8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE PRISONERS.
THINKING that it may be interesting to some of my readers, I will now
give, in brief form as possible, a history of some of the most noted
inmates of the penitentiary.
1. FEMALE CONVICTS.
He must be of a very unsympathizing nature who does not feel for his
brother, who, though sinful and deserving, is imprisoned, and excluded
from the society of friends. While we are sad when we behold our
fellowmen in chains and bondage, how much sadder do we become when,
passing through the prisons, we behold those of the same sex with our
sisters, wives and mothers. In this land, blessed with the most exalted
civilization, woman receives our highest regard, affection and
admiration. While she occupies her true sphere of sister, wife or
mother, she is the true man's ideal of love, purity and devotion. When,
overcome by temptation, she falls from her exalted sphere, not only do
men feel the keenest sorrow
and regret, but, if it is possible, the angels of God weep.
In the Kansas penitentiary, just outside the high stone wall, but
surrounded by a tight board fence some fifteen feet high, stands a stone
structure—the female prison. In this lonely place, the stone building,
shut out from society, there are thirteen female prisoners. During the
week these women spend their time in sewing, patching and washing. But
very few visitors are allowed to enter this department, so that the
occupants are permitted to see very few people. Their keepers are a
couple of Christian ladies, who endeavor to surround them with all the
sunshine possible. For these inmates the week consists of one continual
round of labor. It is wash, patch and sew from one year's end to the
other. The Sabbath is spent in reading and religious exercises. In the
afternoon the chaplain visits them and preaches a discourse. Several of
these women are here for murder. When a woman falls she generally
descends to the lowest plane.
A few days before I was discharged, there came to the prison a
little old grandmother, seventy years of age. She had lived with her
husband fifty-two years, was the mother of ten children, and had fifteen
grand-children. She and her aged husband owned a very beauful{sic} farm
and were in good circumstances, probably worth $50,000. Her husband died
very suddenly. She was accused of administering poison. After the
funeral, she went over into Missouri to make her home with one of her
married daughters. She had not been there but a short time when her
eldest son secured a requisition, and had his aged mother brought back
to Kansas and placed on trial for murder. She was convicted. The
sentence imposed, was one year in the penitentiary, and at the end of
which time she was to be hung by the neck until dead, which in Kansas is
equivalent to a life sentence. The old woman will do well if she lives
out one year in prison. She claims that her eldest son desires her
property, and that was the motive which induced him to drag her before
the tribunal of justice to swear her life away, During her long life of
three score and ten years, this was the only charge against her
character for anything whatever. She always bore a good name and was
highly esteemed in the neighborhood in which she lived.
Another important female prisoner is Mary J. Scales. She is
sixty-five years of age, and is called Aunt Mary in the prison. She is
also a murderess. She took the life of her husband, and was sentenced to
be hung April 16, 1871. Her sentence was commuted to a life
imprisonment. For eighteen years this old woman has been an inmate of
the Kansas penitentiary. While she is very popular inside the prison,
as all the officers and their families are very fond of Aunt Mary, it
seems that she has but few, if any, friends on the outside. Several old
men have been pardoned since this old woman was put into prison, and if
any more murderers are to be set at liberty, it is my opinion that it
will soon be Aunt Mary's turn to go out into the world to be free once
more.
2. MRS. HENRIETTA COOK.
This woman was twenty-five years of age when she came to the Kansas
penitentiary to serve out a life's sentence. She was charged with having
poisoned her husband. For fifteen years she remained in close
confinement, at the end of which time she received a pardon, it being
discovered that she was innocent. When Mrs. Cook entered the prison
she was young and beautiful, but when she took her departure she had the
appearance of an old, broken-down woman. Fifteen years of imprisonment
are sufficient to bring wrinkles to the face, and change the color of
the hair to gray. This prisoner made the mistake of her life in getting
married. She, a young woman, married an old man of seventy. She was
poor, he was rich. After they had been married a short time she awoke
one morning to find her aged husband a corpse at her side. During the
night he had breathed his last. The tongue of gossip soon had it
reported that the young and beautiful wife had poisoned her husband to
obtain his wealth, that she might spend the rest of her days with a
younger and handsomer man, After burial the body was exhumed and
examined. The stomach showed the presence of arsenic in sufficient
quantity to produce death. The home of the deceased was searched and a
package of the deadly poison found. She was tried, and sufficient
circumstantial evidence produced to secure her conviction, and she was
sent to prison for life. A short time before this sad event happened, a
young drug clerk took his departure from the town where the Cook family
resided,
where he had been employed in a drug store, and took up his abode in
California. After fifteen years of absence he returned. Learning of
the Cook murder, he went before the board of pardons and made affidavit
that the old gentleman was in the habit of using arsenic, and that while
a clerk in the drug store he had sold him the identical package found in
the house.
Other evidence was adduced supporting this testimony, and the
board of pardons decided that the husband had died from an overdose of
arsenic taken by himself and of his own accord. The wife was immediately
pardoned. How is she ever to obtain satisfaction for her fifteen years
of intense suffering. The great State of Kansas should pension this poor
woman, who now is scarcely able to work; and juries in the future should
not be so fast in sending people to the penitentiary on flimsy,
circumstantial evidence.
The other female prisoners are nearly all in for short terms, and
the crime laid to their charge is that of stealing.
