build a $40,000.00 ore-treating plant on the ground and to give the sellers Dan V. and Matches, $75,000 worth of stock in a new company to be organized under the title of the Mudsill Mining & Milling Co. Before making the deal, his ’Ighness had employed McDermott, a noted mining expert of New York City to examine the property. McDermott reported 30,000 tons of ore in sight, worth $30 per ton. To make sure, before loosening his grip on the dollars of his forefathers, the Lord Mayor sent another mining expert from London to examine the property. In the meantime Mr. Dan V. remained in London with the palms of his hands itching for the cash that would be his if his trusted lieutenant in Fairplay, whom we will call Jacky, did his duty.

The London expert made a more favorable report than McDermott. Then the contracts were signed and the cash turned over to Dan V. who “hiked” back to America.

Soon a contract was let to Parson & Ayllmers, the leading mill men of the United States, for a $40,000 mill to be put up on the Mudsill property. After the mill foundation had been completed, but before the machinery had been shipped from the factory, Mr. McDermott of New York had discovered a certain kind of silver in the Mudsill ore samples, which was foreign to that class of ore. This looked suspicious, and to protect his reputation, McDermott cabled his discovery to the Lord Mayor. His ’Ighness then cabled to McDermott to employ the Dickenson Agency to investigate the matter.

Superintendent James McCartney received a letter from our head office in New York to put one of his best men on this case, as it was an operation of great importance. I was called into Mr. McCartney’s private office and shown the correspondence on the subject. I was told of the importance of not making a mistake on the operation, as it might mean the cancelling of the Parson & Ayllmers’ mill contract on the Mudsill. He explained that Mr. Ayllmers of that firm was one of the Dickenson family, he having married a daughter of Anson Dickenson.

After being detailed on the case I kissed Mamie and Viola goodby and started for Fairplay, high up in the mountains, on the eastern slope of the main continental divide.

In Fairplay two tough dance halls were running, and night was turned into day by the tough element. Of course, I joined them, as I was to play the part of a Texas outlaw.

Soon after my arrival I ran on to an old cowboy chum whom I had not seen since I was a boy in southern Texas, about the year 1875. His name was Pete Stewart and he was proprietor of a saloon in Fairplay and one in Alma. Up to within a short time of the closing of the operation, Stewart supposed that I had really become a tough character, therefore he kept my true name a secret. I had adopted the name of Charles Leon.

In a natural way I learned that Jacky had been Dan V.’s right-hand man at the Mudsill mine before the sale of that property; therefore my plans were laid to win the friendship of Jacky.

One day I saw Jacky wrestling with a wild bronco, but he was afraid to mount him. Here was my chance; so stepping up, I inquired if my services were needed. Taking hold of the rope I volunteered to take the wire edge off the bronco for him. He was a wiry Texas four-year-old, and he gave me a ride, as he bucked pretty hard at times. Even after I had taken off the wire edge, Jacky was afraid to mount him, as he still had a lame leg caused by the fall from the horse. The result was, that I promised to break the bronco gentle for Jacky, and that night he and I got on a glorious drunk together. We wore pistols strapped to our waists and ran the dance halls to suit ourselves. Jacky told his friends that I was a bad man from Texas, as I had given him a hint that I had to leave the Lone Star State for a killing.

After midnight a drunken gang tried to run things. One big fellow pulled a knife on a friend of Jacky’s. Just then I struck the fellow over the head with old Colt’s 45 and knocked him down. Then one of the fellow’s friends knocked me to my knees with his fist, at the same time drawing his pistol; but in a jiffy my cocked pistol was in the man’s face and I ordered him to put up his gun and leave the hall. This he did, and his gang soon followed. Then Jacky and I were heroes of the ball and the “girls” patted us on the back. But about half an hour later one of the “girls” from the other dance hall came running over to warn Jacky and me that the gang had blood in their eyes and had gone after reinforcements and more ammunition and were coming back to teach us a lesson. By main force the eight or nine “girls” pushed Jacky and me into a wine room and locked us in. Jacky was pretty drunk. I was playing drunker than I really was, and in truth I was glad the “girls” kept us prisoners in the wine room, though I pretended to be dying to get out to fight a battle.

