A Cowboy Detective E-Book

Charles A. Siringo

• Herausgeber: Arcadia Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Charles Angelo Siringo (1855-1928), was an American lawman, detective and agent for the Pinkerton National Detective Agency during the late 19th and early 20th centuries.This is his autobiography. He was a very interesting guy.

Leseprobe

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE

COPYRIGHT

A COWBOY DETECTIVE

PREFACE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

Charles A. Siringo

A COWBOY DETECTIVE

A True Story of Twenty-Two Years with a World-Famous Detective Agency

Giving the Inside Facts of the Bloody Coeur d’Alene Labor Riots, and the many Ups and Downs of the Author throughout the United States, Alaska, British Columbia and Old Mexico

Also Exciting Scenes among the Moonshiners of Kentucky and Virginia

Copyright © Charles A. Siringo

A Cowboy Detective

(1912)

Arcadia Press 2017

www.arcadiapress.eu

[email protected]

Storewww.arcadiaebookstore.eu

A COWBOY DETECTIVE

TO MY FRIEND

ALOIS B. RENEHAN

OF SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO

An eminent lawyer, advocate and writer,

as a token of appreciation of many

PREFACE

This story of twenty years of active service as a detective, an autobiography of many thrilling adventures, on mountain and plain, among moonshiners, cattle thieves, tramps, dynamiters and other strong-arm men, has been delayed for a long time in coming from the press. The delay was due to the protests of the author’s former employers. These protests were undoubtedly rightful, but it was considered in the beginning that no harm could come therefrom, for the reason that the identity of persons involved was not disclosed except in reference to past facts, matters that were done and over with. Now this difficulty has been overcome and the objections removed by the use of fictitious names in many places. But the story in no wise loses its interest, and it is believed the reader will find in the volume much with which to entertain himself.

The author is not a literary man, but has written as he speaks, and it is thought that the simplicity thus resulting will not detract from the substantial merit of the tales, which are recitals of facts and not of fiction.

CHARLES A. SIRINGO.

Santa Fe, New Mexico, January 6, 1912.

CHAPTER I

THE ANARCHIST RIOT IN CHICAGO — MY FIRST WORK FOR THE DICKENSON AGENCY — IN JAIL FOR SLUGGING A SLUGGER.

The writer was born in Matagorda county, Texas, in the extreme southern part of the State, in 1855, and was reared on the upper deck of all kinds and conditions of cow-ponies scattered throughout the Lone Star State, Kansas, Indian Territory and New Mexico. I spent fifteen years continuously in the saddle, seldom ever sleeping in a house or a tent. In these early days of the cattle business when the southern half of Texas was overrun with wild, long-horned cattle, the cowboys used the ground for a bed and the sky for covering.

I first started out as a full-fledged cowboy in 1867 when only eleven years of age. Of course, I naturally became an expert at riding “bad” horses and roping wild cattle. Besides, this strenuous, open-air life gave me health and a longing to see the world and to learn the ins and outs of human nature.

The chance came when the spring of 1886 found me in Chicago with a pretty young wife and a sweet little girl baby on my hands. We were boarding and rooming with a private family on Harrison avenue on the night of the Haymarket riot, when an anarchist’s bomb killed and maimed over sixty of the city’s police officers. We went to bed expecting a riot before morning, so we were not surprised when we heard the explosion of the bomb, and, soon after, the shooting which followed. A young lawyer, Reynolds by name, ran to our room to tell me to get ready and go with him to the riot, but my frightened girl-wife held on to me and wouldn’t let me go, though I sent a representative in the shape of my silver-plated, pearl-handled “Colt’s 45” pistol, which had been my companion on the cattle range and which still keeps me company as I write. Reynolds had borrowed my pistol and as he ran around a corner at the Haymarket with the “gun” in his hands, policemen opened fire on him, thinking that he was an anarchist. He dodged into a door, went up a flight of stairs and out an alley gate and flew for home like a scared wolf. With face as white as snow he handed me the pistol while I still lay in bed, saying that he had enough of the riot business, as several bullets had whizzed close to his head.

