Outlaws and Peace Officers

by Stephen Brennan

  This faithful friend went home and returned, reaching Sumner about twelve o’clock in the night. There was snow on the ground, it was desperately cold, and Brazil’s beard was full of icicles. He reported that The Kid and his four companions had taken supper at Wilcox’s, then mounted, and left. We all started for the ranch. I sent Brazil ahead to see whether the gang had returned, whilst, with my posse, I took a circuitous route by Lake Ranch, a mile or two off the road, thinking they might be there. We rounded up the house, found it vacant, and rode on towards Wilcox’s. About three miles from there we met Brazil. He said the outlaws had not returned and showed me their trail on the snow. After following this trail a short distance, I was convinced that they had made for Stinking Springs, where was an old deserted house built by Alejandro Perea. When within a half-mile of the house, we halted and held a consultation. I told my companions I was confident we had them trapped, and cautioned them to preserve silence. When within about four hundred yards, we divided our party and left Juan Roibal in charge of the horses. With one-half the force I circled the house. Finding a dry arroyo, we took its bed and were able to approach pretty close. Stewart, with the rest of the posse, found concealment within about two hundred yards of the building on the other side. There were three horses tied to projecting rafters of the house, and, knowing that there were five of the gang, and that they were all mounted when they left Wilcox’s, we concluded they had led two horses inside. There was no door; only an opening, where a door had once been. I sent a messenger, who crept around to Stewart, proposing that, as they were surely there, we should stealthily enter the house, cover them with our guns, and hold them until daylight. Stewart demurred. Lee Hall was in favor of the plan. Shivering with cold, we awaited daylight or a movement from the inmates of the house.

  I had a perfect description of The Kid’s dress, especially his hat. I had told all the posse that, should The Kid make his appearance, it was my intention to kill him, and the rest would surrender. The Kid had sworn that he would never yield himself a prisoner, but would the fighting, with a revolver at each ear, and I knew he would keep his word. I was in a position to command a view of the doorway, and told my men that when I brought up my gun, to all raise and fire.

  Before it was fairly daylight, a man appeared at the entrance with a nose bag in his hand, whom I firmly believed to be The Kid. His size and dress, especially the hat, corresponded with his description exactly. I gave the signal by bringing my gun to my shoulder, my men raised, and seven bullets sped on their errand of death. Our victim was Charley Bowdre. Turning, he reeled back into the house. In a moment Wilson’s voice was heard. He called to me and said that Bowdre was killed and wanted to come out. I told him to come out with his hands up. As he started, The Kid caught hold of his belt, drew his revolver around in front of him and said, “They have murdered you, Charley, but you can get revenge. Kill some of the sons-of before you die.” Bowdre came out, his pistol still hanging in front of him, but with his hands up. He walked towards our ranks until he recognized me, then came straight to me, motioned with his hand towards the house, and strangling with blood, said, “I wish—I wish—I wish—” then, in a whisper, “I’m dying!” I took hold of him, laid him gently on my blankets, and he died almost immediately.

  Watching every movement about the house in the increasing light, I shortly saw a motion of one of the ropes by which the horses were tied, and dropped on the fact that they were attempting to lead one of them inside. My first impulse was to shoot the rope in two, but it was shaking so, I feared to miss. I did better—just as the horse was fairly in the opening, I shot him and he fell dead, partially barricading the outlet. To prevent another attempt of this kind, I shot the ropes in two which held the other two horses, and they walked away. They still had two horses in the house, one of them The Kid’s favorite mare, celebrated for speed, bottom, and beauty.

  I now opened a conversation with the besieged, of whom The Kid was spokesman. I asked him how he was fixed in there.

  “Pretty well,” answered The Kid, “but we have no wood to get breakfast.”

  “Come out,” said I, “and get some. Be a little sociable.”

  “Can’t do it, Pat,” replied he. “Business is too confining. No time to run around.”

  “Didn’t you fellows forget a part of your program yesterday?” said I. “You know you were to come in on us at Fort Sumner, from some other direction, give us a square fight, set us afoot, and drive us down the Pecos.”