3. INDIANS IN THE PENITENTIARY.
John Washington and Simmons Wolf are
two young Indians tried and convicted in the U. S. District Court on the
charge of rape. They were sentenced to be hung. After conviction these
Indians were taken to the penitentiary to await the day set for their
execution. In the meantime an application was made to the President to
change the sentence of death to that of life imprisonment. The change
was made. These two Indians were placed in the coal mines on their
arrival, where they are at the present time getting out their daily task
of coal. They both attend the school of the prison, and are learning
very rapidly. Prior to this, Washington served out a one-year sentence
in the Detroit house of correction for stealing. He is a bad Indian.
At present there are fourteen Indians incarcerated in the Kansas
penitentiary. The Indian pines for his liberty more than the white man
or negro. The burdens of imprisonment are therefore greater for him to
bear. One young Indian was sent to the penitentiary whose history is
indeed touching. Ten Indians had been arrested in the Territory by U. S.
marshals for horse-stealing. They were tried and convicted in the U. S.
District Court. Their sentence was one year in the State's
prison. On their arrival at the penitentiary they were sent to the mines
to dig coal. This was a different business from being supported by the
government and stealing horses as a diversion. The Indians soon wanted
to go home. One of them was unable to get out his task of coal. The
officer in charge thought he was trying to shirk his work and reported
him to the deputy warden. The young Indian was placed in the dungeon. He
remained there several days and nights. He begged piteously to get out
of that hole of torture. Finally the officers released him and sent him
back to the mines. While in the dungeon he contracted a severe cold. He
had not been in the mines more than a couple of days, after being
punished, when he gave suddenly out and was sent to the hospital, where
in a few days he died. That young Indian was murdered, either in that
dungeon or in the mines. A few weeks before, he came to the penitentiary
from roaming over the prairies, a picture of health. It did not take
long for the Kansas penitentiary to "box him up" for all time to come.
He now sleeps "in the valley," as the prison graveyard is called.
Another one of the same group did not
fare quite so badly as his associate. The one I am now describing was
sent with the rest of his companions to the bottom of the mines. He
remained there during the first day. A short time after he went down on
the following morning he became sick. He began to cry. The officer in
charge sent him to the surface. He was conducted to the cell-house
officer, Mr. Elliott. I was on duty that day in the cell house, and Mr.
Elliott, on the arrival of the Indian, ordered me to show him to the
hospital. After we had started on our journey from the cell house to
the hospital building to see the doctor, and had got out of hearing of
the officer, I said, "Injun, what's the matter with you?" This question
being asked, he began to "boo-hoo" worse than ever, and, rubbing his
breast and sides with his hands, said, between his sobs, "Me got pecce
ecce." I was not Indian enough to know what "pecce ecce" meant. In a few
moments we reached the hospital building, and I conducted my charge into
the nicely furnished room of the prison physician, and into the
immediate presence of that medical gentleman. Removing my cap, and
making a low bow, as required, I said, "Dr. Nealley, permit me
to introduce a representative of the Oklahoma district, who needs
medical attention."
While I was relieving myself of this little declamation the young
Indian was standing at my side sobbing as if he had recently buried his
mother.
"Reynolds, what is the matter with him?" asked the doctor.
I then turned to my charge and said, "Injun, tell the doctor what
ails you."
Mister Indian then began rubbing his sides and front, with tears
rolling down his face, and sobbing like a whipped school-boy, he
exclaimed, "Me got pecce ecce."
"There, doctor," said I, "you have it. This Indian has got that
dreadful disease known as `pecce ecce.' "
The physician, somewhat astonished, frankly informed me that he
never had heard of such a disease before. I was in a similar boat, for I
had never heard of such words prior to this. The sick Indian was unable
to talk the language of the white man. The doctor then sent down into
the mines for another of the Indians who could speak English and had
acted as an interpreter. On entering the office, the doctor said to
him, "Elihu," for that was his name, "this
Indian says he has an attack of pecce ecce. Now what does he mean by
that?"
During all this time the sick Indian kept rubbing his body and
sobbing. What was our great astonishment and amusement when the
interpreter informed us that "pecce ecce" meant nothing more nor less
than "belly-ache." The doctor administered the proper remedy for this
troublesome disease, and the Indian was sent back to the mines. He had
not dug coal more than an hour when he had another attack, and began his
crying, and was sent to the top. He kept this up until he wore out the
patience of the officers, and they finally decided to take him out of
the mines altogether and give him work at the surface. Even here, every
few minutes the Indian would have an attack of "pecce ecce," and would
start for the hospital. At last, the chaplain, taking pity on the poor
outcast, wrote to President Cleveland, and putting the case in a very
strong light, was successful in securing a pardon for the Indian. That
"cheeky" red youth was no fool. He belly-ached himself out of that
penitentiary. I trust I may never have to spend any more of my time in
prison. If I do, I think about the
first day I will get a dose of "pecce ecce," and keep it up, and see if
I can't get a pardon.
