A cowboy detective

Two Wealthy Mine-Owners of Tuscarora, Nevada, Blown Up with Dynamite—A Confession Secured after Nine Months of Strenuous Life in Nevada and Indian Territory.

During the month of August, 1889, Superintendent McCartney called me into his private office where I was introduced to Mr. Geo. Pelling of the firm of Prinz & Pelling, of Tuscarora, Nevada. I was given the outline of a case on which I was detailed to work.

It was explained that Mr. C. W. Prinz and Mr. Geo. Pelling were wealthy mine and mill owners, and that on a certain night during the previous spring, dynamite had been put under their residences and “touched off;” that Mr. Pelling and his mattress went up through the roof and landed right side up with care in the middle of the street. He was still wrapped in the quilts and blankets, and the shock put him out of business for awhile, but otherwise he was not hurt.

Not so lucky was Mr. Prinz. He was badly used up, but soon recovered. He, too, was blown out into the street but not on a feather bed.

Knowing that they had an organized gang of desperate enemies to deal with, they sent to San Francisco for two of the best detectives who could be procured to ferret out the criminals. Two detectives from a local detective agency were sent to Tuscarora to work secretly. In addition, a large reward was offered through the newspapers, for evidence that would convict. Several months’ work by the detectives had failed to show up even a clue as to who were the guilty parties, and the sleuths being suspected, they were called home, their chances of success being doubtful.

Then it was decided that Mr. Pelling go to Denver and consult with Mr. James McCartney, and if possible, get a man who could do the work.

At that time the Dickenson Agency had no branch office west of Denver.

Mr. Pelling explained to me that I was undertaking a ticklish job, as their enemies were on their guard and watching for detectives.

I was instructed to take the Union Pacific Railway for San Francisco, while Mr. Pelling would go by a southern route and stop off for a visit in southern California. I was told to put up at the Palace Hotel in Frisco and remain there until Mr. Pelling arrived.

For the next few days my time was spent in selling our furniture, and starting Mamie and little Viola off for Springfield, Missouri, where my wife’s father, H. Clay Lloyd, and her step-mother lived. Poor Mamie’s health had begun to fail, and the doctors decided an operation for pleurisy was necessary to save her life. Her father, when he heard of it, begged that she be sent there to be operated on by his family physician, one of the best in the land.

After seeing my wife and baby off on an eastbound train, I boarded a flyer for the extreme edge of the Golden West. My trip would have been a treat, as I had never been to California, if it had not been for the worry of Mamie’s illness and the fact that she had to undergo an operation without my presence to comfort her.

In Frisco I put up at the Palace, the swell hotel of the city. I was there a week before Mr. Pelling arrived, therefore had an opportunity to see all the sights, which were new to me.

I was furnished with $250 expense money by Mr. Pelling, and he then departed for Tuscarora, Nevada. I soon followed dressed in rough cowboy clothes.

At Elko, Nevada, I left the train and boarded a stage for a fifty mile ride into the mountains. Phil. Snyder, an old-timer of Tuscarora, and whose name had been given to me by Mr. Pelling as a possible friend to the dynamiters who blew up Prinz’s and Pelling’s homes, was a fellow passenger on the stage, and I won his applause and friendship by making a crack shot with my old Colt’s 45 pistol.

We were sitting on the seat with the driver, when a coyote jumped up about 100 yards distant. I made one shot while the stage was on the move, and Mr. Coyote quit business by tumbling over dead. It was an accidental shot of course, but no one but myself knew it.

In Tuscarora, a lively mining camp, Snyder pointed me out to his friends as a cowboy just from Texas, who was a crack shot with a pistol. This gave me a standing in the lower crust of society. Soon after my arrival, I was out in the hills with Tim W., one of Prinz and Pelling’s most bitter enemies. He told me that Snyder and the stage driver had given me a big send-off as a crack shot. He asked me to show him what I could do. He pointed out a pine knot in a board on a fence about 50 yards distant, and asked me to hit that. Here was a chance to make myself solid with one of Prinz and Pelling’s enemies, providing I could make another accidental shot. It was worth trying, so I cut loose off-hand, and out went the pine knot, which was the size of a silver dollar. He begged me to try again at another mark, but I had sense enough to let well enough alone. My reputation was made and I decided to take no more chances.

