After which diversion we turn to Billy Brooks, a “gent” of an impatient temperament, not used to waiting, and notably quick on the trigger. Mr. Dubbs reports that late one evening in the winter of ’72–’73 he returned to Dodge with two loads of buffalo meat. He finished his business, ate supper, and started to smoke a postprandial pipe. The sound of a fusillade in an adjoining dance hall interested him since he had been deprived of the pleasures of metropolitan life for some time and had come to depend upon Indians for excitement. (Incidentally, it may mentioned that they furnished him with a reasonable amount. Not long after this three of his men were caught, spread-eagled, and tortured by Indians. Dubbs escaped after a hair-raising ride and arrived at Adobe Walls in time to take part in the historic defense of that post by a handful of buffalo hunters against many hundred tribesmen.) From the building burst four men. They started across the railroad track to another dance hall, one frequented by Brooks. Dubbs heard the men mention the name of Brooks, coupling it with an oath. Another buffalo hunter named Fred Singer joined Dubbs. They followed the strangers, and just before the four reached the dance hall Singer shouted a warning to the marshal. This annoyed the unknown four, and they promptly exchanged shots with the buffalo hunters. Then what took place was startling in the sudden drama of it.
Billy Brooks stood in bold relief in the doorway, a revolver in each hand. He fired so fast that Dubbs says the sounds were like a company discharging weapons. When the smoke cleared Brooks still stood in the same place. Two of the strangers were dead and two mortally wounded. They were brothers. They had come from Hays City to avenge the death of a fifth brother shot down by Brooks some time before.
Mr. Brooks has a fondness for the fair sex. He and Browney, the yard-master, took a fancy to the same girl. Captain Drew, she was called, and she preferred Browney. Whereupon Brooks naturally shot him in the head. Perversely, to the surprise of everybody, Browney recovered and was soon back at his old job.
Brooks seems to have held no grudge at him for making light of his marksmanship in this manner. At any rate, his next affair was with Kirk Jordan, the buffalo hunter. This was a very different business. Jordan had been in a hundred tight holes. He had fought Indians time and time again. Professional killers had no terror for him. He drew down his big buffalo gun on Brooks, and the latter took cover. Barrels of water had been placed along the principal streets for fire protection. These had saved several lives during shooting scrapes. Brooks ducked behind one, and the ball from Jordan’s gun plunged into it. The marshal dodged into a store, out of the rear door, and into a livery stable. He was hidden under a bed. Alas! For a reputation gone glimmering. Mr. Brooks fled to the fort, took the train from the siding, and shook forever the dust of Dodge from his feet. Whither he departed a deponent sayeth not.
How do I explain this? I don’t. I record a fact. Many gunmen were at one time or another subject to these panics during which the yellow streak showed. Not all of them by any means, but a very considerable percentage. They swaggered boldly, killed recklessly. Then one day some quiet little man with a cold grey eye called the turn on them, after which they oozed out of the surrounding scenery.
Owen P. White gives it on the authority of Charlie Siringo that Bat Masterson sang small when Clay Allison of the Panhandle, he of the well-notched gun, drifted into Dodge and inquired for the city marshal. But the old timers at Dodge do not bear this out. Bat was at the Adobe Walls fight, one of fourteen men who stood of the hundred bucks of the Cheyenne, Comanche, and Kiowa tribes. He scouted for miles. He was elected sheriff of Ford County, with headquarters at Dodge when only twenty-seven years of age. It was a tough assignment, and Bat executed it to the satisfaction of all concerned except the element he cowed.
Personally, I never met Bat until his killing days were past. He was dealing faro at a gambling house in Denver, when I, a young reporter, first had the pleasure of looking into his cold blue eyes. It was a notable fact that all the frontier bad men had eyes either grey or blue, often a faded blue, expressionless, hard as jade.
It is only fair to Bat that the old-timers of Dodge do not accept the Siringo point of view about him. Wright said about him that he was absolutely fearless and no trouble hunter. “Bat is a gentleman by instinct, of pleasant manners, good address, and mild until aroused, and then for God’s sake, look out. He is a leader of men, has much natural ability, and good hard common sense. There is nothing low about him. He is high-toned and broad-minded, cool and brave.” I give this opinion for what it is worth.