4. MALE PRISONERS.
Ed. Stanfield.—The history of this prisoner is as follows: He was
about nineteen years of age when he entered the prison, which was some
five years ago. His people reside in South Bend, Indiana. His father,
prior to his death, was a prominent judge. The family was wealthy,
influential and highly respected. It consisted of the parents and two
sons. Ed. proved to be the black lamb of the flock. At the early age of
nine years, being sent away to school, he bade all good-bye one day and
followed in the wake of a circus show which was holding forth in the
town where he was attending school, He was not heard of anymore for
several years. His parents spent vast sums of money attempting to
ascertain his whereabouts. They finally heard of him in the following
accidental manner: His father, Judge Stanfield, had been out in Nebraska
looking after some land he had recently purchased, and, on his return
home, sitting in the cars, purchased a newspaper of the newsboy as he
came around. Looking over the paper he caught the name
of his prodigal son. There, before him, was the account of his son who,
having knocked down a prosecuting attorney in broad daylight with a
coupling pin, with the intention of robbery, had been tried, convicted
and sentenced to the penitentiary for ten years, and was on that day
safely lodged behind the walls. The sad father, on reaching home,
dispatched his elder son to the Kansas prison to ascertain if it was his
younger son who was a convict. The young man came on and soon satisfied
himself of the identity of the long-lost brother. He returned home and
made the report to his parents. From that day Judge Stanfield was a
broken-hearted man. He soon grieved himself to death over the sad fate
of his boy, and the disgrace he had brought upon the family. In making
his will, however, he gave Ed. an equal share in the estate with his
brother. After the death of the father, the mother began to put forth
efforts to secure a pardon for her son. His crime was so heinous and so
uncalled for that it was necessary for some time to elapse before an
application was presented. At the earliest moment possible the wheel
began to turn. The prosecuting attorney of Bourbon County, who had been
knocked down with an iron coupling pin, was soon satisfied, for the
family had wealth. It is of course unknown how much money was passed to
him to make his heart tender and his eyes weep over the erring child
that had come so near getting away with his gold watch and chain. A
petition was soon in circulation for his release, signed by many
prominent citizens. An open pocketbook will easily secure a petition for
pardon, it makes but little difference as to the
gravamen of the
crime. The convict promised not to engage again in this pleasant pastime
for filthy lucre. The mother of the young man came on from the East and
remained until she had secured a pardon for her boy. The young man
stated in our hearing that it took one thousand big dollars to secure
his pardon. A great many who are acquainted with the facts in the case
are not slow in saying that if Stanfield had been a poor, friendless
boy, he never would have received a pardon, but would have had to serve
his time out. There are more than five hundred men in that prison whose
crimes are of a less serious nature, and who are far more deserving of
executive clemency than Stanfield. It is said that "rocks talk" in the
penitentiaries as well as on
the outside. The history of this criminal will show my boy readers the
future of many of those who, in early youth, ran away from home, and go
out into the world to mingle in bad company.
Cyrenius B. Hendricks.—This man was sent from Chatauqua County.
He was twenty-seven years of age when sentenced. His crime was murder
in the first degree. The particulars are as follows: He had been down to
the Indian Territory looking after his own and his father's cattle. He
was absent on this business some little time. On his return his wife
informed him that a neighbor had been talking about her in his absence,
and had given her a bad character, and that on account of it she had
become the talk of the entire neighborhood. The enraged husband compels
his wife to go with him, and they proceed to the neighbor's house.
Hendricks took his gun with him. When they reached the neighbor's gate
they halted and called the unsuspecting man out of his home. Hendricks
then asked him if the charges were true as to his talking about Mrs.
Hendricks. The neighbor neither affirmed nor denied the statement. At
this Hendricks leveled his gun and shot him dead on the spot. He
and his wife in a few hours after were arrested, and, as it was too late
to take them to the county seat that night, they were guarded in an old
log house in the neighborhood. Hendricks was fastened to the wall with a
log-chain. During the night some one, supposed to be the brother of the
murdered man, came to the window of the house in which they were
confined, and, placing the muzzle of a gun through the window, shot
Hendricks. The ball struck him near one of the eyes, rendering him blind
in that eye, but did not kill him. The next day the two prisoners were
taken to jail. They were tried, and both found guilty of murder in the
first degree. The husband was sentenced to be hanged, while the wife
received a life sentence. They were both taken to the penitentiary.
After they had been there a short time Hendricks lost the other eye,
from sympathy, as they call it. For a time the husband and wife remained
on good terms. They were allowed to visit each other once a month.
After a while she tired of him and would have nothing more to do with
him. She served four years, and received a pardon. Hendricks still
remains in prison, and is a pitiable and helpless wreck. He is totally
blind, and his
nervous system entirely shattered. He can scarcely lift food to his
mouth. He is so weak that it is with difficulty he walks about the
prison park. An aged prisoner waits on him constantly to care for his
wants, and to see that he does not commit suicide. Abandoned by his wife
and friends, left to his own sad fate, totally blind and physically
helpless, he is another testimonial to the truth that "the way of the
transgressor is hard," and it also illustrates how much trouble may
arise from using that little member called the tongue in an
indiscriminate manner. Since my discharge from the prison I have learned
of the death of Hendricks.
Ed. Miner.—One of the men whose history will be interesting to
the general reader is Ed. Miner. This man is forty-nine years of age.
