“Friends,” he said to the men, “this isn't your train. It's owned by some men who earn more in a day than you will this year and next. So there ain't no reason to go heroic and make a funny move. Sorry about the guns. We'll only be here a few minutes. And while we are, I hope you'll take a serious look at this literature.”
Reaching into his inner coat pocket, Harry produced two copies of a pamphlet entitled “Socialism for the Working Man” and handed them to the pair.
Inside the train, Etta proceeded to calm the passengers in the second-class car as Butch began searching the train for Curry. At the sight of her pistol, the women began to scream and the children to cry. The men looked silent and angry, their vulnerabilities exposed.
“Ladies, please comfort your little ones,” she told them. “We are here neither to rob you nor to harm a single soul, especially not the children. I regret that these pistols are necessary, but believe me when I say they are for your safety as well as ours. If you will bear with us for just a few moments, we will take what we came for, something that is rightfully ours, and be on our way. Thank you all so very much for your kind cooperation.”
With a smile like a sympathetic schoolteacher, Etta turned to the conductor. “Now then,” she said. “I believe you are carrying a certain Father Halligan.”
From the
TRENTON TIMES
February 28, 1902
LADY TRAIN ROBBER REMAINS AT LARGE!
NO CLUES AS TO WHEREABOUTS OF DARING BEAUTY!
CATHOLIC PRIEST IS ROBBED OF ALL!
MISSING AND FEARED DEAD!
POLICE AND PINKERTONS BAFFLED AS TO WHY
MAN OF CLOTH VICTIMIZED!
By Times correspondents
Less than a fortnight after her daring robbery of a Union Pacific train near our city, the so-called Lady Train Robber remains a national mystery.
As this newspaper has previously reported, the woman, whom eyewitnesses described as “tall, well dressed, and attractive,” stopped the Number 26 Union Pacific train outside Trenton at approximately one o'clock on the afternoon of the 16th. She rode what one passenger said was “the biggest horse I ever seen what wasn't pulling a beer wagon.” Astride the rearing black beast, the woman managed to halt the train and climb aboard. She was aided by two male assistants.
To the astonishment of all present, the woman seemed bent on robbing only one passenger: the Reverend Seamus R. Halligan, a Catholic priest en route to Chicago and points west, who was relieved of three very large satchels, the contents of which are at present unknown to investigators. According to conductor F. X. Hochsteader, one of the thieves then dropped the large bags through the compartment's open window, presumably delivering them to a waiting confederate.
It was then that Father Halligan, in an act of both defiance and courage, broke for the train's corridor and jumped from the ledge of the rear baggage car. To the horror of the travelers, another member of the gang leaped after him from the locomotive cab. When last seen, the ruffian was in dogged pursuit of the unfortunate clergyman. Passengers said that the two men ran into the thick pines lining the tracks and disappeared from view.
The suspect is described as a tall man with slicked-down black hair, dark eyes, and a pronounced birthmark above his mustache. Witnesses said he wore a dark suit and cattleman's boots.
Hitherto calm and collected, witnesses claimed that the mystery woman became visibly anxious when her male confederate took flight after his victim. Even so, before taking her leave the young woman apologized to nearby passengers (taking especial care to reassure the ladies) and wished them a pleasant journey with “no further inconveniences or interruptions.”
Upon reaching its destination in Trenton, the train was again searched by local authorities. Mr. Arthur M. Sims, head of the regional office of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, which is aiding local authorities in this case, pronounced the robbery “a disgrace” and hinted that he might replace the man in charge of the investigation.
Meanwhile, police and city fathers here and elsewhere have become increasingly concerned that the Lady Train Robber could be transformed into a heroine instead of a villainess due to the daring nature of her crime. She is widely believed to be the only person of either sex ever to have successfully held up a train in New Jersey, and flattering artist's conceptions of her astride her gigantic black steed have filled newspapers across the nation.
Within days of the incident, so-called dime novels featuring fictional accounts of her exploits have appeared on newsstands and at booksellers. Each of these, telling completely different stories and written by different authors, purports to tell the true story of the female bandit. These books have sold out within hours of their appearances. In Atlantic City, fisticuffs erupted between three men over the last copy remaining at a besieged bookstall.