In order to be away from town for awhile, I got permission from a butcher named Morrison, to live on his ranch a few miles out. I bought a horse and saddle and used to ride into town once in awhile.

Here was a new experience for me, living with a Chinaman who could only talk a few words of English. He and I were the sole occupants of the ranch except when Mr. Morrison came out to butcher stock. Mr. Pigtail and I sat at the same table, but ate different kinds of food. He used a couple of chop-sticks to throw the rice, etc., into his mouth. It would have been fun for a man up a tree to look down and see us joking and trying to talk to each other.

Finally, after I had become well established in the mining camp, I moved into town, and soon after, I received a letter from Mr. C. W. Prinz requesting that I meet him in an old abandoned mine about half a mile from town on a certain night. A diagram of the incline-shaft which I was to go down was enclosed in the letter. He explained that he would go around through the main workings of the mine so as not to be seen.

It was a dark night, but I found the mouth of the old shaft from the description given in the letter. But to descend into the bowels of the earth through a dark hole 5 by 7 feet, that I knew nothing about, required a lot of fool courage, and therefore I was quite awhile getting started. It was a great relief when I reached the bottom of the rotten ladder which had not been used for several years. The distance to the bottom was about 200 feet. On the way down, pieces of rock became loosened and rolled to the bottom, making a lonesome noise which sent cold shivers down my back. The ladder was damp and slippery and some of the rounds were missing. A walk of a few hundred feet through a drift brought me to Mr. Price, who had arrived on time. About midnight we separated, each going the way we had come. On reaching daylight, I vowed never to meet another client in a hole that I knew nothing about.

During the fall, Phil. Snyder and I went out into the mountains to hunt deer and grouse, and we bagged some of both. We were gone a week. On returning, I rode out to “Wild Bills” camp on Lone Mountain, a distance of about twenty-five miles. I had previously made friends with “Wild Bill” who was an enemy of Price and Pelling and stood in with the gang who had blown them up.

“Wild Bill” was a genius when it came to working with steel. He was a counterfeiter and made his own plates to print counterfeit paper money. He made me a steel candlestick with half a dozen instruments combined, which I still keep as a souvenir.

After this, I made many trips to “Wild Bills” camp. We lived on nice fat calf-meat which we would steal from bands of range cattle.

From “Wild Bill” I learned some valuable pointers as to who blew up Prinz and Pelling. I finally selected Tim W. as a good subject for me to work on to get a confession from. I made a confidant of him and told him that my father in Texas was rich and that I had got into a killing scrape and had to skip out. I explained that my father sent money to me through two friends, Smith and Long, of Reno City, Oklahoma; that these friends had money now of mine in their possession, but I didn’t want to take chances on having it sent direct to me at Tuscarora, even though I was under an assumed name. I was using the name of Chas. T. Leon.

Poor Tim W. bit at my bait and agreed that the money could be sent to him and then he would hand it to me on the sly. He promised to keep the matter secret, and he did so. He felt honored at being trusted with my liberty and money.

I then wrote to Superintendent McCartney and had him send $150 to my friends Smith and Long in Reno City, with instructions that they send it to Tim W. I also wrote Mr. Smith a letter on the subject. In due time a money order for $150 came to Tim W. through the Post Office. He cashed the money order and handed me the money. That night he and I got on a big “hurrah” and I spent money freely with his friends who were all enemies to our clients. After this, all the money which I spent came through Tim W.

Tim was working as a miner for the Smith Bros. on their rich gold mine. He would fill his pockets with some of the rich ore worth about $10 a pound, on coming off shift. Of course he made a confidant of me as I had trusted him.

Tim had a sweetheart, a Mrs. B., who was a widow and owned a small lodging house. He and I roomed in her building, but we were not in the same class when it came to burning midnight oil and basking in the sunshine of her sweet smiles.

Late in the fall I put a hungry man on his feet by helping him “salt” a mine.