He served in the Missouri penitentiary two years on the charge and
conviction of assault and battery with intent to kill. After the
expiration of his sentence, drifting down the current of crime, he next
embarked in stealing horses. He was arrested, tried and convicted. He
received a five years' sentence, served his time, and went out into the
world a free man. Again falling into bad company, he tries his
hand once more at the same old trade of riding fast horses, is again
caught, tried, convicted, and received another sentence of five years in
the prison, which he is now serving out. As a prisoner, Miner is one of
the very best. He never violates a prison regulation and was never known
to be punished. During the war he served his country faithfully for four
years as a member of the 12th Illinois Infantry. At the close of the
war, and just before the troops were discharged, one day on review, the
governor of the State of Illinois being present, Miner was asked by the
commanding officer to step from the ranks, and was introduced to the
governor as the bravest and most daring man in the command. The
governor gave him a hearty shake of the hand, and afterward sent him a
neat little golden medal as a token of his esteem. Miner now wears this
suspended on a small gold chain about his neck. He is very proud of it.
One of our prison officers, Mr. Elliott, was in the army with Miner, and
says there never was a braver man. It may be a surprise to the reader
that such a brave man, such a bold defender of his country's rights,
would now be filling a felon's cell. The answer to this is easily given.
It is all contained
in the one word—liquor. Miner loves strong drink, and when he is under
its influence appears to have no sense. He is then ready for the
commission of any offense, ready to participate in any kind of deviltry.
Were it not for this baneful appetite there is every reason to believe
he would be a highly respected citizen. I asked him one day what he
would do when he got out. His reply was, "I don't know; if I could not
get the smell of whisky I could be a man; it has downed me so many times
that I fear my life is now a wreck; the future looks dreary; awful
dreary." With this remark Ed. went away to attend to his duties. My
eyes followed the old soldier, and, reader, do you blame me when I say
to you that from within my heart there came forth the earnest desire
that God in some way would save that man, who, away from strong drink
and the influence of wicked companions, is a good-hearted, generous man.
Gordon Skinner.—A young man of twenty, possessed of an innocent,
boyish appearance, whom none would take for a murderer, was sent up from
Ellis County. His victim was Andrew Ericson, a respectable and worthy
citizen about thirty-seven years of age. Skinner
claims the shooting was purely accidental; that he was carelessly
handling a six-shooter when it went off, the ball striking Ericson. He
claims, also, that he and his victim were good friends, and that he
never had any intention of killing him. The other side of the story is
that there lived near Hayes City a beautiful girl, and that Skinner and
Ericson were rivals for her heart and hand. Ericson, being much older
than young Skinner, possessed of some property, and doubtless more
skillful in the art of winning hearts, was beginning to crowd his rival
to the wall. Young Skinner, not being able to endure the sight of his
fair one being thus ruthlessly torn away by an old bachelor of
thirty-seven, met him one day and the two engaged in a spirited
controversy, when Skinner drew his revolver and shot him. Ericson lived
several days afterward. Just before death, Ericson begged of his friends
not to have Skinner arrested, stating he was not to blame. Skinner,
moneyless, friendless, a comparative stranger in the neighborhood, his
people all residing in Phillips County, this State, and, with the
prejudices of the Ericson people against him, was tried, convicted and
sentenced to twenty years' imprisonment. If the Board of Pardons
ever takes the trouble to investigate this case, with a view of
tempering justice with mercy, they will find it worthy. Skinner is a
good prisoner, and has ingratiated himself in the good opinion of the
officers. But the weight of a twenty years' term is heavy, and is
visibly affecting his health. Death should not be left to accomplish
what the Board of Pardons should take pleasure in doing. This delicate
boy should be sent home to his parents.
5. FREAKS OF JUSTICE.
Robert W. Corey was sent from Wyandotte County with a sentence of
three years for stealing cattle. This is a remarkable case. Corey is a
blind man, and had been totally blind for thirteen months prior to his
arrival at the prison; he was a taxidermist, and some years ago had
taken a contract for furnishing stuffed birds for the museum of the
Agricultural College of Ames; Iowa. This business requires the use of
arsenic; carelessly handling it destroyed his eyesight. How a man, blind
as he is, and was, at the commission of the alleged offense, could drive
off and sell these cattle, is a mystery. The man who swore that he
committed the theft is now an inmate of the institution,
sent here for stealing since the arrival of blind Corey. This man now
says that he is not positive that Corey took the cattle. On the trial,
however, he swore it was Corey, and that he was positive of that fact!
About the the truth of the matter is, he was the villain that took the
cattle and swore it on the blind man. Corey has only a few months to
remain in prison at this writing. It is terrible to heap such a disgrace
upon as helpless a creature as Corey.
His case calls to mind another in the penitentiary. He is a
colored man who cannot write, by the name of Thomas Green, from Fort
Scott, serving out a five years' sentence for forging a check for
$1,368. He was tried, convicted, and sentenced. Taking an appeal to the
Supreme Court, the judgment of the lower court was set aside; but at his
second trial, he was found guilty again, and is now in prison serving
out his sentence. How can one commit the crime of forgery who cannot
write? Probably some "Smart Aleck" of a district judge can explain. I
admit that it is beyond my powers of comprehension. It may be law, but
there is not much common sense in it.
6. OH! RIGHTEOUS JUDGE!
Gus Arndt is the next. The history of this man will show the freaks
of whisky when enclosed in the hide of a raw Dutchman. Gus came to this
country a number of years ago, and went to work for his uncle in
Wabaunsee County. Not being able to speak English, his uncle took
advantage of him, no doubt, for he paid him only ten dollars a month for
his services as a farm hand during the summer season, and nothing but
his board during the winter. Gus remained here for some time, three or
four years, working at these wages. He had learned and could understand
and speak English a little. One day as he was pitching grain in the
field an Irishman came by who resided on a farm a few miles distant.
