Outlaws and Peace Officers Page 13
He was passive, industrious, and, seemingly, content. It was the lull before the storm.
In the month of February, 1878, William S. Morton (said to have had authority as deputy sheriff), with a posse of men composed of cow boys from the Rio Pecos, started out to attach some horses which Tunstall and McSween claimed. Tunstall was on the ground with some of his employees. On the approach of Morton and his party, Tunstall’s men all deserted him—ran away. Morton afterwards claimed that Tunstall fired on him and his posse; at all events, Morton and party fired on Tunstall, killing both him and his horse. One Tom Hill, who was afterwards killed whilst robbing a sheep outfit, rode up as Tunstall was lying on his face, gasping, placed his rifle to the back of his head, fired, and scattered his brains over the ground.
This murder occurred on the 18th day of February, 1878. Before night The Kid was apprised of his friend’s death. His rage was fearful. Breathing vengeance, he quitted his herd, mounted his horse, and from that day to the hour of his death his track was blazed with rapine and blood. The Kid rode to Lincoln and sought McSween. Here he learned that R. M. Bruer had been sworn in as special constable, was armed with a warrant, and was about to start, with a posse, to arrest the murderers of Tunstall. The Kid joined this party, and they proceeded to the Rio Pecos.
On the 6th day of March, Bruer and his posse “jumped up” a party of five men below the lower crossing of Rio Penasco and about six miles from the Rio Pecos. They fled and the officer’s party pursued. They separated, and The Kid, recognizing Morton and Baker in two of the fugitives who rode in company, took their trail and was followed by his companions. For fully five miles the desperate flight and pursuit was prolonged. The Kid’s Winchester belched fire continually, and his followers were not idle; but distance and the motion of running horses disconcerted their aim, and the fugitives were unharmed. Suddenly, however, their horses stumbled, reeled, and fell, almost at the same instant. Perhaps they were wounded; no one paused to see. A friendly sink-hole in the prairie, close at hand, served the fleeing pair as a breastwork, from which they could have “stood off” twice the force behind them. And yet the pursuers had the best of it, as the pursued had but two alternatives—to surrender or starve.
After considerable parley, Morton said that if the posse would pledge their word and honor to conduct himself and his companion, Baker, to Lincoln in safety, they would surrender. The Kid strongly opposed giving this pledge. He believed that two of the murderers of Tunstall were in his power, and he thirsted for their blood. He was overruled, the pledge was given, the prisoners were disarmed and taken to Chisum’s ranch. The Kid rode in the advance, and, as he mounted, was heard to mutter: “My time will come.”
On the 9th day of March, 1878, the officer, with posse and prisoners, left Chisum’s for Lincoln. The party numbered thirteen men. The two prisoners, special constable R. M. Bruer, J. G. Skurlock, Chas. Bowdre, The Kid, Henry Brown, Frank McNab, Fred Wayt, Sam Smith, Jim French, John Middleton and——McClosky. They stopped at Roswell, five miles from Chisum’s, to give Morton the opportunity to mail a letter at the post-office there. This letter he registered to a cousin, Hon. H. H. Marshall, Richmond, Va. A copy of this letter is in the hands of the author, as well as a letter subsequently addressed to the postmaster by Marshall. Morton descended from the best blood of Virginia, and left many relatives and friends to mourn his loss.
Morton and the whole party were well known to the postmaster, M. A. Upson, and Morton requested him, should any important event transpire, to write to his cousin and inform him of the facts connected therewith. Upson asked him if he apprehended danger to himself on the trip. He replied that he did not, as the posse had pledged themselves to deliver them safely to the authorities at Lincoln, but, in case this pledge was violated, he wished his people to be informed. McClosky, of the officer’s posse, was standing by and rejoined: “Billy, if harm comes to you two, they will have to kill me first.”
The Kid had nothing to say. He appeared distrait and sullen, evidently “digesting the venom of his spleen.” After a short stay the cortege went on their way. The prisoners were mounted on two inferior horses. This was the last ever seen of these two unfortunates, alive, except by the officer and his posse. It was nearly ten o’clock in the morning when they left the post-office. About four o’clock in the evening, Martin Chavez, of Picacho, arrived at Roswell from above, and reported that the trail of the party left the direct road to Lincoln, and turned off in the direction of Agua Negra. This was an unfrequented route to the base of Sierra de la Capitana, and the information at once settled all doubts in the minds of the hearers as to the fate of Morton and Baker.