One day I saw a man standing for hours in one place without moving. His features showed worry. I stepped up to him and invited him into a saloon to have a drink with me, my object being to cheer him up. Turning round and facing me he said:

“Partner, I would die before I would beg, but if you will give me the price of my drink I will get something to eat with it. That will do me more good than a drink.” He then informed me that his name was Harnihan, or a name similar to that; that he had come from Angels Camp, California, where he worked for the millionaire mine owner Lane; that he had paid his last dollar for a stage ride from the railroad and that he hadn’t tasted food since leaving Elko the morning before, and that he had hoped to get work but had failed. I slipped a dollar into his hand and told him to call for more when that was gone. He thanked me kindly.

When a boy, I had read the Bible a little, and recalled a passage therein about there being no harm to shear a lamb for the benefit of mankind. I either read this in the Bible or dreamed it. At any rate, I concluded to do a little shearing act, so as to give Mr. Harnihan a lift in the world, as he seemed to be a nice fellow with a proud spirit.

Morrison, the butcher, and his partner in the saloon business, were selected as the lambs to be shorn.

I had never salted a mine, but had received valuable lessons from Jacky in the Mudsill mine-salting case.

These two men owned a mining claim with a 30-foot hole in the ground, which they called a mine. I induced them to give Harnihan a working bond on this mine. Harnihan, who was a fine-looking, healthy man, agreed to follow any instructions that I might give. After working in the shaft a short time, he asked Morrison to have some of the ore assayed so as to see if it was improving. Morrison agreed to go up and sample the vein next morning and have an assay made of the ore. I gave Harnihan some of the rich ore which Tim W. had been stealing from the Smith mine, and told him to sprinkle it moderately over the bottom of the shaft that night. I had previously pulverized this ore into fine powder.

The next morning Morrison went to the mine in the edge of town, with Harnihan. He took a sample from the small vein in the bottom of the shaft and then returned to town. I made it my duty to watch Morrison take the sample to the assay office, and I saw him go there in the evening after the assay certificate. He came out in an excited manner. I stepped into his saloon ahead of him to watch proceedings. He called his partner into one corner and showed him the assayer’s certificate. It would require too much space to record these men’s monkeyshines up to the time Harnihan came from work at 5 P.M.

I met Harnihan and informed him that the lambs were tied on the block, ready for the shearing, but advised him not to accept their first offer.

Morrison told Harnihan that the ore had improved just a few dollars per ton. He offered to pay for what work had been done on the mine at regular wages, and release Harnihan from his interest, but Harnihan, as per my instructions, told him that he would work another week and then send a sample of the ore to Burlingame of Denver, for a good test. This did the work. At 9 P.M. Harnihan had $600 in gold in his pocket. He insisted on my taking half of it, but I refused to accept “tainted” money.

That night Harnihan got on a glorious drunk, and next day I sold him my horse and saddle at a fancy price and he “hit” the road for a lower altitude. I advised him to cut across country for fear the cat might get out of the bag; but it didn’t for several days. Then the air was blue with curse words for a whole month.

On riding away, Harnihan threw me a $20 gold piece and told me to take a drink on him. I have never seen or heard of him to this day. Thus the world moves and we all act our little part on the big stage.

I found out from Morrison, between curse words, that the salted sample showed a value of $1,500 per ton of ore, and that he supposed he was a millionaire; that the sudden fall to poverty was what hurt the worst. He never suspected me, and if he sees this the air will be impregnated with oaths again.

On Christmas day I took my first sleigh ride, and for a few minutes I was “going some.”

The liveryman had just received a brand new sleigh. I hired it and a spirited team of horses and took Miss Aggie Dougherty for a ride. We drove ten miles out on the stage road and then turned back. The stage and freight road was a mass of packed snow. On each side the soft snow was from 5 to 10 feet deep. On one side of the road about every hundred feet the stage company had a willow stuck into the snow so that on a stormy night the driver could keep on the road. One of these slender poles was bending over and the team ran into it. The end flew up and caught one of the horses in the flank. Then there was “something doing,” and we began to “go some.” If I had had the use of both hands the team might have been stopped before they got under full headway. My left arm was around the girl’s waist, to keep her from falling out, as the sleigh had no side-boards. Before my left arm could be disentangled and put back in its proper place, the team of flying broncos made a sharp turn off the road and went out of sight into the deep snow. The sleigh naturally went over them, high up in the air, upside down.