  Brazil told me that when he took the information to The Kid that I only had Mason and three Mexicans with me at Sumner, and was afraid to leave for home, he proposed to come and take me in. Bowdre had objected to the expedition. My banter caused The Kid to drop on the fact that they had been betrayed, and he became reticent.

  Our party were becoming very hungry, and, getting together, we arranged to go to Wilcox’s ranch for breakfast. I went first, with one-half the men. The distance was only about three miles. When we reached there, Brazil asked me what news I brought. I told him the news was bad, that we had killed the very man we did not want to kill. When he learned that it was Bowdre, he said, “I don’t see why you should be sorry for having killed him. After you had the interview with him the other day, and was doing your best to get him out of his troubles, he said to me, as we were riding home, ‘I wish you would get that d—d long-legged son-of-a out to meet me once more; I would just kill him and end all this trouble!’ Now, how sorry are you?”

  I made arrangements with Wilcox to haul out to our camp some provisions, wood, and forage for our horses. I did not know how long the outlaws might hold out, and concluded I would make it as comfortable as possible for myself and the boys. Charley Rudolph had frozen his feet slightly the night previous. On my return, Stewart and the balance of the boys went to breakfast.

  About three o’clock the gang turned loose the two horses from the inside. We picked them up, as we had the other two. About four o’clock the wagon arrived from Wilcox’s with provisions and wood. We built a rousing fire and went to cooking. The odor of roasting meat was too much for the famished lads, who were without provisions. Craving stomachs overcame brave hearts. Rudahaugh stuck out from the window a handkerchief that had once been white, at the end of a stick, and called to us that they wanted to surrender. I told them that they could all come out with their hands up, if they wanted to. Rudabaugh then came out to our camp and said they would all surrender if I would guarantee them protection from violence. This, of course, I did. Rudabaugh returned to the house, where they held a short consultation. In a few moments they all, The Kid, Wilson, Pickett, and Rudabaugh, came out, were disarmed, got their supper, and we took them to Wilcox’s. I sent Brazil, Mason, and Rudolph back to the ranch with a wagon after the body of Bowdre. On their arrival with the corpse at Wilcox’s ranch, the cortege started for Fort Sumner, getting there before night. We turned Bowdre’s body over to his wife, ironed the prisoners, and by sundown Stewart, Mason, Jim East, “Poker Tom,” and myself, with the prisoners in charge, started for Las Vegas.

  The Kid and Rudahaugh were cheerful and gay during the trip. Wilson seemed dejected, and Pickett frightened. The Kid said that, had they succeeded in leading the three horses, or two of them, or one of them, into the house, they would have made a break to get away. He said, also, that he, alone, would have made a target of himself until his mare could have carried him out of range of our guns, or we had killed him, if it had not been for the dead horse barring his way. He said he knew she would not try to pass that, and, if she did, she would have knocked the top of his head off against the lintel of the doorway. Whilst at Fort Sumner, The Kid had made Stewart a present of the mare, remarking that he expected his business would be so confining for the next few months that he would hardly find time for horse-back exercise.

  We reached Gayheart’s ranch, with our prisoners, about midnight, rested until eight in the morning, and reached Puerto de Luna about two o’clock p.m., on Christmas day. My friend Grzelachow
ski gave us all a splendid dinner. My ubiquitous Don Quixote Aragon proffered to me, again, his invaluable services and that of his original mob, which I respectfully declined.

  With a fresh team, we got away from Puerto de Luna about four o’clock, broke our wagon, borrowed one of Capt. Clarency, and reached Hay’s ranch for breakfast. At 2:00 p.m., December 26, we reached Las Vegas and, through a crowd of citizens, made our way to the jail. Our objective point was the Santa Fe jail, as there were United States warrants against all our prisoners except Pickett. Him we intended to leave at Las Vegas. The other three we proposed to go on to Santa Fe with in the morning, although we expected, and so did Rudabaugh, that the authorities at Las Vegas would insist on holding him for the killing of the jailor. We had promised Rudabaugh to take him to Santa Fe, and were determined to do it. So Stewart went and made oath that we were holding this prisoner on a United States warrant; armed with which instrument and our warrant, we intended to hold this prisoner and take him to Santa Fe.