The gang returned well armed and were told by the “girls” that we had gone to bed. They soon left, and when daylight came Jacky and I went to bed together. He and I were now bosom friends, and ever afterwards in Fairplay, I was regarded as a dangerous man to “monkey” with.

Every night Jacky and I spent our time at the dance halls drinking and dancing. Both of us spent money freely and were favorites with the “girls.”

Jacky told me some of his experiences with the noted salter of mines, “Chicken Bill,” in the early days of Leadville, and he told me enough to convince me that he had help “salt” the Mudsill mine for Dan V.

In my report I advised that work stop on the new mill, as the Mudsill mine was a fake. Soon the contract with Parson & Ayllmers for the building of the mill was cancelled and work ceased.

Finally I slipped into Denver and met Mr. McDermott of New York City. He gave instructions, after hearing my story, that we get at the bottom of the salting of the Mudsill, regardless of expense, so that the Lord Mayor could get his money back, through the courts.

I then returned to Fairplay and spent money freely. I had explained to Jacky confidentially, that my father in Texas was well-to-do and furnished me all the money that I needed; so Jacky and I made “Rome howl” every night at the dance halls. Jacky had considerable money of his own, and he spent it freely.

Shortly, I secured a partial confession from Jacky as to how he and his partner Andy, had spent three years salting the Mudsill mine; that they had kept the tunnel locked during this time, and not even their best friends were allowed to enter.

To help me out in my work the Mudsill Company advertised for bids to drive a 70-foot upraise from the lower workings in the mine. It was thought by Mr. McDermott that good ore might possibly be struck in this upraise. Jacky and I put in separate bids on this contract. Neither knew what the other’s bid was, although Jacky had advised me of the lowest limit that it was safe to bid. He knew how difficult the blue limestone rock was to break down. Through manipulation in our Denver office my bid of $9 per foot proved the lowest, so I was awarded the contract. I made Jacky my foreman and John C. was appointed my shift-boss. Supplies were hauled to the Mudsill, eight miles up Horseshoe Gulch, and a force of men put to work. Jacky and I had rooms in town and rode to the mine on horseback. We couldn’t do justice to the dance halls and liquor by living at the mine. In order to recuperate we would often remain several nights at the mine.

In the course of a few months, by the time my contract was finished, I had got a full confession from Jacky. He and I had also become partners in a mining claim which we located up in Mosquito Gulch. We went up there and camped out alone, and sunk the 10-foot assessment shaft ourselves. This gave me a good opportunity to work on Jacky.

A couple of years later, after I had forgotten that I owned a half interest in this claim, I sold it for $100 through the mail. Of course this money was pure velvet for the lining of my own pocket.

From Jacky I received all the particulars connected with the salting of the Mudsill mine, and the fixing up of the 9-foot vein out of the short-line, a decomposed lime rock which lay below and on top of the 30-inch ore-vein.

Jacky also told of how the Mudsill had been salted once before, and sold by Dan V. to a Cincinnati, Ohio, Jew for $90,000 and that later Dan V. bought the mine back for $8,000.

After being in Fairplay quite awhile, I sent for Mamie and Viola, so they could enjoy the cool mountain summer weather. My friend “Doc” Lockridge, who owned a pay mine near Alma, lived in the leading hotel of that town, hence it was arranged that Mamie should go there as his “niece” from Kansas. I had been to Alma to arrange matters. It was agreed that Mamie was to call him uncle, and she was to be introduced as a widow whose husband had died a couple of years previous.

I had only met “Doc” a few times in Denver, but his dead brother, Bill Lockridge, had been a warm cowboy friend of mine in the Indian Territory and Kansas. Before Bill’s death “Doc” and I first met at his home in Denver.

I will here digress so as to record a small section of cattle history and at the same time give Ex-President Grover Cleveland and his well developed stubborn bump their just dues.

It was about the year 1884. A crowd of cattlemen of the Indian Territory, through fraud in bribing a few Indian Chiefs, secured a ten year lease on the western part of the Cheyenne Indian Reservation.