After the riot the city was all excitement, and I commenced to wish that I were a detective so as to help ferret out the thrower of the bomb and his backers. I knew very little about the detective business, though I had spent part of 1881 and 1882 doing secret work for Texas cattlemen against cattle thieves in western Texas and New Mexico. This had given me a taste for the work, and I liked it. Besides, I had been told by a blind phrenologist that I was “cut out” for a detective. At that time I didn’t believe in phrenology, but this man being as blind as a bat and telling so many truths about people I knew, convinced me that there was something besides wind and graft in phrenology. Had this man not been blind, I would have attributed his knowledge to his ability to read faces.

It was in the year 1884. I lived in Caldwell, Kansas, a cattle town on the border of Kansas and the Indian Territory. Circulars were scattered broadcast over the town announcing the coming of this noted phrenologist. After supper, on the evening of his arrival, many leading citizens turned out to hear him lecture at the Leland Hotel. He stood in the center of a large parlor, holding to the back of an empty chair. He was a fine looking old man, regardless of the fact that both eyes were out. After making a few preliminary remarks on phrenology, he called for some one to come forward and have his head examined. The audience began calling for our popular city marshal, Henry Brown, who had only been marshal a short time, but who had won glory and a new gold star by killing several men, including an Indian chief, “Spotted Horse,” who had taken on more “fire-water” than he could carry. Brown hesitated quite awhile about having his head “felt.” He knew better than any one else in the audience as to what was in his head and he didn’t want to risk having his faults told. He finally went out and sat down in the chair. But it was soon made plain by the color of his face that he regretted going. He stuck it out though, and heard some very uncomplimentary remarks said against himself. I knew that the phrenologist was telling the truth, because I had known Henry Brown when he was a member of the notorious “Billy the Kid’s” outlaw gang in the Pan handle of Texas, and the Territory of New Mexico. I first became acquainted with him through introduction by “Billy the Kid” in the fall of 1878. I had just returned to the Panhandle from Chicago, where I had been with a shipment of fat steers, and had found “Billy the Kid” and his gang camped at the L X ranch where I was employed as one of the cowboy foremen. I presented “Billy the Kid” with a fine meerschaum cigar holder, which I had bought in Chicago, and he in turn presented me with a book containing his autograph. He also introduced me to several of his men, one of them being Henry Brown. During that winter Brown and a half-breed Indian quit “the Kid’s” outlaw gang and went to the Indian Territory, and I lost track of him until I met him wearing an officer’s star in Caldwell, Kansas. He begged me to not give him away as he intended to reform and lead an honorable life. But I regretted after wards that I didn’t tell the citizens of Caldwell of his past record. For, while acting as city marshal of Caldwell, and while wearing his star, he rode into Medicine Lodge, a nearby town, with his chief deputy, Ben Wheeler, and two cowboys, and in broad daylight held up the Medicine Lodge Bank and killed the bank president, Wiley Pain, and his cashier. After a lively chase by the citizens of Medicine Lodge the four robbers were caught and jailed. That night when the mob opened the jail door to hang them, Brown and Wheeler made a break for liberty, knocking men down as they ran. Brown was killed with a charge of buckshot and Wheeler and the two cowboys were hung to a nearby tree.

After the blind phrenologist had finished Brown’s head, he called for another subject. This time the crowd began calling for Mr. Theodore Baufman, the Oklahoma scout. “Bauf” needed very little coaxing. He strutted out, carrying his two hundred and fifty pounds of flesh with the air of a king. The phrenologist ran his hand over “Bauf’s” head just once, and then said: “Ladies and gentlemen, here is a man who, if the Indians were on the warpath and he should run across one lone Indian on the plains, he would tell his friends that he had seen a thousand warriors.” This caused such yelling and laughter that Baufman was angry for weeks; but I, for one, knew that the phrenologist had told the truth, as I had worked with “Bauf” on the range as early as 1878 and therefore knew that his worst failings were a fear of hard work and the stretching of the truth.

Next the audience began calling for “Mamie,” my sixteen-year-old wife. She took the seat and the blind man ran his hand over her head once. He then said: “Here is a good-natured little somebody who cannot tell a lie or do a wrong.” The balance he told was what we all knew to be true.