Needing a hand and noticing that Arndt handled himself in a satisfactory
manner, he offered him twenty dollars per month to go and work for him.
Arndt accepted his proposition, and agreed to report at the Irishman's
farm the following Monday, this being Thursday when the bargain was
made. That night the German settled up with his uncle, and received the
balance of his wages, some $75. He had been in America long enough
to reach that point in our civilization that, after working awhile, and
getting a balance ahead, he must take a rest and go on a "spree." He
started for the nearest town. For a couple of days he fared sumptuously,
constantly drinking. He at length reached a point below zero. Half
crazed, he staggers off to the fence across the way where the farmers
who had come to town to do their shopping on Saturday had hitched their
teams, and, untying a horse that was hitched to a buggy, Gus thought he
would take a ride. Lumbering into the buggy, as a drunken man can, he
drove down the main street of the town in broad daylight and out into
the country. In an hour or so the owner getting ready to return, misses
his horse and buggy. Making numerous inquiries about them and getting
nothing satisfactory, he places the matter in the hands of a sheriff,
who commences a search for the missing property. Not finding it in town
he sends men out on the roads leading to the country, himself taking
one. In a very short time he overtakes the noted horse-thief. Gus was
sitting in the buggy sound asleep; the lines were hanging down over the
dashboard, and the old horse was marching along at a snail's pace. He
was out some
two miles from town, and, no doubt, had traveled at this gait all the
way. He was faced about, and, assisted by the sheriff, drove back to
town. He was then placed under arrest and sent to jail, subsequently had
his trial, and for this little drive was sent to the penitentiary for
five years. Of a more unjust sentence I never heard. Gus served his time
out and a better behaved person was never behind the walls. When he
regained his liberty, instead of returning to Wabaunsee County, and to
his uncle's house, he finds his way to Marysville, Kansas. Here reside a
number of prosperous German farmers, and the ex-convict soon got work.
When he applied for work he forgot to tell his employer that he had just
finished up a contract for the State of Kansas. Some months had elapsed
and Gus had worked hard and industriously, had accumulated a neat little
sum of money, and began to feel happy once more. At this time a man
passed through the country that was acquainted with Arndt's antecedents,
and being a dirty dog he thought it was his duty to inform the farmer
that his hired man was an ex-convict, horse-thief and a desperado of the
worst type. Some men are so officious and are
so anxious to do their duty when it is in their power to injure a
fellow-man who is trying to earn an honest living. Gus immediately got
the "bounce." He was informed by his employer that he did not want to
make his home a harbor for horse-thieves. Gus took his wages and clothes
and started for Marysville. He could not bear the idea of being
discharged because of his former misfortune. He again applies to the
bottle for consolation. He goes on another spree. When crazed with
liquor he acted just as he did before; he goes to a hitching post, and
unties a team of horses attached to a buggy. One of the horses had had
its leg broken at some former time, and was almost worthless, while the
other one was very old. He seemed to select the very worst team he could
find. Maybe it was the buggy he was after! He was probably very tired
and wanted an easy place to rest. He unhitched them just as if they had
been his own. It was in the afternoon. The streets were full of people.
Gus crawled into the buggy in his half drunken manner and started off
down the road. When found by the sheriff some two hours after he had
gone, about half a mile from town, the old horses were standing
at one side of the road and the drunken Dutchman was lying in the buggy
sound asleep, with one bottle of whisky uncorked, the contents of which
had run out and over his clothes, and another bottle in his pocket
untouched. He had evidently gone out for a drive. He was taken to jail,
and the news soon spread that he was an ex-convict and horse-thief. He
was tried on a charge of stealing horses, and was returned to the
penitentiary for a term of two years. Here were seven years' service for
two drunks! Ancient Jacob, "how tuff!" After Gus had completed his
narration to me he wound up by saying, "Ven I shall oudt git this time,
I let von visky alones."
7. BOVINE TROUBLE.
Woodward R. Lopeman was sent up from Neosho County for murder in the
first degree. Under his sentence he was to be hanged at the close of
the first year. This part of the sentence is never carried out in
Kansas. The particulars of his crime are as follows: He was a well-to-do
farmer residing in Neosho County, and never had any difficulty to amount
to anything before this time. He was an old soldier
and served his country faithfully and bravely for four years. For some
trivial cause he and one of his neighbors had a little difficulty, but
it was thought nothing would ever come of it, as each of them had been
advised by their friends to bury their animosity before it should lead
to graver results. Lopeman seemed willing to do this, but his irate
neighbor would not meet him half way. One day a calf of Lopeman's, worth
but a few dollars, got through the fence and over into his neighbor's
pasture. Word was sent to the owner of the calf that if he would come
over and pay damages for the trouble of penning it up he could have his
property. This had a tendency to arouse a bad feeling in the heart of
Lopeman; so, placing his revolver in his pocket, and asking his grown up
son to accompany him, they went to the house of the neighbor and
directly to the lot where the calf was shut in and commenced to lay down
the bars to let it out, when the neighbor came from the house with his
son, and Lopeman was ordered to leave the bars alone. The neighbor, who
was a strong, muscular man, proceeded to chastise Lopeman; the two sons
also got ready for an encounter. Lopeman, being by far the smaller man
of the two, began to
retreat slowly as his enemy advanced brandishing a club. When almost
near enough Lopeman to strike him with the uplifted club, Lopeman, in
self-defense, as he claims, drew his revolver and shot him. He fell
lifeless to the ground. The son of the murdered man perceiving what was
done, ran quickly into the house, and getting a double-barreled shotgun,
came out and fired twice at Lopeman and his son. The shots did not take
effect. Lopeman fired two shots at him. At this the son retired into the
house, and Lopeman and son taking the almost worthless calf, which had
been the cause of so much trouble, went to their home. Lopeman then went
to the county seat and gave himself up to the authorities. As soon as
the news spread over the neighborhood, excitement ran high and there was
loud talk of lynching. The murdered man was very popular. His old
neighbors smelled blood, and it was with some difficulty that they were
prevented from taking the law into their own hands. Better judgment
prevailed, however, and after six months the trial came off and the
murderer was convicted and sentenced as aforesaid.