During that spring, Bill Lockridge and the other lessees turned large numbers of steers onto the Cheyenne Reservation to fatten for the fall market. President Cleveland got upon his high horse, and sent Lieutenant Sheridan of the United States Army out to investigate. Gen. Phil Sheridan also came out in connection with the case—he being a brother to Lieutenant Sheridan; and in the then wild and wooly cattle town of Caldwell, Kansas, I met the old General. He had his picture taken in a group with some of his old soldier friends, and I still retain one of the original copies as a relic.

When Lieutenant Sheridan sent in his report, President Cleveland issued a proclamation giving the cattlemen just forty days to vacate the Cheyenne Reservation.

The cattlemen had a special meeting in Caldwell and raised $100,000 in cash to bribe the President to extend the time to eighty days, which would give the steers time to fatten before having to move them. A committee of five was sent to Washington to work on the President, Bill Lockridge being one of them. On reaching the White House and being seated in the reception hall, the President gave orders through his lackey-boy, that the committee appoint one of their number to come into the Blue room to meet him. As Bill Lockridge was a good Southern Democrat, and as he was a chip from the noted Lockridge family of Revolutionary days, he was selected to do the bribe act.

On returning to Caldwell, Bill Lockridge had to tell me how he got turned down in the White House by a man who pretended to be a good Democrat. Here is Bill’s own story in substance:

“The old devil shook my hand and said he was glad to see me. He then asked if I were related to the Lockridges of Virginia, and it turned out that he knew my grandfather. After we had a pleasant chat, he asked what he could do for me. I explained the situation, telling him how it would ruin us to get our steers out of the Reservation in forty days. I told him that we had one hundred thousand dollars in cash to give him if he would extend the time to eighty days. He smiled, and getting up on his feet said: ‘Well, Mr. Lockridge, how long did it take you to come here?’ I told him we were five days coming. He then said: ‘Well, it will take you that long to get back, so you are losing valuable time. Goodby Mr. Lockridge.’ He had the gall to reach out his hand to bid me goodby, but d—— him, I just gave him a contemptible look and walked out, and you can bet it will be a cold day when I vote the Democratic ticket again.”

Now, this just shows one phase of human nature. As a man Bill Lockridge was a prince, and honorable in all his dealings.

It was Sunday morning when I rode the seven miles on horseback to Alma from Fairplay. My excuse for going to Alma was to visit my old cowboy friend Pete Stewart, who conducted a saloon there.

I met “Doc” Lockridge in Stewart’s saloon and he invited me up to the hotel to take dinner with him. In the ladies’ parlor in the presence of other guests, “Doc” introduced me to his pretty young “niece” from Kansas. Little Viola had been left in the room for fear that she might call me papa. At the dinner table Viola did call me papa once, but it was after most of the guests had left the table. We finally got her trained to call me Mr. Leon.

That night I retired with “Doc” to his room, but I couldn’t sleep, so got up to get some fresh air, and to do a little skirmishing like a thief in the night. It is certainly a funny business which makes it necessary for a man to tip-toe through a dark hall to his own wife’s bedroom. But, gee whiz! what a scandal would have been raised had I been caught going into this “young widow’s” room.

My trips to Alma became frequent, and it was soon noised about that I was in love with “Doc’s” niece. Then the landlady of the hotel and other lady guests, who had become attached to Mamie, aired my reputation as one of the worst toughs and dance hall loafers of Fairplay and advised her not to associate with me. Some of the men who were “stuck” on the “young widow” had told of my doings in Fairplay. They tried to “knock” me with their little “hammers,” but it didn’t work.

For the next few weeks I led a double life,—about four nights of each week I was carousing with Jacky and the dance hall “girls,” and the balance of the time I was doing the tip-toe act and playing myself off as a respectable gentleman.

No doubt, dear reader, you think this was a rank injustice to poor, pure-hearted Mamie; and so it was, but she had confidence in me and sanctioned it, so long as it was part of my business.

After about eight months I wound up the Mudsill operation. Towards the last I was suspected by Dan V. of being a detective for the Mudsill Company, and one night when he, Pete Stewart and I were on a tear in Fairplay, he tried to raise a row with me, but I held my temper and laughed at his threats and insinuations.

