When he awoke from his drunken stupor, Finnegan was not amused with his new look. Taking refuge in a patch of bushes, he proceeded to shoot up the town, starting with the offices of the Bad Lands Cow Boy. He was stopped when A. T. Packard charged him with his horse and knocked him unconscious. Locked up in a boxcar, he was set free by an unknown friend and disappeared. Finnegan returned to Medora in December 1885, and resumed his shooting spree until he was arrested. He spent three weeks in a Mandan jail and was fined five dollars.
Residents were unhappy not only with Finnegan’s recent shooting demonstrations, but also with his rustling horses. The Stranglers let it be known in March 1886 that Finnegan, who was now traveling with a “half-breed” named Burnsted and Chris Pfaffenbach, an old German whose mind was cankered from whiskey, would have a rope “accident” if he stayed in the area. The night of March 23 was punctuated with a fierce, howling wind, which gave the trio perfect cover for their departure. Launching a small scow, they made good an escape via the Little Missouri River. After a while on the river, their scow began leaking; it was obvious the craft was doomed. That is when they spotted Theodore’s boat on the bank tied to a tree. Quickly taking advantage of opportunity before them, the trio took their newly acquired skiff and continued on down the river.
As the sun broke on the morning of March 24, Theodore was ready to renew tracking the mountain lions. The previous day he had spoken to W. J. Tompkins, an experienced hunter in the area, who would accompany him on the hunt. As breakfast was being readied, Sewall went out to check on the boat. Finding only the cut rope and a red woolen mitten on the ground nearby, Sewall went back to the cabin to inform his boss about the theft. Finnegan and the other two were surmised to be the likely culprits. Theodore immediately wanted to go after the thieves, but Sewall reminded him that no horse could make it along the river in such weather. Instead, he suggested that he and Dow build another boat, which would be ready to go within a few days. With the river jammed with heavy ice floes, the chances of the outlaw trio making good their escape would be heavily curtailed. As Sewall and Dow worked on a new scow, Theodore sent another ranch hand to Medora to obtain necessary supplies, as well as to telegraph authorities in Mandan to watch for Finnegan and his accomplices.
Theodore’s blood was up. The theft violated so many of the things he held dear: They had stolen personal property, exhibited a complete lack of personal honor, and, most importantly, they had shown a flagrant disregard for law and order. More than anything else, it was a matter of justice for him. In his Ranch Life and the Hunting Trail, Theodore devoted an entire chapter (“Sheriff ’s Work on a Ranch”) to the pursuit and capture of the boat thieves. Not only is it an entertaining read, but the passage also provides insight into Theodore’s mind-set, as well as providing the words of a man taking on the role of a determined leader.
In any wild country where the power of the law is little felt or heeded, and where everyone has to rely upon himself for protection, men soon begin to feel that it is in the highest degree unwise to submit to any wrong without making an immediate and resolute effort to avenge it upon the wrong-doers, at no matter what the cost of risk or trouble. To submit tamely and meekly to theft, or to any other injury, is to invite almost certain repetition of the offense, and this in a place where self-reliant hardihood and the ability to hold one’s own under all circumstances rank as the first of virtues.5
Not only did the theft of his property inflame his moral code, but Theodore was, in effect, a deputy sheriff of Billings County due to his position as chairman of the Little Missouri Stockmen’s Association. This gave him, in his opinion, the legal ability to pursue the miscreants with the backing of the law, not just as a matter of personal honor. Although he did not admit it, he would soon be off on another boyish adventure, living out the fantasy of a Western lawman.