This man was my
cell mate. He is something over sixty years of age, of medium
height, and during
his younger days must have been very hard to handle. The first evening
we occupied the cell together he told me of all his troubles, and I
learned from his own lips that I was to room with a murderer. I felt I
would much rather be at home, than locked in that 4x7 cell with a man
whose hands were dyed with the blood of his neighbor. My alarm somewhat
subsided when the time came for retiring. The old man, as solemnly as
the Apostle Paul would have done, took down the Bible, read a few
verses, and then knelt down and prayed. I sat there in mute
astonishment at the proceedings of this gray haired criminal. How was it
possible for a man who was guilty of such a grave crime to be devout. He
often told me that he had no consciousness whatever of guilt, nor the
fear and dread of a murderer. I asked him if in his dreams he could not
often see the face of his victim. With a shrug of the shoulders he
admitted that he could. For six months this old man and myself occupied
that small cell together, so small that it was very difficult for us to
get by each other when the sleeping bunks were down. We never had the
least trouble during the entire time. A kinder hearted man I never met.
Whenever
he received any little delicacies from home he would always divide with
me, and in such a cheerful spirit that I soon came to think a good deal
of the old man. If we had both been on the outside world I would not
have desired a kinder neighbor. His son, later on, was convicted as an
accomplice, and sent up for two years. The old man has hopes of a pardon
in a few years. He has a wife and several children who are highly
respected and much beloved in the neighborhood where they reside. They
have the sympathy of all their neighbors in this affliction and
bereavement.
8. WHISKY AND WOMEN.
Doc. Crunk.—One of the many desperadoes now behind the prison walls
of the Kansas penitentiary is this noted Texas outlaw. He is a native
Texan, now nearly fifty years of age. After years of crime he was
finally caught in the Indian Territory while introducing whisky among
the Indians. He had his trial in the U. S. District Court, was convicted
and sent to the penitentiary for three years. For a time during the war
he was a confederate soldier. Becoming dissatisfied with the profession
of arms, he deserted
and entered upon the life of an outlaw. He gathered about him a few
kindred spirits with which Southern Texas was infested, and organized a
band of cattle and horse thieves,{.} This band of banditti became so
numerous that after a time it extended along the lower line of Texas
into the Indian Territory and up into Kansas. Their ravages were also
felt in Arkansas. They had a regular organized band, and stations where
they could dispose of their stolen property. The cattle that were
stolen were run to the frontiers and sold to cattlemen who were in
collusion with them, and which latter were getting immensely rich out of
the operations of these thieves. They would steal horses, run them off
and sell them to buyers who knew they were purchasing stolen property.
For years this gang flourished. Another mode of securing stock was the
following: A great many estrays would be taken up and advertised. In
every instance some member of the Crunk gang would claim the property
under oath and take it away. The leader of these outlaws stood trial for
nineteen different murders, and was acquitted each time. He could always
prove an alibi. His assistants would come in and swear
him clear every time. He was an intimate acquaintance and on friendly
terms with the James boys, and related many trips that he had made with
these noted and desperate men in their work of "seeking revenge," as he
styled it. He has no love for a colored man, and as he works now in the
prison with a number, pointing to them one day he said to me, "I wish I
had a five-dollar note for each one of them black skunks I have killed
since the wa'." He said he considered "a `niggah' that wouldn't vote the
way decent people wanted him to should not vote at all." Said he: "I
know of a number that will not vote any mo'. I saw them pass in their
last ballot." "The most money, made the easiest and quickest, was made
by our men," said he, "as moonshiners in Montague County. We carried on
this business successfully for a long time, but finally the U. S.
marshals became too much for us, and we had to close up shop. We had
several engagements with them; men were dropped on both sides, until
finally we concluded to quit the business and return to our old trade of
stealing cattle and horses. The way our moonshiner's nest was found out
was very romantic. A young woman came into the district, and tried to
get
up a school, seemingly, but failed. I guess she did not try very hard to
get scholars. At any rate she remained with a family in the neighborhood
for some time, whom she claimed were her relatives. One of my men fell
desperately in love with this young woman. He would be out riding with
her, and, as none of us suspected anything, he would at times bring her
over to our camp, and we taught her how to make whisky. She seemed
deeply interested in the business. I told the boys several times that I
was a little afraid of that `gal,' but they laughed at me, and so I
said, `I can stand it if the rest of you can.' She even went so far as
to become familiarly acquainted with all of us. We all got to thinking
that she was a nice young woman, and her lover simply thought he had
secured the finest prize in the world. But alas! At the proper time she
fixed our camp. She proved to be a female detective from New York city.