In any case, he was a most efficient sheriff. Dave Rudabaugh, later associated with Billy the Kid in New Mexico, staged a train robbery at Kingsley, Kansas, a territory not in Bat’s jurisdiction. However, Bat set out in pursuit with a posse. A near-blizzard was sweeping the country. Bat made for Lovell’s cattle camp, on the chance that the bandits would be forced to take shelter there. It was a good guess. Rudabaugh’s outfit rode in, stiff and half frozen, and Bat captured the robbers without firing a shot. This was one of many captures that Bat made.
He had a deep sense of loyalty to his friends. On two separate occasions he returned to Dodge, after having left the town, to straighten out difficulties for his friends or to avenge them. The first time was when Luke Short, who ran a gambling house in Dodge, had difficulty with Mayor Webster and his official family. Luke appears to have held the opinion that the cards were stacked against him and that this was a trouble out of which he could not shoot himself. He wired Bat Masterson and Wyatt Earp to come to Dodge. They did, accompanied by another friend or two. The Mayor made peace on terms dictated by Short.
Bat’s second return to Dodge was caused by a wire from his brother James, who ran a dance hall in partnership with a man named Peacock. Masterson wanted to discharge the bartender, Al Updegraph, a brother-in-law of the other partner. A serious difficulty loomed in the offing. Wherefore James called for help. Bat arrived at eleven one sunny morning, another gunman at heel. At three o’clock he entrained for Tombstone, Arizona. James beside him. The interval had been a busy one. On the way up from the station (always known then as the depot), the two men met Peacock and Updegraph. No amenities were exchanged, it was strictly business. Bullets began to sing at once. The men stood across the street from each other and emptied their weapons. Oddly enough, Updegraph was the only one wounded. This little matter attended to, Bat surrendered himself, was fined three dollars for carrying concealed weapons, and released. He ate dinner, disposed of his brother’s interest in the saloon, and returned to the station.
Bat Masterson was a friend of Theodore Roosevelt, who was given to admiring men with “guts,” such men as Pat Garrett, Ben Daniels, and Billy Tilghman. Mr. Roosevelt offered Masterson a place as United States Marshal of Arizona. The ex-sheriff declined it. “If I took it,” he explained, “I’d have to kill some fool boy who wanted to get a reputation for killing me.” The President then offered Bat a place as Deputy United States Marshal of New York, and this was accepted. From that time Masterson became a citizen of the Empire State. For seventeen years he worked on a newspaper there and died a few years since with a pen in his hand. He was respected by the entire newspaper fraternity.
Owing to the pleasant habit of cowboys of shooting up the town, they were required, when entering the city limits, to hand over their weapons to the marshal. The guns were deposited at Wright & Beverly’s Store, in a rack built for the purpose, and receipts given for them. Sometimes a hundred six-shooters would be there at once. These were never returned to their owners unless the cowboys were sober.
To be a marshal of one of these fighting frontier towns was no post to be sought for by a supple politician. The place called for a chilled iron nerve and an uncanny skill with the Colt. Tom Smith, one of the gamest men and best officers who ever wore a star on the frontier, was killed in performance of his duty. Colonel Breackenridge says that Smith, marshal of Abilene before “Wild Bill,” was the gamest man he ever knew. He was a powerful, athletic man who would arrest, himself
unarmed, the most desperate characters. He once told Breackenridge that anyone could bring a dead man back but it took a good officer to take lawbreakers while they were alive. In this he differed from Hickok, who did not take chances. He brought his men in dead. Nixon, assistant marshal at Dodge, was murdered by “Mysterious Dave” Mathers, who himself once held the same post. Ed Masterson, after displaying conspicuous courage many times, was mortally wounded April 9, 1878, by two desperate men, Jack Wagner and Alf Walker, who were terrorizing Front Street. Bat reached the scene a few minutes later and heard the story. As soon as his brother died Bat went after the desperadoes, met them, and killed them both.