Next the crowd called for me. I went forward and sat down in the chair. The blind man laid his hand on the top of my head and then said: “Ladies and gentlemen, here is a mule’s head.” When the laughter had subsided he explained that I had a large stubborn bump, hence was as stubborn as a mule. He then said I had a fine head for a newspaper editor, a fine stock raiser, or detective; that in any of these callings I would make a success. So, during the excitement following the anarchist riot in Chicago, this old man’s words began to bear fruit and I concluded to try my hand as a detective.

But the question arose as to the best way to start in the business, my main object being to see the world and learn human nature. I wisely concluded to start right by entering the greatest detective school on earth the Dickenson National Detective Agency. My steps were light and my hopes buoyant when on the 29th day of June, 1886, I stepped into S. A. Kean & Co.’s Bank and asked the cashier, Mr. Yure, for a letter of introduction to Mr. Wm. L. Dickenson. I was slightly acquainted with this cashier, as I had done business with his bank. He replied that he would speak to Mr. Kean. He soon returned and wrote me the letter. It read as follows:

“CHICAGO, ILL., June 29th, 1886.

Dickenson Detective Agency, City.

Gentlemen: The bearer, Mr. Chas. A. Siringo, we know to be a person of good character, and having been a cowboy and brought up on the plains, his services and ability are commend able to you. S. A. KEAN & Co., Bankers.”

Armed with this letter of introduction I bolted into the Dickenson Agency. I found the air in the main office impregnated with mystery and suspicion. A dozen pairs of eyes were focused on me as though I were an anarchist with a bomb up my sleeve. I asked to see Mr. “Billy” Dickenson. I had often heard him called “Billy,” and my lack of business knowledge prevented me from using his proper name. The attendant informed me that he couldn’t be seen, but that any word or letter which I might have could be conveyed to him. I then wrote a note addressed to Mr. “Billy” Dickenson, stating my business, and enclosed it with the banker’s letter of introduction. The young man disappeared with these letters. In about twenty minutes he returned with the S. A. Kean letter, on the bottom of which was written in Mr. Dickenson’s own handwriting:

“Capt. Farley: The party referred to in this letter is undoubtedly a good man. Wm. L. Dickenson.”

I was told to go down stairs and present the Kean & Co. letter to Capt. Farley. I did so. He read it, then handed it back to me, and I still retain it as a relic of bygone days.

After being put through a test by Capt. Mike Farley, I was allowed to see the “big chief,” Wm. L. Dickenson. He asked for references and I gave him the names of David T. Beals, president of the Union National Bank of Kansas City, Mo.; Jas. H. East, a popular Texas sheriff, and Pat Garrett, the slayer of “Billy the Kid.” In 1880 I had assisted Garrett in running down that noted out law and his murderous gang; hence I felt safe in giving this noted “bad” man-killer as reference.

Mr. Dickenson said he would write to these men at once, and if their replies were favorable, he would give me a position in a new office which they were opening in Denver, Colo. He said they would need a cowboy detective there, as they figured on getting a lot of cattle work. I had told Mr. Dickenson that the east was too tame for me, hence I wanted a position in the west.

After the interview I went home to wait a week or two for replies from my references, and while waiting, I broke into jail for the first time in my life.

It was Saturday evening after dark. The mix-up took place at Barnum’s circus near the ticket wagon, when the great crowd was scrambling to buy tickets to the circus. A large man, who would have made two of me, tried to be fresh and I called him down. He made a pass to put me to sleep the first punch but before he could get in his work the weight of my old Colt’s 45 pistol had landed on his head. This was followed up with one more lick which buried the sharp pistol-sight into his skull. This brought the blood in a stream. By this time his partner had picked up a piece of board and had it raised to strike me from the rear. I saw him just in time. He found a cocked pistol in his face, and dropping the board, begged for mercy. Both of these men had wives with them and they were crying and screaming. No doubt they thought their “hubbies” had innocently stirred up a hornet’s nest. A policeman came running up, but he was so excited that he forgot to take my pistol, so I put it back into my pocket. This good-looking young policeman informed me that I was under arrest. I told him that I wouldn’t be arrested unless he also arrested the other two men. He then told them to consider themselves under arrest. The wounded man, whose face and neck and white shirt front were red with blood, begged not to be put in a patrol wagon. Therefore, as it was only a few blocks to the Harrison street police station, the officer consented to let us walk. The other two prisoners and their nicely dressed wives took the lead, while the officer and I brought up the rear. We had only gone a block when the wounded man balked. He wouldn’t budge until I surrendered my arsenal to the policeman. He had suddenly remembered that I still had the pistol.