The worst thing for Theodore at this point was waiting. He never could sit idly by, waiting for something to happen or begin. He had to start it, seize the moment, run with it. As he would do on many future occasions, Theodore wanted to take immediate action. In this case, he had no choice. Constructing a new boat, as well as the hostile weather, added to the delay. With time on his hands, Theodore began work on the Thomas Hart Benton book, and by the time all were ready to start, he had completed the first chapter. “At any rate,” he wrote Lodge on March 27, “I have made a start. Writing is horribly hard work to me; and I make slow progress . . . my style is very rough and I do not like a certain lack of sequitur that I do not seem to get rid of. At present we are all snowed up by a blizzard; as soon as it lightens up I shall start down the river with two of my men in a boat we have built while indoors, after some horse thieves who took our boat the other night to get out of the country with; but they have such a start we have very little chance of catching them.”6
Sewall completed the boat on March 27, but it was “too cold to start” after the trio. While the three pillagers were contending with the unforgiving elements, Theodore, Sewall, and Dow were comfortably ensconced at the Elkhorn. In his diary entry for March 28 Theodore stated it was “bitterly cold,” and the following day they experienced a “furious blizzard.” The weather cleared on March 30, and the three men began their pursuit. Carrying two weeks’ worth of provisions (including flour, beans, coffee, bacon, blankets, and fur coats), they also were each armed with a Winchester repeating rifle, pistols, and a double-barreled shotgun. For reading, Theodore brought along his new copy of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina.
As the homemade scow slipped into the icy river, the wives of Dow and Sewall, both pregnant, watched them disappear around the bend. Theodore expressed little concern about a matchup against the trio, as long as they were able to have a fair fight. What he, Sewall, and Dow worried about was being spotted and ambushed from the riverbank.
All through the early part of the day we drifted swiftly down between the heaped-up piles of ice, the cakes and slabs now dirty and unattractive looking. Towards evening, however, there came long reaches where the banks on either side were bare, though even here there would every now and then be necks where the jam had been crowded into too narrow a spot and risen over the side as it had done up-stream, grinding the bark from the big cottonwoods and snapping the smaller ones short off. In such places the ice-walls were sometimes eight or ten feet high, continually undermined by the restless current.7
That night they camped at “a point of wood-covered land jutting out into the stream,” just below the Eaton VI Ranch. Theodore shot three sharp-tailed grouse, which served as the men’s supper. As they rolled into their blankets, the cold grew even more bitter. Morning greeted them with bitingly frigid temperatures, and despite spotting many tracks of white-tailed deer, they found none. Casting off after their prey, the chilly air left them with little to say. It was nearly noon when the sun was high enough to provide a minimal hint of warmth, which was quickly dashed by an icy north wind. Lunch was taken on a sandbar, where they cooked bacon and coffee. Back on the river again, the cold never let up.
As they slept under their blankets and buffalo hides, the temperature dropped below zero. The morning of April 1 wasn’t much better, as the river had thickened with ice. Theodore, Dow, and Sewall went in search of game. Four deer jumped out of a thicket, and they managed to shoot two of the four. (“A man doing hard open-air work in cold weather is always hungry for meat.”) After breakfast, they once again pushed off into the river.
Despite not making as swift a departure from the Little Missouri area as they had hoped, Finnegan and his two followers felt confident that the jammed river and brutal temperatures gave them the advantage. No one, especially a dude from the East, would venture out in this weather after them. Like many criminals, Finnegan was not the brightest of men, and certainly underestimated Theodore’s tenacity.
As the late morning gave way to afternoon, the trio from the Elkhorn made as little noise as they could in case they stumbled upon the thieves. Rounding a bend in the river, they spotted their missi
ng boat moored on the riverbank. A few yards from the boat, in a cluster of bushes, they noticed smoke from a campfire.
“We had come on the camp of the thieves,” Theodore observed.8
They had just passed the point where Cherry Creek merges with the Little Missouri River. Sewall quietly guided their boat onto a portion of the riverbank that was free of ice. Theodore and Dow quickly shucked their jackets, and as the scow touched land, they were off the boat, rifles in hand. Sewall tied the boat to a tree and joined his friends. Of the three men, Finnegan would be the one to approach with the greatest caution. He was a gunman on the run. Such a man could either submit like a beaten puppy or fight like an angry grizzly. They reasoned, however, that Burnsted, who was half Indian, was another one to consider carefully. He was muscular, and his having thrown in with the likes of Finnegan made him a potential danger. Only the old German, Pfaffenbach, would be the one of least concern, since his mind was so rotted from alcohol.