The death of Ed Masterson shocked the town. Civil organizations passed resolutions of respect. During the funeral, which was the largest ever held in Dodge, all business houses were closed. It is not on record that anybody regretted the demise of the marshal’s assassins.
Among those who came to Dodge each season to meet the Texas cattle drive were Ben and Bill Thompson, gamblers who ran a faro bank. Previously they had been accustomed to go to Ellsworth, while that point was the terminus of the drive. Here they had ruled with a high hand, killed the sheriff, and made their getaway safely. Bill got into a shooting affray at Ogalala. He was badly wounded and was carried to the hotel. It was announced openly that he would never leave town alive. Ben did not dare go to Ogalala, for his record there outlawed him. He came to Bat Masterson.
Bat knew Bill’s nurse and arranged a plan for campaign. A sham battle was staged at the big dance hall, during the excitement of which Bat and the nurse carried the wounded man to the train, got him to a sleeper, and into a bed. Buffalo Bill met the next day at North Platte. He had relays of teams stationed on the road, and he and Bat guarded the sick man during the long ride, bringing him safely to Dodge.
Emanuel Dubbs ran a roadhouse not far from Dodge about this time. He was practicing with his six-shooter one day when a splendidly built young six-footer rode up to his place. The stranger watched him as he fired at the tin cans he had put on fence posts. Presently the young fellow suggested he throw a couple of cans up in the air. Dubbs did so. Out flashed the stranger’s revolver. There was a roar of exploding shots. Dubbs picked up the cans. Four shots had been fired. Two bullets had drilled through each can.
“Better not carry a six-shooter till you learn to shoot,” Bill Cody suggested, as he put his guns back into their holsters. “You’ll be a living temptation to some bad man.” Buffalo Bill was on his way to the North Platte.
Life at Dodge was not all tragic. The six-shooter roared in the land a good deal, but there were many citizens who went quietly about their business and took no part in the nightlife of the town. It was entirely optional with the individual. The little city had its legitimate theatres as well as its hurdy-gurdy houses and gambling dens. There was the Lady Gay, for instance, a popular vaudeville resort. There were well attended churches. But Dodge boiled so with exuberant young life, often inflamed by bad liquor, that both theatre and church were likely to be scenes of unexpected explosions.
A drunken cowboy became annoyed at Eddie Foy. While the comedian was reciting “Kalamazoo in Michigan” the puncher began bombarding the frail walls from the outside with a .45 Colt’s revolver. Eddie made a swift strategic retreat. A deputy marshal was standing near the cow-puncher, who was astride a plunging horse. The deputy fired twice. The first shot missed. The second brought the rider down. He was dead before he hit the ground. The deputy apologized later for his marksmanship, but he added by way of explanation, “the bronc sure was sunfishin’ plenty.”
The killing of Miss Dora Head, a handsome young actress of much promise, was regretted by everybody in Dodge. A young fellow named Kennedy, son of a rich cattleman, shot her unintentionally while he was trying to murder James Kelly. He fled. A posse composed of sheriff Masterson, William Tilghman, Wyatt Earp, and Charles Bassett took the trail. They captured the man after wounding him desperately. He was brought back to Dodge, recovered, and escaped. His pistol arm was useless, but he used the other well enough to slay several other victims before someone made an end of him.
The gay good spirits of Dodge found continual expression in practical jokes. The wilder these were the better pleased was the town. “Mysterious Dave” was the central figure in one. An evangelist was conducting a series of meetings. He made a powerful magnetic appeal, and many were the hard characters who walked the sawdust trail. The preacher set his heart on converting Dave Mathers, the worst of bad men and a notorious scoffer. The meetings prospered. The church proved too small for the crowds and adjourned to a dance hall. Dave became interested. He went to hear brother Johnson preach. He went a second time, and a third. “He certainly preaches like the Watsons and goes for sin all spraddled out,” Dave conceded. Brother Johnson grew hopeful. It seemed possible that this brand could be snatched from the burning. He preached directly at Dave, and Dave buried his head in his hands and sobbed. The preacher said he was willing to die if he could convert this one vile sinner. Others of the deacons agreed that they too would not object to going straight to heaven with the knowledge that Dave had been saved.