While standing on my head in the air, I could see my old Colt’s 45 pistol, which had been carried loose in my hip pocket, flying through space. At this place the snow was about 10 feet deep. I found poor little Aggie standing on her head in a hole that she had made in the snow. I had made a hole of my own, so it took me quite a while to reach Aggie. By the time I got her on her feet into the hard road the team was a couple of miles away, going like lightning. They had floundered back into the road.

In order to find my pistol I had to swim out to the small hole where it had disappeared in the snow, and then do some fancy diving.

A three-mile walk brought us to where the team lay tangled up in the harness. Both were on their sides. We had passed pieces of the sleigh scattered all along the road. Therefore, there wasn’t much of it attached to the team. After the pretty sorrels were on their feet, we started for town afoot, leading them. They had never been ridden, so we had to walk the five or six miles.

On reaching town a large crowd greeted us and made me treat.

The liveryman let me off lightly, by only charging me $50 for the half day’s sleigh ride. He said the experience was worth something to a beginner. I thought so too, for in future, I vowed that side-boards would have to be put on the sleigh to hold the girl in place before it could be hired to Yours Truly.

The fact that I was out riding with an 18-year-old girl while my sick wife was just recovering from a successful operation, may seem naughty to you, gentle reader, but you must bear in mind that there are tricks in all professions but ours, and they are all tricks. The truth is, I was working on old man Dougherty, and Aggie was only a side-issue to win points in the game.

In the spring, Tim W. and I made preparation to leave for the Wichita Mountains in the western part of the Indian Territory, on a prospecting trip for gold. I had told Tim wonderful stories of gold being found in these mountains by soldiers and hunters.

I had concluded that the best way to get a confession out of Tim would be to get him in a strange country where he could talk with no one but myself.

When his gang found out that he was going to the Indian Territory with me, they became frightened for fear I might be a detective. They had heard that Mr. Prinz said he would spend $150,000 to find out who the dynamiters of Tuscarora were. For several days and nights previous to our start, the gang held secret meetings in Mason’s drug store, trying to persuade Tim to give me the “shake.” They said it was positively known that I was a detective, but Tim insisted on their producing the evidence.

Among the gang was a hard character by the name of “Black Jack,” and he made it hot for poor Tim. He swore that he should not go. Mrs. B. also worked on Tim to dissuade him. Finally, everything was ready for an early start on the next morning’s stage. That night they held another secret meeting in Mason’s drug store, and Tim got very little sleep. As a last resort they told Tim that they had positive evidence that all the money which I had spent in Tuscarora came from Prinz and Pelling’s agents in San Francisco, and that if he would wait over another week they would produce my signature to the receipts for the money received at different times. Here’s where the gang fell down. Tim told them that they were d——d liars, but he wouldn’t tell them how he knew. He told me all about their meetings later, when we were on the road.

Next morning we boarded the stage for Elko, and most of the gang were at the Post Office to see us off, and to make one last effort to change Tim’s mind. The faces of some of the gang appeared pale and care-worn, and “Black Jack” looked daggers at me.

The whip was cracked and away we went.

In Elko, Tim and I boarded a train for Denver, Colorado. We kept the sleeping car porter busy furnishing us with drinks while en route.

Tim’s wealth consisted of $600 in cash and several hundred dollars worth of rich ore that he had stolen from the Smith Brothers’ mine, which he had taken along to sell in Denver.

A few days were spent in Denver, where I was under a strain for fear of meeting some one who might call me by my own name in the presence of Tim. I was indeed glad when we boarded the Denver & Fort Worth train for Wichita Falls, Texas.

In Wichita Falls I went to see my old friends Charlie Word, Liash Stephens and Tom Jones, cattle men, to tell them of my new name, and to caution them so they wouldn’t address me by my own name where Tim W. might hear it.

About ten years previous I had “bossed” a large herd of long-horned cattle “up the Chisholm trail,” from southwestern Texas, for Charlie Word.

On my arrival at Wichita Falls I left Tim at the hotel while I went to spend the evening until bed time with Mr. Word and his family. I had last seen Mrs. Word in San Antonio, Texas, in 1879, when she was a beautiful black-haired young woman with a first-born in her arms. Now this first-born was almost a young lady.