  * * *

  On the Morning of December 27th, I had fresh irons placed on The Kid, Rudabaugh, and Wilson. Michael Cosgrove, Esq., mail contractor, being well acquainted in Santa Fe, I induced him to accompany me there with the prisoners. I therefore released two of my guards, and started with Cosgrove, Stewart, and Mason.

  After breakfast we went to the jail for our prisoners. They turned out The Kid and Wilson to us, who were handcuffed together. We demanded Rudabaugh. They refused to yield him up, saying he had escaped from that jail, and they wanted him for murder. I told them that our right to the prisoner ranked theirs, as I was a deputy United States marshal and had arrested Rudabaugh for an offense against laws of the United States, that I knew nothing of any other offense or arrest, that he was my prisoner, I was responsible for him, and intended to have him. Stewart drew his affidavit on them, and they, at last, turned Rudabaugh out to us.

  We had been on the train with our three prisoners but a few minutes when we noticed that a good many Mexicans, scattered through the crowd, were armed with rifles and revolvers and seemed considerably excited. Stewart and I concluded their object was to take Rudabaugh off the train. I asked Stewart if we should make a fight for it; he said we would, of course. I said, “Let’s make a good one.” We felt sure they intended to mob him, or we might have given him up. Besides, he acknowledged that he was afraid of them, and we were pledged to protect him and take him to Santa Fe.

  Stewart guarded one door of the car, and I the other. These armed ruffians crowded about the car, but none of them made a formal demand for Rudabaugh, or stated their business. Deputy Sheriff Romero, brother to the sheriff who had so distinguished himself when I brought Webb to him at Hay’s ranch, headed a mob of five, who approached the platform where I was standing, flourishing their revolvers. One of the mob said, “Let’s go right in and take him out of there,” and they pushed this deputy up on the platform, crowding after him. I merely requested them, in my mildest tones, to get down, and they slid to the ground like a covey of hardhack turtles off the banks of the Pecos. They did not seem at all frightened, but modest and bashful-like. Rudabaugh was excited. The Kid and Wilson seemed unconcerned. I told them not to be uneasy, that we were going to make a fight if they tried to enter the car, and if the fight came off, I would arm them all, and let them take a hand. The Kid’s eyes glistened, as he said:—“All right, Pat. All I want is a six-shooter. There is no danger, though. Those fellows won’t fight.” The mob were weakening and all they wanted was for someone to coax them to desist, so it would not look so much like a square back-down. Some influential Mexicans reasoned a little with them and they subsided. We were detained by them about three-quarters of an hour. I understood, afterwards, that they had presented their guns to the engineer and threatened him if he moved the train. One of the railroad officials threatened them with the law for detaining the United States mail. At last Deputy United States Marshal Mollay mounted the cab and pulled the train out.

  I had telegraphed to Deputy United States Marshal Charles Conklin, and found him at the Santa Fe depot, waiting for us. Deputy United States Marshal Tony Neis took The Kid and Wilson from Santa Fe to Mesilla, where The Kid was first tried for the murder of Roberts at the Mescalero Apache Indian agency. He was acquitted. He was again tried, at the same term, for the murder of Sheriff William Brady, and sentenced to be hung on the 13th day of May, 1881, at Lincoln, the county seat of Lincoln County. He was brought from Mesilla by Deputy Marshal Robert Olinger and Deputy Sheriff David Woods, of Dona Ana County, and turned over to me by them at Fort Stanton, nine miles west of Lincoln, April 21, 1881. Lincoln County has never had a jail, until the last few weeks, that would hold a cripple. The county had just purchased the large two-story building, formerly the mercantile house of Murphy & Dolan, for the use of the county as a public building, but no jail had been constructed; hence I was obliged to place a guard over The Kid. I selected Deputy Sheriff J. W. Bell, and Deputy Marshal Robert Olinger, for this duty, and assigned them a guard room in the second story of the county building, separate and apart from other prisoners. This room was at the north-east corner of the building, and one had to pass from a hall, through another large room, to gain the only door to it. There were two windows—one on the north, opening to the street, and the other on the east, opening into a large yard, which ran east a hundred yards, or more, and projected into the street twelve or fourteen feet past the north, or front, walls of the building. At the projecting corner of the yard, next the house on the north-west, was a gate; a path running from this gate along the east end of the building to the rear, or south wall, where was a smaller gate opening into a corral, in the rear of the house. Passing through this corral to the south-west corner of the building, we come to a door leading to a small hall and broad staircase, which was the only, then, means of access to the second story of the building. Facing the north, we ascend five or six steps, reach a square landing, turn to the right, facing the east, and ascend twelve or fourteen steps, reaching the hall which extends through the building from north to south. Turning to the right, we find two doors, one on each side of the hall.