“They were right excited an’ didn’t know straight up,” an old-timer explained. “Dave, he looked so whipped his ears flopped. Finally, he rose an’ said ‘I’ve got your company, friends. Now, while we’re all saved I reckon we’d better start straight for heaven. First off the preacher, then the deacons; me last.’ Then Dave whips out a whoppin’ big gun and starts to shootin’. The preacher went right through a window an’ took it with him. He was sure in some hurry. The deacons hunted cover. Seemed like they was willin’ to postpone taking that through ticket to heaven. After that they never did worry anymore about Dave’s soul.”
Many rustlers gathered around Dodge in those days. The most notorious of these was a gang of more than thirty under the leadership of Dutch Henry and Tom Owens, two of the most desperate outlaws ever known in Kansas. A posse was organized to run down this gang under the leadership of Dubbs, who had lost some of his stock. Before starting, the posse telephoned Hays City to organize a company to head off the rustlers. Twenty miles west of Hays the posse overtook the rustlers. A bloody battle ensued, during which Owens and several outlaws were killed and Dutch Henry wounded six times. Several of the posse were also shot. The story has a curious sequel. Many years later, when Emanuel Dubbs was county judge of Wheeler County, Texas, Dutch Henry came to his house and stayed several days. He was a thoroughly reformed man. Not many years ago Dutch Henry died in Colorado. He was a man with many good qualities. Even in his outlaw days he had many friends among the law-abiding citizens.
After the battle with the Owens gang rustlers operated much more quietly, but they did not cease stealing. One night three men were hanged on a cottonwood on Saw Creek, ten or twelve miles from Dodge. One of these was a young man of a good family who had drifted into rustling and had been carried away by the excitement of it. Another of the three was the son of Tom Owens. To this day the pace is known as Horse Thief Canyon. During its years of prosperity many eminent men visited Dodge, including Generals Sherman and Sheridan, President Hayes, and General Miles. Its reputation had extended far and wide. It was the wild and woolly cowboy capital of the Southwest, a place to quicken the blood of any man. Nearly all that gay, hard-riding company of cow-punchers, buffalo hunters, bad men, and pioneers have vanished into yesterday’s seven thousand years. But Certainly Dodge once had its day and night of glory. No more rip-roaring town ever bucked the tiger.
CHAPTER II.
COWBOY DETECTIVE
By Charles Siringo
A rest of a few days in Denver, and Supt. A instructed me to get ready for a trip among the Ute Indians who were then reported to be on the warpath.
It was the fall of 1887. The work was to be done for a wealthy widow by the name of Mrs. Tice. She and a Mr. C owned a small cattle ranch in western Colorado. She suspicioned that she was being robbed by their foreman and her partner. So, for
there I started out in my cowboy rigging.
In Rifle, on Grande River, I left the Denver & Rio Grande train and on the upper deck of a civilized pony I started north over the mountains for Meeker, on White River. A moderate ride of a day and a half brought me to the town made famous by the “Meeker Massacre.” On my arrival in Meeker the excitement of a late Indian war had subsided. A week or ten days previous, a battle had been fought on the head of White River, a day’s ride from Meeker, and on leaving Denver I was instructed to investigate this battle for an official of the US government, after finishing the cattle operation.
From Meeker, a day’s ride down the river brought me to the cattle ranch owned by Mrs. Tice and C. With the foreman and cowboys I played myself off as an outlaw Texan, and by being an expert with a lasso I soon won their friendship.
In the course of two weeks I had secured sufficient evidence to show that our friend, Mrs. Tice, was being robbed.
I then returned to Meeker and from there went to the head of White River to investigate the killing of some Ute Indians by the sheriff and a crowd of ranchmen.
Before leaving Meeker I wrote a letter to Mr. Geo. L. Golding, of Denver, asking that my name be put on the list of wild-horse riders and steer ropers, in the grand Cowboy Tournament soon to take place. I signed myself “Dull Knife,” with Meeker as my home, so that no one would know me.
Outlaws and Peace Officers Page 2