As of this writing, the search continues for Father Halligan. Officials have vowed that they will not rest until they have located the unfortunate cleric and divined his condition. However, pursued as he is by a professional criminal, authorities fear he may already be dead.
The Catholic Diocese of New York has called for prayer by people of all denominations.
xcerpt from: The Comely Lady Train Robber! or Virtue Forced to Crime! Being the true and eye-witnessed accounting of the great train robbery at Trenton, New Jersey by the mysterious and beautiful Annie-Laurie Smith, Associate of Outlaws.
By W. Worthington Bake, also author of “The True Diaries of Virgil Earp” (concerning the terrible events at the O.K. Corral), etc.
As Published March 1, 1902, in Colonel Custis' Weekly, Volume XII, No. 9, Custis & Ellery, Publishers, Boston, Mass. Price: 10¢
CHAPTER II
ANNIE-LAURIE'S FATEFUL ENTERPRISE
As Annie-Laurie Smith stood in wait astride the great black steed, she remembered the awful words of Solomon Gast, which even now rang in her shell-like ears.
“Should you fail to bring the gold and silver required to keep me and mine from the gallows, then your poor mother shall not once again gaze upon your fiery red hair and blue eyes!”
Never before had Annie-Laurie been so afraid. Still, she spoke with defiance.
“I shall do as you ask,” she said. “But mark you, Solomon Gast, that I do so with a heart heavy as an oaken door. It is not so for myself that I grieve but for the mother you hold captive and the innocents soon to be terrified by my cold steel.” (SEE: Colonel Custis Weekly, Volume XII, No. 8.) “But if one gray hair of that sainted woman's head is harmed, I vow to pursue you and your thieves with a band of mine own and thus be avenged, though it may take a hundred and hundred lifetimes!”
Solomon Gast snickered. “Fear not for your mother. I shall keep my promise as a man of honor. But hark! The train approaches. Ride now … or she dies!”
Annie-Laurie glared once more at the smiling villain and pulled up on the reins. “Hey, up there, Thunder!” she called to the great horse, and the two roared forth like a Roman candle, streaking toward the moving train, its locomotive belching cinders. Gast's two evil minions, Big Dirk and Johnny Prout, made haste to overtake the young woman.
Within moments, the huge black had gained the parlor carriage. Annie-Laurie said a prayer and then seized a gun-metal handhold. With that, the lithe young woman swung from her fine English saddle and onto the narrow platform between cars. From inside her shoulder bag, she produced twin .45s, each loaded for death, and emerged panting into the crowded car.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced. “My name is unimportant. I have come here not to foment terror amongst you but merely to seek your cooperation in the handing over of such cash and valuables as may now reside upon your persons. I ask please that no gentleman resort to heroics, so that this day no Christian soul shall meet Him that shall, in time, judge us all.”
Annie-Laurie passed amidst the frightened multitude. As her shoulder bag filled with cash and jewelry, her heart softened at the tears of the ladies, the protective stares of the men. But worst of all were the wails of
the children, their fearful little faces buried in their mothers' bosoms. Oh, how she longed to tell these little ones that she too was a prisoner!
Moving amongst the passengers, Annie-Laurie was relieved to feel the great train gradually slow its momentum. Gast's confederates had succeeded at their assignment and gained the mail car, where they were to empty the safe of all cash and bonds.
But as the trio made their way through the cars toward the locomotive, they found their way barred by a man of the cloth.
“You have the advantage of me, sir,” Annie-Laurie said to the Catholic priest. “I have no desire to injure a holy man, even he as is not of a denomination with which I am affiliated. But we are desperate road agents, and not in the habit of allowing even the most spiritual personage to thwart our intended designs.”
The blue-eyed papist smiled briefly and then spoke to the gang's pretty leader as to a congregant of a Sunday. His brogue was rich with the heather and peat of his native Ireland.
“My name, good miss, is Monsignor Seamus Halligan of the parish at Littleton, Colorado, and I fancy myself at this stage of life a man of some experience in matters of human character. Forgive me, but I read in your beautiful face only the greatest anguish at these most nefarious deeds you have been called upon to perform this day.”