On reaching the Harrison street station we stepped up to a desk behind which sat a very old, fat man. My pistol was laid on his desk and the policeman told him I had used it on the red man. The old fellow eyed me, then the pistol, then the man covered with blood and his nice broadcloth suit ruined. He asked me if I had use’d this pistol on the man. I replied “Yes.” Then he said, “I’ll fix you, young man. I’ll make the charge assault with intent to murder.” He then began writing it down in his book. The tiger blood in me began to boil. I finally turned myself loose and called the old bald-headed “judge” some hard names. The policeman tried to stop me but failed. Then he leaned over the desk and whispered something to the “judge” who changed the charge to “assault with a deadly weapon.” This satisfied me and I sat down.

Then the “judge” told the officer to call the patrol wagon and have me taken to jail. While awaiting the patrol wagon, I secured the consent of the kind-hearted policeman to deliver a message for me. I told him to go to Umbdenstock’s Lithographing and Printing office and tell them I was in jail. I was well known there and hoped that some one would be in the office, as it was Saturday night. Shortly after, I had a nice free buggy ride in the “hurry up” wagon and was put behind steel bars. For an hour I paced up and down before the heavy bars like a caged lion. It seemed as though I was doomed to remain in jail until Monday morning without my wife knowing of it. That worried me the worst.

About 9 o’clock Mr. Mike Shea, a wood engraver, came to the jail and heard my tale of woe. He explained that he was the only person left in the Umbdenstock office when the policeman arrived with my message. Shea told me to rest easy and he would have me out soon. He then left to see the judge who ruled over that district. Soon after, Mr. Shea and a lithographer friend of mine drove up in a buggy. They said they would have to drive sixteen miles to the judge’s residence out on the edge of the city. The lithographer, whose name I have forgot, was a leading Elk and a particular friend of the judge of the Harrison street police station, so for this reason Mr. Shea was taking him along to “work” the judge, whose name I cannot recall. At 2 o’clock Sunday morning my good friends returned with the bond signed by the judge and I was liberated. It was 4 A. M. when I reached home.

Monday morning I was in the court room which was crowded with people. I had no lawyer or witnesses, but was trusting to luck, though the attorney who had used my pistol at the Haymarket riot was present, ready to offer assistance. When my case was called the two men and their wives were put on the stand and they all swore lies against me. I was then called up and told my story. When I had finished the judge asked me if I had any witnesses. I replied “No.” Here a nicely dressed old Scotchman rose up in the crowd and said: “Your Honor, I am a witness for that young man.” This was a great surprise to me and showed that luck was on my side. The old gentleman was put on the stand and corroborated my statement. He said he was taking a shipment of draft horses back to his home in Scotland; that he was trying to get up to the circus wagon to buy a ticket to the show, when the fracas began, and thinking that I might need help, he had come up to the court room this morning. I thanked the old fellow later at his hotel, but I regret that his name has slipped my memory.

As soon as the Scotchman left the stand the judge dismissed the case. With a smile he said to me: “Here, young man, take your pistol and go home.” Thanking him, I started out with the pistol and cartridges in my hand. I looked at the prosecuting witnesses with a happy smile. They looked daggers at me in return. I afterwards learned that these people owned a restaurant on South Clark street, and that the sore-headed one had a reputation as a slugger and prize fighter.

If Mr. Dickenson ever learned of my breaking into jail while waiting to be put onto the secret force of his agency, he kept it to himself. The secret might have prevented my securing the position, and again, it might have helped me, as I have since found out that the agency officials admire a fighter when it is known that he is in the right, though, of course, they want their men to use their brains to control their trigger finger.