Soon after my return to Denver, Supt. James McCartney took up the work and I dropped out of the game.

The first thing that “yours, etc.” did was to decoy Jacky to Denver and have him brought into the private office. There poor Jacky was confronted with his own photo, taken in stripes at the Nebraska Penitentiary under the name of Jack Allen, years before. Jacky was stunned; so I was told. He had confided in me and showed me the ugly gunshot wound in his hip, received while leading a wild, reckless life in Dakota and Nebraska under the name of Jack Allen. He also told of serving a term in the “pen” at Lincoln, Nebraska, giving me the number of his cell, etc., so it was an easy matter for McCartney to secure a copy of his photo and his prison record. Those were used as a lever to make him confess, as he didn’t want his identify known among his friends in Fairplay; hence he made a full confession to Mr. McCartney.

All of Dan V.’s property was attached and so was the property of Mr. Matches, an officer of Bay City, Mich., he being Dan V.’s partner and financial backer.

The case was tried in the United States Court and was passed on by the Circuit Court of the United States in our favor.

The Lord Mayor of London, so I was told by Mr. McCartney, recovered $150,000 of his loss.

Years later, my friend, Attorney W. T. Skoll of Spokane, Washington, showed me the new volume of the Federal Reporter, Vol. 61, p. 163, containing the decisions rendered on the Mudsill mine-salting case, and Mr. Skoll informed me that this was the only mine-salting case ever passed on by the Circuit Judges of the United States.

Thus did the Mudsill mine-salting operation end, and become part of our law history to be used as a precedent in future mine-salting cases.

After a month spent in Denver doing all kinds of work, from robbery cases to hiding in ash-pits in order to catch people stealing, I was sent to Longmont, Colorado, on an important operation.

In Helena, Montana, a young man by the name of Wraxhall had got into a “scrape” with a wealthy man of that section.

In the fight which followed, the wealthy man was badly wounded and now lay at the point of death. In case he recovered, nothing was to be done with Wraxhall, so as to prevent a scandal. But in case of death, then he was to be prosecuted.

The officers of Montana had lost trail of young Wraxhall and had turned the case over to us to locate him, so that he would not become suspicious. He was not to be arrested until his victim died.

It was thought that he might be in hiding at his brother Frank’s ranch, a couple of miles out of Longmont. I was detailed on the case and left Denver dressed as a tramp cowboy. I carried a description and photo of young Wraxhall in my pocket.

I walked out from Longmont to the Frank Wraxhall ranch, arriving there just at noon. Hoping to get a peep into the home, I rang the bell at the front door of the nice white residence. A lady came to the door and I told her I wished to see Mr. Frank Wraxhall. She said he was eating his dinner, but that she would call him. Instead of seating me in the nice parlor, Frank Wraxhall conducted me out to the yard to hear my tale of woe. I told him that my name was Charlie Le Roy and that I was stranded in Longmont with not a cent to buy my dinner; that I heard he had some wild horses to break and I had come out to get a job to break a few for my board until money could reach me from my home in Texas. He said I could have a free dinner, so he conducted me to a dining room built off from the kitchen, where the hired men ate their meals. He agreed to talk to me about the horse breaking after dinner.

About the time my dinner was finished, three men came out of the house. I asked one of the cowboys who these men were. He replied that they were all brothers. One he said, was the Rev. Wraxhall, a minister of a swell church on Capitol Hill in Denver, and another was Oliver, just home from college, and the third was Frank, the proprietor of this ranch. I asked if there were any more brothers in the family. He replied yes, that there was a brother in Montana, who was a little older than Oliver.

Finally Frank called me to him in the yard and asked if I could ride a wild bronco and stay with him if he bucked. I told him that I was brought up in southern Texas in the early days of the cattle business, and that ought to be recommendation enough. He replied that it wasn’t, for he said he had been fooled in hiring riders from Texas, just on their word. So, for that reason, he kept an outlaw horse with which to test new riders. He said if I could stick on that horse until he quit bucking, and whip him every jump, that I could have a job with him as long as he raised horses on the ranch. I told him to trot out his outlaw horse, and he then sent a cowboy out in the big pasture to drive up the wild bunch. When corralled, the outlaw was caught. He was a vicious, iron-gray four-year-old, and very strong. We put the saddle on him. Then Frank told me I had to ride him in the calf-pasture, a small tract of an acre in front of the residence. This tract was enclosed with a high barbed wire fence, and I protested that it was dangerous to ride a wild horse in such a small lot enclosed with barbed wire. He said the horse had never failed to throw every man who ever mounted him, and he was sure he would throw me too, and for that reason he didn’t want to take chances on the horse getting away with the saddle on.