Word and I sat up late “harking back” to the days of big herds on the “Chisholm trail” between southern Texas and Kansas.

In the Word herd which I had charge of there were about 3000 head of cattle with about ten cowboys, and five horses to the man, and last, but not least, a cook to dish up the “grub” and drive the “grub-wagon.”

In “harking back” I thought of my first pistol duel, which died before it was fought, but its dying was no fault of mine or my opponent’s, a hot-headed Southerner by the name of Best, who was one of the cowboys.

He had loaned Mr. Word some money to buy cattle, and had agreed to make a “hand,” that is, do full duty at regular wages on the trail. When passing Fort Worth, Word, who had come around by rail on his way to Kansas, stopped off to see how we were getting along. He drove out in a buggy to where we were to stop over night. On his arrival Best and I had a fuss over the way I made him do the full work of a cowboy all the way “up the trail.” In the threats which followed I told Best to get his pistol and we would shoot it out. He brooded over the matter for an hour or so and finally told Word that he or I had to die before the sun went down. Word tried to reason with him, but it was no use. He was mad and meant it. He insisted that Word notify me that if I didn’t agree to fight a regular duel that he intended to kill me any way before the sun set. Word notified me and it was agreed that I wait until the sun was setting and then stand back to back and walk forward ten paces, and wheel and fire, until one or both were dead. We both began cleaning our pistols, as the sun was only an hour high. Word put in his time trying to persuade us to shake hands and call the duel off, but the stubborn bump, which the phrenologist in Caldwell, Kansas, said was like a mule’s, prevented me from backing out. I hoped though, that Best would “crawfish,” that is, back out, for I didn’t want to die, even a “little bit.”

When the sun looked to be only a few inches above the horizon, I imagined that I could feel myself growing pale behind the ears, but “praise the Lord,” here came Word from behind the wagon where Best was sitting on a pile of bedding, with the good news that Best had agreed to shake hands with me and do his duty the balance of the way up the trail. Thus Mr. Word had won a bloodless battle.

Two days later Tim and I had bought a horse each, and started northeast for the Wichita Mountains, a distance of two days’ ride. We crossed Red River at the Burnett ranch and were then in the Indian Territory. At night we camped on the plains, and the next evening we struck the mountains and had an old Indian woman cook a turkey gobbler which I had killed. She fried the breast of the turkey and made a batch of bread for us. The old dame’s hands were black with dirt and she struck them into the dough without washing them. We were too hungry though, to make a kick.

From here we went to Quanah Parker’s camp on the head of West Cache Creek. Quanah Parker was a big chief of the 7,000 Comanche Indians scattered around the borders of the Wichita Mountains. They don’t like to live in the mountains, therefore pitch their camps on the edge next to the plains. Quanah Parker is half white, he being the child of Cynthia Ann Parker, the white girl stolen in Texas by the Comanches before the war. He is over six feet tall and sports a mustache which can be seen with the naked eye. At this mustache he keeps tugging, when talking in broken English with his white brothers.

Tim and I rode through the Wichita Mountains to Anadarko, the Indian Agent’s headquarters. I made a confidant of Indian Agent C. E. Adams, and he gave me a pass so that Tim and I could stay on the Reservation outside the mountains. He could not give me a permit to go into the mountains, as there was supposed to be gold in there and white men were kept out by the Indian Police.

From Anadarko, Tim and I rode to Fort Sill, the army post on the east side of Wichita Mountains, where we went to lay in such supplies as could be carried behind our saddles as we had no pack horse.

For the next month Tim and I led a strenuous life in the mountains, dodging the Indian Police who were trying to capture us, but our horses were too swift. We would camp on the highest peaks from whence we could watch them hunting us. We had a fine time killing game. Turkeys were as plentiful as fowl around a Kansas barnyard. We could lie in bed any morning and kill a gobbler for breakfast. They were not killed by the Indians, as they regard them as evil spirits.

Tim and I named some of the highest peaks. One in the western part of the range was named after me. We called it Mt. Leon, and up on its highest point we planted an elk horn, around which was wrapped a copy of the Tuscarora, Nevada, daily paper, also a slip with our names and the new name of the peak on it. I often wonder if these elk horns have been found since the opening of these mountains to white settlers.