My first work was on the great anarchist Haymarket riot case, and I remained on it to the end of the trial, when the ringleaders were convicted.

Parsons, Engel, Fischer and Spies were hung. Ling blew his head off in jail with a bomb, and Schwab, Fielding and Neebe were sent to the penitentiary for a long term of years.

I heard most of the evidence, but I couldn’t see the justice of sending Neebe to the pen. All that he did was to set the type in the “revenge” circular which was circulated, calling a mass meeting on Haymarket Square to revenge the killing of strikers in a late riot in the McCormick factory. The evidence was in Neebe’s favor, except that he was running with a bad crowd, and did his loafing where the beer schooners were the largest. They were all tried in a bunch for the killing of Degan, one of the policemen killed outright by the bomb which was thrown from an alley by an anarchist, supposed to be Shnoebelt. A witness or two swore that they recognized Shnoebelt when his companion lit the match to light the fuse; that then Shnoebelt threw the bomb into the squad of policemen, whose commander, Bonfield, had just ordered the mob to disperse. Albert Parsons was standing in a wagon making a speech at the time. The next day Shnoebelt was arrested for the throwing of the bomb, though a couple of days later it was claimed that he was liberated for want of evidence to hold him. Still later, they claimed to have positive evidence of his guilt, but too late, as he had skipped for Germany. My own opinion is that Shnoebelt was murdered in jail by angry police men, and his body put out of the way. At least, I received hints to that effect from men who were on the inside.

A million dollars had been subscribed by the Citizens’ League to stamp out anarchy in Chicago, and no doubt much of it was used to corrupt justice. Still, the hanging of these anarchists had a good effect and was worth a million dollars to society. Now, if the law-abiding people of the whole United States would contribute one hundred times one million dollars to stamp out anarchy and dynamiting, the coming generation would be saved much suffering and bloodshed, for we are surely playing with fire when we receive with open arms anarchists from foreign countries and pat them on the back for blowing up Russian and English Royalty. These chickens will come home to roost in our back yard some day.

I had talked with Policeman Degan, a fine officer, before his death, as his beat was near where we lived, and knowing the man, I couldn’t much blame his brother officers for losing their heads and wanting to wreak vengeance on all who upheld anarchy.

After the anarchist case was finished, I did all kinds of small jobs, such as “shadowing” bank clerks and officials, down to looking up a lost jewel or child. During this time I had to study the rules and regulations of the Dickenson Agency, which were in book form.

The next important case that I was put on was against the Irish National League, for the English government. About half a dozen of us “sleuths” were put on the case under the direct supervision of assistant superintendent John O’Flyn. This being such an important operation, Supt. Jamieson, a kind-hearted old man, called us all into his office and explained the importance of doing our best and not getting together when working around the Irish League headquarters.

I was on this case over a month, and learned many new lessons. Operative Jakey Teufel and I went to Cincinnati, Ohio, with two Irish would-be destroyers of the English crown.

During the next couple of months I had many operations in the city of Chicago. They were of every class, some lasting for weeks, and others only for a few minutes or hours. A good share of the time was spent in the slums, or what should be called “Hell’s Half Acre.” Here I learned some valuable lessons in human nature and saw many eye-openers.

I had one operation which was a picnic. It was easy, “all same” getting money from your wife’s relatives.

I was put to work “shadowing” a long-legged, red headed banker. He had to be in the bank most of the day, but at night he showed me a touch of high life. He would go into tough places and drink wine with the in mates. I had to do likewise so as to find out how much money his Royal Nibs was blowing in. This was my first experience in having a “good time” at some one else’s expense.

We were glad when fall came and Mr. W. L. Dickenson called me into his private office to tell me to get ready and move to Denver, Colo., there to join the force of their new office which was opened for business a few months previous.

Our friends in Chicago were bidden farewell, and Mamie and little Viola were put into a Pullman sleeper and we turned our faces back toward the setting sun.

My work was of all kinds during this first winter in Denver. I had quite a lot of investigating to do, as well as helping to run down city crooks and law breakers in general. I helped break up a gang of crooked street car conductors who had duplicate punches to ring in on the company and thereby make from ten to twenty dollars a day each for himself. Horses were the motive power then.