On the 11th, Frank McNab, one of the posse, returned to Roswell and entered the post-office. Said Upson: “Hallo! McNab; I thought you were in Lincoln by this time. Any news?”
“Yes,” replied he, “Morton killed McClosky, one of our men, made a break to escape, and we had to kill them.”
“Where did Morton get weapons?” queried Upson.
“He snatched McClosky’s pistol out of its scabbard, killed him with it, and ran, firing back as he went. We had to kill them, or some of us would have been hurt,” explained McNab.
This tale was too attenuated. Listeners did not believe it. The truth of the matter, as narrated by The Kid, and in which rendering he was supported by several of his comrades, was as follows:
It had been resolved by two or three of the guards to murder Morton and Baker before they reached Lincoln. It has been stated by newspaper correspondents that The Kid killed McClosky. This report is false. He was not one of the conspirators, nor did he kill McClosky. He cursed Bruer, in no measured terms for giving a pledge of safety to the prisoners, but said, as it had been given, there was no way but to keep their word.
He further expressed his intention to kill them both, and said his time would come to fulfill his threat, but he would not murder an unarmed man.
McCloskey and Middleton constantly rode behind the prisoners, as if to protect them; the others brought up the rear, except The Kid and Bowdre, who were considerably in advance. About twenty or thirty miles from Roswell, near the Black Water Holes, McNab and Brown rode up to McClosky and Middleton. McNab placed his revolver to McClosky’s head and said: “You are the son-of-a-bitch that’s got to die before harm can come to these fellows, are you?” and fired as he spoke. McClosky rolled from his horse a corpse. The terrified, unarmed prisoners fled as fast as their sorry horses could carry them, pursued by the whole party and a shower of harmless lead. At the sound of the first shot, The Kid wheeled his horse. All was confusion. He could not take in the situation. He heard firearms, and it flashed across his mind that, perhaps, the prisoners had, in some accountable manner, got possession of weapons. He saw his mortal enemies attempting to escape, and as he sank his spurs in his horse’s sides, he shouted to them to halt. They held their course, with bullets whistling around them. A few bounds of the infuriated gray carried him to the front of the pursuers—twice only, his revolver spoke, and a life sped at each report. Thus died McClosky, and thus perished Morton and Baker. The Kid dismounted, turned Morton’s face up to the sky, and gazed down on his old companion long and in silence.
He asked no questions, and the party rode on to Lincoln, except McNab, who returned to Chisum’s ranch. They left the bodies where they fell. They were buried by some Mexican sheepherders.
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Returning to Lincoln, The Kid attached himself to the fortunes of McSween, who was every day becoming more deeply involved in the events of the war. He was a peaceably disposed man, but the murder of his partner aroused all the belligerent passion within him. The Kid still adhered to Bruer’s official posse, as hunger for vengeance was, by no means, satiated, and Bruer was still on the trail of Tunstall’s murderers.
One of the actors in that tragedy was an ex-soldier named Roberts. The Kid heard that he could be found in the vicinity of the Mescalero Apache Indian Agency, at South Fork, some forty miles south of Lincol
n. Roberts was a splendid shot, an experienced horseman, and as brave as skillful. Bruer and party were soon on their way to attempt his arrest. The Kid knew that he would never be taken alive by this party, with the fate of Morton and Baker, at their hands, so fresh in his memory; and this to The Kid, was a strong incentive to urge the expedition. It was life he wanted, not prisoners.
As the party approached the building from the east, Roberts came galloping up from the west. The Kid espied him, and bringing his Winchester to rest on his thigh, he spurred directly towards him as Bruer demanded a surrender. Roberts’ only reply was to The Kid’s movements. Like lightning his Winchester was at his shoulder and a ball sang past The Kid’s ear. Quick as his foe, The Kid’s aim was more accurate, and the ball went crashing through Roberts’ body, inflicting a mortal wound. Hurt to the death, this brave fellow was not conquered, but lived to wreak deadly vengeance on the hunters. Amidst a shower of bullets he dismounted and took refuge in an outhouse, from whence, whilst his brief life lasted, he dealt death with his rifle. He barricaded the door of his weak citadel with a mattress and some bed-clothing, which he found therein, and from this defense he fought his last fight. His bullets whistled about the places of concealment, where lurked his foes. Wherever a head, a leg, or an arm protruded, it was a target for his rifle. Charley Bowdre was severely wounded in the side, a belt of cartridges around his body saving his life. Here Dick Bruer met his death. Dr. Blazer’s sawmill is directly across the street from Roberts’ hiding place. In front of the mill were lying numerous huge saw-boys. Unseen by Roberts, Bruer had crept behind these, to try and get a shot at him. But no sooner did Bruer raise his head to take an observation than the quick eye of Roberts detected him—but one of Bruer’s eyes was exposed—it was enough—a bullet from a Winchester found entrance there, and Bruer rolled over dead behind the boy.