On two occasions I left Tim in the mountains while I rode the 25 miles to Fort Sill after “grub,” and our mail. Poor Tim never received any of the many letters sent to him by his friends and sweetheart, for I started a little post office of my own and placed them in a pigeon-hole under a rock.

The letters sent by Tim to be mailed by me were treated likewise. Most of the letters warned Tim to “shake” me and come home, as they had positive information that I was a Dickenson detective.

On my second trip into Fort Sill I found Tim’s sweetheart Mrs. B., there, but she didn’t get to see me. She had dropped about half a dozen letters in the post office telling Tim of her arrival to save him from the clutches of that Dickenson detective, Leon. I felt sorry for the poor woman, but all I could do was to shed a silent tear over her pathetic letters.

After this when we needed “grub,” I took Tim with me and we rode to the little town of Navajo, Texas, across the north fork of Red River in Greer County.

At one time old Quanah Parker had deputy United States marshals searching for us.

We failed to find a gold mine, and as I had got a full confession from Tim about the blowing up of Price and Pelling, we shook the dust of the mountains from our feet and landed in Union City, Oklahoma, a boom town on the South Canadian.

Finally, Tim and I arrived in the booming town of El Reno. We put up at the Stanley livery stable. Here young Todd, whom I knew in Caldwell, Kansas, a few years before, asked if my name was not Charlie Siringo. When I told him no, he replied: “Well you look like Charlie, all right enough.” Tim was present when the question was asked.

We picked up our “war-bags” and started up town, walking in the center of the main street. Before reaching the hotel a large man standing with a group of men in front of a saloon yelled out at the top of his voice: “Well I’ll be d——d, if there ain’t Charlie Siringo!” He then started across from an opposite corner to meet us. As he approached he held out his hand, saying: “Well, Charlie Siringo, what in the h——l are you doing here?” By this time he was facing me, but I didn’t put out my hand. I said: “I reckon you are mistaken, partner.” He replied: “Not by a d——d sight, Charlie. I would know your hide in a tan yard in h——l.” Still I didn’t put out my hand, and pretending to be mad I said: “Well, I must say you’ve got your gall whoever you are. I tell you that’s not my name.” He replied in a contemptuous manner: “May be it ain’t by ——.” Then he wheeled around and went back to the crowd.

I knew him well, though I hadn’t seen him for many years. He and I used to be cowboys together in Texas. I remembered his name then, but it has slipped my memory now. I was sorry for the poor fellow, as no doubt his companions gave him the laugh at the way he got “turned down” by me. Tim remarked that he believed the fellow really thought he knew me.

That night after Tim and I had gone to bed, I got up under the pretense of going to a saloon to get a drink, and went in search of my cowboy friend so as to explain matters to him. He was found at a dance, and when I explained the situation we shook hands and talked of old times. He was then in the butcher business.

Next day El Reno was lively, as the Rock Island Railway had just arrived there and it was the first anniversary of the opening of the Oklahoma Territory to white settlement. Oklahoma being just one year old that day, the whole Territory turned itself loose to celebrate. Tim and I did our share.

In El Reno I traded a lot there, which I owned, for a two-year-old race filly named Lulu Edson. She had lately won a big race; but she proved to be a costly piece of horseflesh, as I heard the lot sold for $5000 a few years later. I had the consolation though of owning a two-year-old that could run a quarter of a mile in 22½ seconds, almost world-record time.

In order to get Tim back to Denver before making the arrest, so as to keep it out of the newspapers, we started on horseback, using Lulu for a pack animal, a distance of about 600 miles.

Just before entering the Cherokee strip, we camped one day for dinner. While eating, an Oklahoma settler came galloping up on a black mare bareback. He recognized me and jumping off the horse, he said: “Hello, Charlie Siringo, what are you doing here?” I got up and shook hands with him, as we needed some pointers about the road, but I said: “You are the third crazy Oklahoma boomer who has called me that name, so I am beginning to think that I look like him.” He replied: “Why Charlie, you can’t fool me. I would know your hide in a tan yard.” He insisted so persistently, that I had to make him mad. He finally mounted his old nag and galloped off cursing. He and I had run cattle together in Texas, years before, and I knew him well, but I forget his name now.