They carefully made their way to where the smoke was rising. The fugitives’ camp was on a bank of the river, about fifteen feet wide; behind it was another bank that rose six feet, supported by thick brush. Theodore would approach from the center, with Dow on the right and Sewall on the left. Theodore had his Winchester, while the other two had shotguns filled with buckshot. “We were all three going to shoot if they offered to raise a gun,” Sewall later said. “It is rather savage work, but it don’t do to fool with such fellows. If there was killing to be done we meant to do it ourselves.”9
Pfaffenbach was the only one in the camp, sitting by the fire. Theodore, Dow, and Sewall waited a few minutes to make sure the other two were not hiding, or farther back in the bushes. Certain the old German was alone, they quickly swept down on him and disarmed the befuddled man. Pfaffenbach related that Burnsted and Finnegan had gone off to hunt, leaving him at camp. Assuring the German no harm would come to him as long as he did what he was told, the men resumed waiting in the bushes for the other two.
Burnsted was first to appear. As he came into camp, Theodore, rifle cocked, jumped up, ordered him to put his gun down, and raise his hands. The man readily did as ordered and was tied up.
Now they waited for Finnegan.
A half-hour passed before the leader walked in. Theodore jumped up and ordered him to drop his weapon.
Finnegan hesitated for a second, his eyes fairly wolfish; then, as I walked up within a few paces, covering the center of his chest so as to avoid overshooting, and repeating the command, he saw that he had no show, and, with an oath, let his rifle drop and held his hands up.10
One thing Theodore left out of his narrative was that, when Finnegan hesitated for a moment, Dow popped up and yelled out, “Damn you! Drop that gun!”11 (Hearing such a command from a man holding a shotgun would be quite persuasive, even to a criminal such as Finnegan.) Of course, it was not in Theodore’s nature to share the spotlight with this story. It is an undisputed fact that Theodore was the one who ordered Burnsted and Finnegan to stand down, with Dow and Sewall serving as backup. However, when creating a written narrative, which Theodore was doing, it is always more dramatic when the sole protagonist (in this case, Theodore) captures the deadliest of the fugitives. Sewall himself observed that Finnegan appeared to be more angry than scared, probably because he had been caught by a dude from the East. Theodore informed the fugitive trio they would be treated fairly, but should they try anything, they would be shot.
The three men were searched and their weapons removed. Theodore had to decide how to keep his prisoners from escaping. Tying their feet and hands would not work, as the extreme cold would cause them to freeze. The only way to be certain that their quarry didn’t escape was to maintain a twenty-four-hour guard. While Sewall and Dow chopped down some old cottonwoods for the fire, Theodore kept first watch, shotgun firmly in his hands. After dinner, the prisoners were ordered to take off their boots before they bedded down. Theodore stayed up to watch the men for half the night, noting that the only danger of such a task was “the extreme monotony” of sitting in the dark.
The following morning, with the three prisoners in tow, they made their way on the river to Mandan. Their provisions had been allotted for three men, but now with the captives in hand, their food supply began to rapidly decrease. Game in the area was scarce. If they ran low on supplies, they might be forced to let the fugitives go, something that Theodore was loathe to do.
Knowing Finnegan would likely be the one to try an escape, Theodore had him sit next to him in the boat Sewall had built. Sewall and Dow followed in the stolen boat, with Burnsted and the German and the plunder they had amassed, including saddles. For a time they made good progress; the river moved along swiftly, despite some ice chunks between the boats. As the miles wore on, however, ice jams caused them to slow down until the ice broke apart.
It was slow going.
One ice jam brought the boats to a complete halt. Leaving Sewall and Dow to guard the prisoners, Theodore climbed a hill, where he had a clear view of the river, which was blocked solidly. Pulling the boats to shore, they pitched camp for the night. Theodore, Sewall, and Dow held a brief conference on the situation. It was agreed that the men would stay on their current course, with hopes that the harsh weather would let up before their supplies gave out.