The brave fellow’s time was short, but to his last gasp his eye was strained to catch sight of another target for his aim, and he died with his trusty rifle in his grasp.
To The Kid, the killing of Roberts was neither cause for exultation, nor “one for grief.” He had further bloody work to do. He swore he would not rest nor stay his murderous hand so long as one of Tunstall’s slayers lived.
Bruer dead, the command of the squad, by common consent, was conferred upon The Kid. He had little use for the position, however, as throwing around his deeds the protection of law, which he held in disdain. What he wanted was two or three “free riders” who, without fear or compunction, would take their lives in their hands and follow where he led.
On their return to Lincoln, the posse was disbanded, but most of those composing it joined fortunes with The Kid as their accepted leader. With emissaries riding over the country in every direction, he bided his time and opportunity. He spent most of his time in Lincoln and frequently met adherents of the other faction, which meetings were ever the signal for an affray. J. B. Matthews, well known throughout the Territory as “Billy” Matthews, held The Kid in mortal aversion. He was not with the posse who killed Tunstall, but denounced, in no measured terms, the killers of Morton, Baker, and Roberts. He was an intimate friend of popular Jimmy Dolan of the firm of Murphy & Dolan, and a strong supporter of their cause. “Billy” was brave as any red-handed killer of them all. He was in Lincoln plaza on the 28th day of March, and, by chance, unarmed. He came suddenly face to face with The Kid, who immediately “cut down” on him with his Winchester. “Billy” darted into a doorway, which The Kid shot into slivers about his head. Matthews had his revenge, though, as will hereafter appear.
At this time William Brady was sheriff of Lincoln County. Major Brady was an excellent citizen and a brave and honest man. He was a good officer, too, and endeavored to do his duty with impartiality. The objections made against Sheriff Brady were that he was strongly prejudiced in favor of the Murphy-Dolan faction—those gentlemen being his warm personal friends, and that he was lax in the discharge of his duty through fear of giving offence to one party or the other.
Sheriff Brady held warrants for The Kid and his associates, charging them with the murders of Morton, Baker, and Roberts. The Kid and his accomplices had evaded arrest by dodging Brady on the plaza and standing guard in the field. They resolved to end this necessity for vigilance, and by a crime which would disgrace the record of an Apache. The Kid was a monomaniac on the subject of revenge for the death of Tunstall. No deed so dark and damning but he would achieve it to sweep obstacles from the path which led to its accomplishment. Brady with his writs barred the way, and his fate was sealed.
On the 1st day of April, 1878, Sheriff Brady, accompanied by George Hindman and J. B. Matthews, started from Murphy & Dolan’s store, Lincoln, to go to the court house, and there announce that no court would be held at the stated April term. In those days of anarchy a man was seldom seen in the plaza or streets of Lincoln without a gun on his shoulder. The sheriff and his attendants each bore a rifle. Tunstall & McSween’s store stood about halfway between the two above named points. In the rear of the Tunstall & McSween building is a corral, the east side of which projects beyond the house and commands a view of the street, where the sheriff must pass. The Kid and his companions had cut grooves in the top of the adobe wall in which to rest their guns. As the sheriff came in sight a volley of bullets were poured upon them from the corral, and Brady and Hindman fell, whilst Matthews took shelter behind some old houses on the south side of the street. Brady was killed outright, being riddled with balls. Hindman was mortally wounded, but lived a few moments.