“And what of it?” cried Johnny Prout, his one good eye glaring into the soft blueness of those of the consecrated man. “Whether she be a good or bad girl don't matter a cat's whisker. She is today an outlaw, and an outlaw she shall remain e'er more!”
The wise priest only shook his head. “No, servant of the devil,” he replied. “That which is in the heart belongs to our Lord and is seen clear as crystal by Him. And though you may have consigned yourself to your dark master's pits of flame, this girl may yet be salvaged, no matter your cruel coercion!
“I ask you now, young woman,” he implored, “with the price of refusal your immortal soul, to pray with me. To ask forgiveness of Him that I know you have called upon many times in an hour of need. It is even at this moment not too late to seek His succor.”
Annie-Laurie's eyes filled with tears. “Yes, good father,” she said, “I shall pray with you. Pray unto this hour as I have never prayed before.”
Yet before the sacred words could pour forth from the clergyman's lips, Annie-Laurie heard the sharp call of her evil master through the carriage window. “Dirk, Prout!” cried Solomon Gast to his grubby lieutenants. “Let us away!”
“Yes, Cap'n,” Big Dirk called back, his mouth foaming with cruelty and insanity. “All is here and ready!”
“Then silence that papist,” called Gast to his fellow transgressors. “We have much riding to do before gaining our hiding place. Away, I say! And again, away!”
And so, in the midst of prayer, Dirk and Prout seized the kind priest. To the horror of the assembled, they robbed him of his meager belongings, dragged him from the carriage, and, with a mighty shove, threw him from the train!
Their evil business thus completed, the two now moved toward Annie-Laurie. One on each side, they forced the struggling girl toward the mail car, where Gast and additional confederates awaited on horseback.
As she and the cutthroats swung into their saddles, Annie-Laurie spat her words at the outlaw chief.
“Curse you, Solomon Gast!” she shouted at the smiling blackguard. “Someday … and I pray it be soon … I shall have my rich revenge!”
NEXT WEEK: A MOTHER'S RESCUE?
id Curry needed a hideout, and Lord knows he had heard more than enough about Tap Duncan's farm. Curry had never had an abundance of respect for Tap Duncan. He had abandoned the gang just before the Tip-ton job to return to his native Ohio, a place he never tired of describing. Except for the fact that Hole-in-the-Wall had one less gunman, Curry was glad to see him go, the better to remain unexposed to his maudlin homesickness.
“Yes,” Tap would say, “there's a little farm I've had my eye on around Kenton. Good weather and water. Three–four hundred more dollars in the kitty, and it's Hardin County for me.” He said it over and over again.
Back then, it was all Curry could do not to kill him. Therefore, shooting him now had presented little conflict. Curry needed a place to hide out; Tap had one. Tap had half a dozen horses; Curry wanted one. Tap protested; Curry fired.
Had Duncan died somewhat closer to the house, Curry would have had to bury him, but Tap's body had fallen far enough away so that the odor reached his former residence only when the wind blew from the east. His killer had decided he could live with it.
Tap's corpse was the first sight that greeted Harry Longbaugh as he rode past the derelict fence that enclosed the dead man's property. He dismounted for a closer look although there was little need; he could tell at a glance whose work this was. A single shot, clean to the forehead, no fuss and less mercy. Harry needed no more information. It was as if the open mouth of Tap Duncan had whispered to him, Harry, you have found your man.
It had been no mean feat. From the moment they leaped from the train near Trenton, Curry had remained ahead of Harry by two steps and what seemed like a bouquet of four-leaf clovers. A sprain caused by the jump had laid Harry up nearly a full day while a terrified doctor in Ewing bound his ankle in gauze and sent him off with a quantity of laudanum sufficient for the chase. A farmer on his way to the Camden market took pity on the limping man and gave him a lift as far as the ferry. Harry crossed the Delaware and arrived in Philadelphia, where he knew the Pinks would be watching for him at every train station. He took in the show at Dunker's Museum, ate a hurried dinner at Kelly's on Mole Street, and arrived at the police stables on Callowhill around eleven. Harry introduced his iron to the old copper on duty and politely asked which horse was fastest. He chose the animal indicated and, with apologies, bound and gagged the officer. The horse proved as fleet as advertised, providing his rider with nearly a full day's start on the law.