“The next eight days were as irksome and monotonous as any I ever spent: there is very little amusement in combining functions of a sheriff with those of an arctic explorer,” Theodore noted.12 The weather did not let up. Each night, as the temperature dropped, water in a pail froze solid, and ice built up on the banks. The next morning, the ice floes would break up, letting the flotilla make a bit of headway before jamming up and forcing them to stop and wait. This was repeated day after day, and with no game in sight, the supplies continued to dwindle.
Passing the Killdeer Mountains, Theodore kept a wary eye for any Indians on the banks. Some cowboys had earlier reported seeing a band of Indians, likely from the nearby Sioux reservation, along this stretch of land. Their presence could explain why game was virtually nonexistent in the area.
The landscape added to the tedium of the trip. Theodore noted that the unceasing rows of barren hills offered no feeling of advancement. Rounding the bend of the river offered a repetitive view. Combined with the winter’s bleakness, it was as if they were caught on a bone-chilling, never-ending merry-go-round.
Although progress was slow, tension among the prisoners eased as they realized they were not likely to be strung up on a rope. In one moment of bravado, Finnegan stated that if he had “any show at all,” Theodore would have had a fight on his hands. But, the criminal conceded he knew that if he tried to make a break, he’d be shot. Theodore nodded, chuckling. With nothing to do but sit and be watched, the prisoners would occasionally read material they had in their stash—dime novels, as well as “drearily silly society novels.” Theodore found the “surroundings were quite gray enough to harmonize well” with his reading his copy of the Tolstoy novel.13 Completing the book, Theodore borrowed one of Finnegan’s dime novels.
As they slowly made their way on the river, supplies ran lower and lower. They were forced to mix flour with muddy river water for unleavened biscuits. After covering nearly thirty miles on the river, on April 8, they spotted a cow camp for the C-Diamond Ranch. Landing the boats, they found a lone cowboy in the camp. It was decided that Theodore would arrange to get a wagon and take the prisoners to Dickinson, as the town was relatively closer than trying to reach Mandan via the river. The cowboy lent Theodore his pony, which proved a bit of a rough ride as soon as he stepped into the saddle. Sewall was heard to exclaim, as Theodore and the horse danced around, “The boss ain’t no bronco-buster!”14 Once the horse settled down, Theodore rode it to the main ranch (fifteen miles from the cow camp), where he made an agreement with the ranch owner to drive the wagon to Dickinson. The following morning Theodore, Sewall, and Dow marched the prisoners, along with their plunder, the fifteen miles to the ranch.
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bsp; Sewall and Dow returned to the river and eventually landed the boats in Mandan. From there, they boarded a train for Medora, transporting Theodore’s boat. Arriving in Medora, they launched the boat in the river to return to Elkhorn Ranch. Meanwhile, Theodore started off for Dickinson. Not knowing the ranch owner well, and not waiting to turn his back on his prisoners by sitting on the bench seat, Theodore made the decision to follow the wagon on foot to Dickinson.
It was a forty-five-mile trip.
Trudging through ankle-deep mud, with the wagon moving along— at best—at a walk, it took two days and a night to reach Dickinson. As darkness fell the first night, the group took shelter in a small lean-to that belonged to a granger. Inside, with a fire to help warm them, Theodore sat with his back to the door, shotgun in hand, keeping an all-night vigil over the prisoners. The following day, Sunday, April 11, the wagon carrying the three prisoners rolled into Dickinson, Theodore walking behind them. “I was most heartily glad when we at last jolted into the long, straggling main street of Dickinson, and I was able to give my unwilling companions into the hands of the sheriff,” Theodore stated.15
For his efforts as a deputy sheriff, making three arrests and traveling over three hundred odd miles to deliver his prisoners, Theodore received fifty dollars. With his prisoners locked up, Theodore sought medical aid for his feet. Trudging through muddy, cold clay for several days nearly left him with a case of frostbite.
THE COWBOY PRESIDENT Page 17