She gave away our fellows, and soon we were surrounded by a posse of U.
S. marshals and their deputies. Her lover was captured and is now in the
Texas penitentiary. Several of our boys were killed or wounded, and
those of us who escaped made up our minds to go back to the old cattle
trade." "What are you going to do, Doc.," said I, "when you get out of
this place?" "Going back to Texas; hunt up the boys, and see if we
can't find some more horses and cattle. One thing is certain I will
never go to another penitentiary. I will swallow a dose of cold lead
first."
And, with this, the famous outlaw went off to his room in the
mine to get out his task of coal to keep from being punished. Of the
nine hundred criminals in the prison, probably there is not one of them
who has seen so much of a life of crime as the famous Doc. Crunk.
9. EIGHT TIMES A CONVICT.
Thomas A. Currens.—One of the most unique characters to be found in
the striped ranks of the Kansas penitentiary is that of the man who is
herein described. This convict is fifty-two years of age, and a native
of Kentucky. His life, save a short time spent in the army, has been
one of crime. He was a courageous lad. Leaving his home at the early age
of ten years, thus deprived of all parental protection and restraints,
he formed bad associations, and soon his future career was in the
direction
of crime. The greater part of his boyhood was spent in city and county
jails and reform schools. At the age of twenty-two years he was
convicted on a charge of horse-stealing and sent to the Frankfort, Ky.,
penitentiary for six years. After serving four years he was pardoned by
the Legislature. He remained out of prison for the two following years.
We next find him in "limbo" in Indiana. He was arrested, and twenty
different charges were preferred against him. By pleading guilty to the
count of stealing a wagon, the court dismissed the other cases and gave
him a sentence of three years at hard labor. He was taken to the State's
prison. Shortly after his arrival he was put to work running an engine
during the night-time. After five months had passed away, Thomas,
reaching the conclusion that he did not enjoy watching over an engine
during the lonely hours of the night, determined to escape. Stealing an
old suit of clothes belonging to an officer, which he drew on over his
suit of stripes, he scaled the walls and was once more a free man. It
was a cold winter's night. After traveling some distance through the
woods his feet were almost frozen. Daylight was now approaching. He must
find a
place of hiding during the coming day. In a few hours he would be missed
at the penitentiary. The alarm being given, the usual reward being
offered, scores would be on the lookout for him. Approaching a farmyard,
he sat down and cut up his striped pantaloons and wrapped up his almost
frozen feet. He then crawled under a hay-stack. In this place he came
near being discovered, for in a couple of hours the farmer came out to
feed his cattle, and as chance would have it took the hay from the stack
under which the convict was secreted. As he was removing the hay,
several times prongs of the fork sank deep enough to penetrate the flesh
of the runaway. He endured this pitchfork probing heroically while it
lasted, and was thankful when the cattle had received sufficient
provender. Here he remained until nightfall. He did not renew his
journey until the farmer and his family had retired and were in the land
of dreams. Almost starved, uninvited he enters the kitchen and helps
himself to what he can find. His hunger being appeased, his old habit of
taking things that he should leave alone, forced him into the bed-room
of the sleeping farmer, and forced his hand into the pocket of the
aforesaid granger's pantaloons,
from which he took his pocketbook containing twenty dollars in money. He
was now prepared for traveling. Continuing his journey for several
miles, becoming very tired, he decided not to walk any longer as there
was so much good horse-flesh in the vicinity. Near the hour of midnight,
this weary tramp entered the farmyard of a wealthy old Indiana farmer,
and going into the barn led out one of his fleetest steeds. Once more
astride a good horse, Thomas felt like a free man. During the rest of
the night he made good headway, and by the morning sun was up the rider
and horse were many miles away from the place where first they met.
Entering a small village, the horse was fed and nicely groomed. At the
same time Thomas partook of a good breakfast, which he heartily enjoyed.
The fates seemed to favor the man of crime. It is an old saying: "The
devil looks after his own." A horse-buyer had arrived in the village a
few days before. When the noon train came whistling up to the station,
the convict having converted his horse into one hundred and twenty-five
dollars, purchased a new suit of clothes, a silk hat, and a pair of kid
gloves, and, representing himself to be a traveling salesman, getting
aboard, soon reaches Chicago, where, soon after his arrival, he joined a
band of crooks. He was never discovered by the Indiana prison
officials. Fifteen years after his escape, he got a "pal" to wire the
authorities of the Indiana penitentiary, and inquired of them what
reward they would pay for the return of Thomas A. Currens, a convict
who had effected his escape many years before. An answer came that if he
would remain out of the State, he would never be molested.