No doubt, his main object was to give his brother in hiding a chance to see a free exhibition without exposing himself to view.

In front of the picket fence, surrounding the residence, I held the blindfolded bronco. On the porch were three ladies, also Oliver and the Rev. Mr. Wraxhall from Denver. Frank stood near me at the front gate. Several cowboys and the man cook were witnesses from another place.

After mounting, and just as I reached forward to raise the blind from the horse’s eyes, I glanced toward the front door and saw the head of a black-haired man peeping around the door casing. So here was my man, thought I, and I determined to get a better look at him while the horse was bucking.

As soon as the blind was raised, I struck the bronco with my quirt and he went straight up in the air and changed ends before he hit the ground.

For the next twenty minutes I had to ride, and on one occasion I had to throw one leg above the saddle to keep from being cut by the wire fence.

Several times, as the horse bucked by the front gate, I got a good look at my man and he looked just exactly like the photo, and answered the description. In the excitement he stood among the ladies on the porch. All were clapping their hands and cheering.

After the outlaw had worn himself out bucking, my man had disappeared again, but my work was done. The instructions had been to discontinue and return to Denver as soon as I was positive that our man had been located.

When the horse was subdued, Frank Wraxhall asked me to ride out in the big pasture and help drive up a bunch of cattle, as he wanted all the meanness taken out of the bronco while he was under control.

The cowboy and I returned with the cattle about night. After eating supper I told Wraxhall that I was going to town to see if my money had arrived from Texas, as it should have been there several days previous. He complimented me on my good riding and assured me work at top wages, so long as I wished to say. He offered me a horse to ride to town, but I insisted on walking.

That night my bones ached from the strenuous day’s work as a bronco “buster.”

Next morning I boarded a train for Denver. On the same train was the Rev. Mr. Wraxhall and his wife returning home, but I kept them from seeing me.

Other men were then put on the case to shadow the depot in Longmont and also the Rev. Wraxhall’s residence, so that we would know if our man came to Denver to visit his preacher brother, or left the country.

In the course of time the wounded man in Helena, Montana, was out of danger, and then the operation was discontinued.

Not long after this, Frank Wraxhall shot and killed the noted prize fighter Clow, in a Denver saloon, and shortly after this, his father, General Wraxhall, a noted pioneer of Colorado, died.

Since then I have lost track of the Wraxhalls.

Soon after finishing the Wraxhall case, I took my first sleep in the “bull-pen” at the Denver city jail; and it is rightly named the “bull-pen.” That night it contained about twenty of the worst specimens of humanity, both black and white, that it was ever my misfortune to be housed with in one small room. I envied my partner operative, Blummer, who had been put alone in a steel cage across the hall, as he was taken for a desperado, owing to the fact that he had on two big pistols and a bowie knife. I had slipped my pearl-handled pistol and bowie knife to Blummer, thinking that he had a better chance than I to get away from the city policemen who had surrounded us. But he ran into the arms of a big city “fly cop,” who took him to jail, and put him in the steel cage, while poor me, not being armed, had to go in with the drunken hobo bunch.

Blummer and I had been hiding in an ash-pit in a dark alley to catch people stealing silk from the Daniels-Fisher dry goods store. We were discovered and arrested as suspicious characters. We were certainly a tough looking pair, as we had put on the worst clothes we could find. We had orders not to disclose our identity, for fear that the policeman on that beat might be standing in with the negro watchman who was suspected of throwing the silk out of an upper story window to the thieves in the alley below. They were caught a few nights later.

Next morning Superintendent McCartney came down to the jail and fixed matters with Chief of Police Henry Grady and Lieutenant of Police James Hummer, and we were liberated.