Ike Stockton, who was for so long a terror in Rio Arriba County, this Territory, and in Southern Colorado, and who was recently killed at Durango, kept a saloon in Lincoln plaza at the time the above recited event occurred, and was supposed to be a secret ally of The Kid and gang. He was a witness to the killing of Brady, and, at this moment approached the fallen men. Hindman called faintly for water. The Rio Bonito was close at hand, Stockton brought water to the wounded man in his hat. As he raised his head he discovered Matthews in his concealment. At this moment The Kid and his fellows leaped the corral wall and approached with the expressed intention of taking possession of the arms of Brady and Hindman. Ike knew that as soon as they came in view of Matthews, he would fire on them, and he was equally sure that were he to divulge Matthews presence, he would, himself, become a target. So he “fenced” a little, trying to persuade The Kid that he had not better disturb the arms, or to defer it a while. The Kid was, however, determined, and as he stooped and raised Brady’s gun from the ground, a ball from Matthews’ rifle dashed it from his hand and plowed a furrow through his side, inflicting a painful though not dangerous wound. For once The Kid was baffled. To approach Matthews’ defense was to court death, and it was equally dangerous to persevere in his attempt to possess himself with Brady and Hindman’s arms. Discretion prevailed and the party retired to the house of McSween. Hindman lived but a few moments.
This murder was a most dastardly crime on the part of The Kid, and lost him many friends who had, theretofore, excused and screened him.
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The Kid and his desperate gang were now outlawed in Lincoln, yet they haunted the plaza by stealth and always found a sure and safe place of concealment at McSween’s. The laws were not administered, and they often dared to enter the plaza in broad day, defying their enemies and entertained by their friends.
For some space Lincoln County had no sheriff. Few were bold enough to attempt the duties of the office. At length, George W. Peppin consented to receive a temporary appointment. He appointed, in his turn, a score of deputies, and during his tenure of office, robbery, murder, arson, and every crime in the calendar united and held high carnival in their midst. The Kid was not idle. Wherever a bold heart, cool judgment, skillful hand, or reckless spirit was required in the interests of his faction, The Kid was in the van.
San Patricio, a small Mexican plaza on the Rio Ruidoso, some seven miles from Lincoln by a trail across the mountain, was a favorite r
esort for The Kid and his band. Most of the Mexicans there were friendly to him, and kept him well informed as to any movement which might jeopardize his liberty.
Jose Miguel Sedillo, a faithful ally of The Kid, brought him information, one day in June about daylight, that Jesse Evans with a party from below were prowling about, probably with the intention of stealing a bunch of horses belonging to Chisum and McSween, and which were in charge of The Kid and party.
Without waiting for breakfast, The Kid started with five men, all who were with him at that time. They were Charley Bowdre, Henry Brown, J. G. Skurlock, John Middleton, and Tom O. Foliard. This latter was a young Texan, bold and unscrupulous, who followed the fortunes of The Kid from the day they first met, literally to the death. At this time he had only been with the gang a few days.
Taking Brown with him, The Kid ascended a ridge on the west of the Ruidoso, and followed it up, towards the Bruer ranch, where he had left the horses. He sent Bowdre, in charge of the other three, with instructions to follow the river up on the east bank.
After riding some three miles The Kid heard firing in the direction where Bowdre and his men should be. The shots were scattering, as though a skirmish was in progress. He dismounted and sent Brown on to circle a hill on the left, whilst himself led his gray down the steep declivity towards the river and road and in the direction of the shooting. With much difficulty he reached the foot of the mountain, crossed the river, and was laboriously climbing a steep ascent on the east when the clatter of a single horse’s feet arrested his attention, and, in a moment he descried Brown, through a gap of the hills, riding furiously towards the north, and, at that moment a fusillade of firearms saluted his ears. He mounted and then came a most wonderful ride of less than a mile; it was not remarkable for speed, but the wonder is how he made it at all. Through crevices of rock it would seem a coyote could scarce creep, over ragged precipices, through brush, and cactus, he made his devious, headlong way, until, leaving the spur of hills he had with such difficulty traversed, another similar elevation lay in front of him, between the two a gorge some half mile across; and, at the foot of the opposite hill, the scene of conflict was in view. Jesse, with a band of eight men, had attacked Bowdre’s party; they were fighting and skirmishing amongst the rocks and undergrowth at the foothills, and were so mixed, confused, and hidden, that The Kid could scarce distinguish friends from foes. He spied Bowdre, however, in the hands of the enemy, among whom he recognized Jess, and, with one of his well-known war cries, to cheer his friends, he dashed madly through the gorge.