  The one to the right leads into a room in the south-west corner of the building, where were kept surplus arms. Turning to the left, from the head of the staircase we find two other doors, one on each side of the hall, and still another at the north end, which opens on a porch, facing the street on the north. The door on the left, or west side of the hall, led to a room appropriated to the confinement of prisoners, over whom I kept a guard. The door on the right, or east side of the hall, opened into a large room, occupied by me as an office, passing through which, another door opens into the north-east apartment, which I assigned to the guard, in which to confine The Kid. The necessity of this description will soon be understood by the reader, whether the description is lucid or not.

  During the few days The Kid remained in confinement, I had several conversations with him. He appeared to have a plausible excuse for each and every crime charged against him, except, perhaps, the killing of Carlyle. I said to him one day: “Billy, I pass no judgment as to whether your sentence is just for the killing of Brady, but, had you been acquitted on that charge, you would, most surely, have been hung for the murder of Jimmy Carlyle, and I would have pronounced that sentence just. That was the most detestable crime ever charged against you.” He seemed abashed and dejected, and only remarked: “There’s more about that than people know of.” In our conversations, he would sometimes seem on the point of opening his heart, either in confession or justification, but it always ended in an unspoken intimation that it would all be of no avail, as no one would give him credence, and he scorned to beg for sympathy. He expressed no enmity towards me for having been the instrument through which he was brought to justice, but evinced respect and confidence in me, acknowledging that I had only done my duty, without malice, and had treated him with marked leniency and kindness.

  As to his guards, he placed confidence in Deputy Sheriff Bell, an
d appeared to have taken a liking to him. Bell was in no manner connected with the Lincoln County War, and had no animosity or grudge against The Kid. The natural abhorrence of an honest man towards a well-known violator of the law was intensified in Bell’s case, by the murder of Carlyle, who was a friend of his; but never, by word or action, did he betray his prejudice, if it existed. As to Deputy Marshal Olinger, the case was altogether different. They had met, opposed in arms, frequently during the past years of anarchy. Bob Beckwith was a bosom friend of Olinger’s—The Kid had killed him. The Kid charged that Olinger had killed friends of his. There existed a reciprocal hatred between these two, and neither attempted to disguise or conceal his antipathy for the other.

  On the evening of April 28th, 1881, Olinger took all the other prisoners across the street to supper, leaving Bell in charge of The Kid in the guard room. We have but The Kid’s tale, and the sparse information elicited from Mr. Geiss, a German employed about the building, to determine the facts in regard to events immediately following Olinger’s departure. From circumstances, indications, information from Geiss, and The Kid’s admissions, the popular conclusion is that:

  At The Kid’s request, Bell accompanied him down stairs and into the back corral. As they returned, Bell allowed The Kid to get considerably in advance. As The Kid turned on the landing of the stairs, he was hidden from Bell. He was light and active, and, with a few noiseless bounds, reached the head of the stairs, turned to the right, put his shoulder to the door of the room used as an armory (though locked, this door was well known to open by a firm push), entered, seized a six-shooter, returned to the head of the stairs just as Bell faced him on the landing of the stair-case, some twelve steps beneath, and fired. Bell turned, ran out into the corral and towards the little gate. He fell dead before reaching it. The Kid ran to the window at the south end of the hall, saw Bell fall, then slipped his handcuffs over his hands, threw them at the body, and said: “Here, d—n you, take these, too.” He then ran to my office and got a double-barreled shotgun. This gun was a very fine one, a breech-loader, and belonged to Olinger. He had loaded it that morning, in presence of The Kid, putting eighteen buckshot in each barrel, and remarked, “The man that gets one of those loads will feel it.” The Kid then entered the guard-room and stationed himself at the east window, opening on the yard.