Harry Longbaugh knew his man. With no one to trust, Kid Curry would make for Ohio and Tap Duncan, the closest living member of the Wild Bunch.
Harry was just about to begin feeling sorry for the corpse when a high-pitched voice rang out. “No closer.” Curry stood in the cabin doorway, holding an Army .45 at eye level.
“You know I'm out of range or you'd have shot by now,” Harry said. “I'm here to kill you, Logan. There's no other way.”
“And if I lay off your little woman?”
“You won't. And it doesn't matter now anyway. You're a sickness. Need to be lanced, like a boil.”
Curry raised his pistol higher and gave something between a laugh and a wheeze. “And I suppose you think you're the doctor.”
Harry nodded and took the measure of the wind.
“Then it'll end here, Harry Longbaugh. Because I know I can't never rest until you're over there with Tap. I'm fed to the teeth with you and Cassidy and the whole goddamn world looking down on me.”
Harry paused and, reaching down, pulled the Colt from his waistband. He held it shoulder height, its barrel pointing toward the sky. “Your pistol full?” he asked Curry.
“Always.”
Harry brought his left hand to the barrel of his gun and clicked open the loading gate. He let three bullets drop to the dust, replaced the lock, and turned again toward Curry.
“Now you're bigger than me. I'm three to your six. How's the weather up there?”
Logan smiled. “What's the play?”
Harry lowered the pistol and hefted it in his hand. The three bullets made a difference in its weight. “Hide and Seek.”
On his final word, Harry ran toward the cabin. In only a few yards he would be within killing range. He could see that running inside would offer Curry little protection. In life, Tap had not been diligent about maintenance, and the house was a death trap of holes and missing windows. The front door was gone, the rear one rotted soft as cheese. Every wall had cracks and crevices that provided a clear view of whatever lay behind it. Hiding in Duncan's place would be like seeking refu
ge in Wanamaker's window.
As Harry tucked and rolled toward the shelter of a hay bale, he heard Curry's first shot.
“That's one, Logan. You're getting shorter.”
Curry dove for the well that stood to the right of the cabin. He knew as well as Longbaugh that the cabin would provide no concealment. He rose from behind the well long enough to see Harry emerge from the bale and sprint toward a broken-down wagon. He fired again and the bullet ricocheted off one of Harry's silver spurs, setting it spinning. Harry dove behind the wagon, rolling in clouds of brown dust.
“Shrinking,” Harry shouted. “Smaller and smaller.”
Curry cursed and spat. He looked across the brown dirt of the farmyard toward the half-ruined corral. If he could reach the horses, he could jump one over the crumbled railing and shoot Longbaugh from horseback. He dashed from the well toward the rough fence posts, firing a cover shot as he ran.
“Three,” Harry called out. “We're even, Harvey Logan.”
Curry rolled in the dirt and into the corral. He tried to mount a big roan bareback but the animal reared at the first report from Harry's pistol. Curry fell to the earth in time to see Longbaughs boots at the other end of the fence. He fired two more times but the hooves and screams of the panicked animals were as threatening as the iron of the Sundance Kid. Harry hunkered down beneath the belly of a frenzied mare, but Curry was too quick. In the sea of crazed horses all was a blur of boots and legs and dust to burn the eyes.
Then Harry saw him through the mist. He trained his Colt on Curry through the dirty air but his second shot went wide. As he tried to rise from the crouch, his ankle sent agony to his brain and gave way.
He looked up in time to see Kid Curry grinning atop the fence. The little man had him in his sights. Harry tried to dodge behind a big gelding, but it bolted along with the rest of the shrieking herd. The panicked animals had parted like a hooved curtain and revealed him to his enemy.
Two shots shattered the morning air. The horses crashed through the rotted fence in a shower of brown splinters.
Etta: A Novel Page 23