That night we put up at a big cattle ranch in the Cherokee strip or outlet. There were about twenty cowboys present. The next morning it was raining hard and we concluded to lay over a day. As Lulu was tender-footed I rode her back into Oklahoma, five miles, to get her shod.

After I had left, a man with two pistols buckled around his waist called Tim to one side and said: “Partner did you ever commit a crime?” Tim asked why, and he replied: “Well if you did, you had better shake that Dickenson detective you are traveling with. That’s Charlie Siringo and he’s after some one down here.” Tim told the fellow that he must be mistaken. He replied: “All right, go ahead if you think so; but my advice to you if you have done anything, is to hit the road and hit her hard, before he gets back.” The fellow then got on his own horse and pulled out. He had just dropped in to eat breakfast before I had left, and he recognized me.

On my return the cowboys told of the noted outlaw “Six Shooter Bill” being there for breakfast. They said there were big rewards for him, dead or alive. He had evidently not told any one but Tim, who I was.

Tim was sour and apparently worried for the next few days, but I never surmised the cause until he told of it after his arrest. He said he felt like killing me and skipping out, as he had already made a confession to me, but he didn’t believe I was a detective.

On our arrival in Denver, after a hard ride, and before we had time to wash and eat, Tim was arrested by Supt. James McCartney. He was taken to our office and there confronted by Mr. W. C. Prinz who had come all the way from Nevada to be at the windup. Poor Tim broke down, and before a Notary Public he made a full confession, implicating all who had a hand in the blowing up of Prinz and Pelling.

After getting his sworn confession down in writing and his signature to it, he was turned over to me to keep under guard until Mr. Prinz could get back to Nevada and have the leaders arrested. But we heard they had flown before the arrest could be made. It was reported that “Black Jack” had skipped for South Africa. I lost track of the case and never heard how the matter terminated.

Tim W. had promised to testify in court when the time came, under agreement that he be not put in jail. We had faith in him keeping his promise. I guarded Tim a week or so in order to give Mr. Prinz time to reach Tuscarora and swear out warrants. Then Tim was turned loose and he went back to his grass widow, Mrs. B., to repent in sackcloth and ashes for the letters “which never came,” after he had promised so faithfully to write often. I never learned how long poor Mrs. B. remained in Fort Sill nursing her grieving heart. Hers was a case of sitting on the anxious seat with a vengeance, but such is often the penalty of blind love.

Just two days after our return to Denver, I took Lulu Edson out to the Overland Park where the big races were going on. I hobbled her two front feet with a piece of new rope so that she could hobble around and eat green grass. I hired a negro to watch her, but when the first race started she saw them and joined in the run, she being on the outside of the fence. In crossing a muddy slough, she went up to her ears in black mud, so that she was a black horse with a sorrel head. When half way around the mile track she jumped the five-foot fence and led the bunch of trotting horses past the wire. Her hobble had broken before she jumped the fence. She trotted up to the grand stand where sat many thousands of Denver’s elite, and whinnied. The people cheered, for most of them saw her jump the high fence. I was in the grand stand, but at first, didn’t know her, as she was black.

This was Lulu’s last race, as I wouldn’t trust her to others, and I was leading too strenuous a life to race her myself. I still own three of her colts. She died at my expense fifteen years after falling into my hands.

Thus ended the Prinz and Pelling operation so far as I was concerned. It was May, 1890, when Tim and I arrived in Denver. I had been on the operation nine months.

In his confession Tim told how the fuses were cut the same length and touched off at the same time so that the two wealthy mine owners would go up in the air and sprout angel-wings at the same time, their homes being a block or two apart. Many men were connected with the plot and for this reason Tim was set free after the sworn affidavits were made.

Mr. C. W. Prinz, the last account I had of him, was a prosperous mining man of San Francisco with offices on Pine street. He and Pelling sold out their interests in Tuscarora, Nevada. Mr. Pelling I heard, had married millionaire Cox’s daughter of Sacramento, California, and was now soaring high in society; quite a change from the time he soared high in the air through the roof of a house, with dynamite instead of $’s as the lifting power.