Wandering about several months after his escape, he arrives in
Sedalia, Missouri. Among other little articles he was accused of
stealing at this place was an eight hundred dollar barouche, the
property of Judge Ferguson, of that place. Again this noted thief was
arrested and confined in the county jail to await trial. He was not
anxious for trial, for he knew the "yawning pen" was waiting to receive
him. For eleven months he remained in this jail, having his trial
continued from term to term. When his case was called up for the first
time he feigned sickness. The next time one of the principal witnesses
was absent, and thus for eleven months his case was continued. Thomas
now yearned for freedom. How to get out of
that jail was the problem. Another term of court would soon convene. He
had no grounds for further continuance. Fortune favored him. At this
time a man was arrested and placed in the same cell with Currens. The
face of the new arrival was covered over with blotches. The next
morning Currens in a confidential manner stated to the sheriff that his
cell mate had the small-pox. Being interrogated the prisoner said he had
been exposed recently, and a physician being called, on examination it
was decided to remove him to the pest-house. Currens was sent along on
account of his exposure to the contagion. An officer was placed in
charge of the two jail-birds at the pest-house. During the night
following their arrival at this out-of-the-way place, the officer was
pounced upon by the two desperate criminals, bound hand and foot, and
with a large cork placed between his teeth, was gently laid on the
floor. His gold watch and chain, and all the loose change he had with
him were taken from his person, and the two small-pox patients walked
forth into the darkness and gloom of that night unattended by any
friendly official.
Thomas never believed in criminals traveling in groups, so he
bade his companion an affectionate
farewell. Wending his way to the southwestern portion of the State he
was arrested for additional crimes and misdemeanors. Knowing that the
officers had not sufficient evidence against him he bravely stood trial
and was acquitted. However, as he was going forth from his prison cell a
free man, much to his surprise, an official from Sedalia put in an
appearance and took him back to the scene of his small-pox escapade. At
his trial he was convicted and received a sentence of six and one-half
years. He now took a cell in the Jefferson City penitentiary. After four
years of imprisonment this notorious criminal makes an application for
pardon, setting up an alibi as the basis of the application, and
succeeded in influencing the Governor to believe the testimony, and was
set at liberty, promising that he would leave the State of Missouri,
never to return. The conscience of the said Thomas never troubled him
over failing to keep his word with the officers of the law. He did not
leave Missouri, as he agreed, but betook himself to the pleasant little
city of Carthage. Scarcely three moths had elapsed before he found
himself again in durance vile for stealing horses. He was tried,
convicted and returned
to Jefferson City penitentiary under a sentence of six years. He took an
appeal to the Supreme Court. The judgment of the lower court was
reversed. He was taken back to Carthage for another trial, and was
convicted the second time, and again received a sentence of six years at
hard labor in the penitentiary. As before, he appealed the case, and
the governor, thinking the State was getting the worst of the matter,
and that a large amount of costs were being made, pardoned the convict
under another promise that he would leave the State. Currens, now
following Greeley's advice, turns his eyes toward the setting sun. He
crosses the Big Muddy, and plants his feet upon the sacred soil of
Kansas. He makes a raid upon Lawrence, breaks into a house, and is
caught in the act of trying to carry off the household goods. A
courteous policeman takes charge of him—now deeply steeped in
crime—soon landing him behind the bars. In the presence of the court he
next makes a solemn statement that, prior to this, he had been a
Sunday-school teacher; that misfortune had overtaken him, and he was
forced to enter some friend's kitchen or starve. Those who listened to
his pathetic appeal inform me that the stern judge
was moved to tears, and that while he had contemplated giving the
wayward Thomas six years, he made it three. This was the first
introduction of our hero to the principal brown stone front of Lansing.
It was not long after his arrival at the Kansas penitentiary before he
gained the confidence of the authorities, and was made a "trusty." He
had an easy place given him.
His three years' sentence soon passed away. His term was reduced
three months because of his excellent conduct while in prison. Bearing
with him the good wishes of a majority of the prison officials, and
followed by the prayers of the pious chaplain, he goes forth to engage
in life's battle again. Thomas could not fully enjoy the sweets of
liberty unless on horseback. He makes his way to the capital of Kansas,
and engages at once in the dangerous business of stealing horses. He had
not continued this course long before he was arrested, tried, convicted
and returned to Lansing for five years more. Thomas had not been in the
Kansas penitentiary the second time but a few months, when he called
upon the chaplain, and with tears rolling down his face confessed he was
a great sinner, promised to lead a different life,
and urged the chaplain to pray for him. Delighted at the prospect of
snatching such a brand from the eternal burning, the man of God took
Thomas into a private room, and the two knelt down. The chaplain offered
a fervent prayer that the loving Father would take to His embrace the
returning, sinful prodigal. At the conclusion of this prayer the
chaplain called upon the "sin sick soul" to pray for himself. This was
an unexpected movement by the chaplain, and Thomas was hardly prepared
for the emergency. However, he prayed. He was converted on the spot. At
least, the chaplain thought so. Strange as it may appear to my readers,
instead of this noted convict having to remain and serve out his five
years' sentence, through the influence of this minister he secured a
pardon. At the expiration of eighteen months the shrewd convict was a
free man. That chaplain was "worked."
The fortunate Thomas next visits Atchison. A farmer came to the
city one day, driving a beautiful horse. The temptation was too great,
and the man who had been an inmate of a penitentiary seven different
times followed the unsuspecting farmer to his home, and that night rode
away the coveted prize. The Atchison
County Vigilance Committee traced and soon caught the guilty
horse-thief, landing him in Atchison County's beautiful jail. Shortly
after, Thomas had an interview with the county attorney, and it was
agreed by and between them, if the horse-thief would plead guilty, he
should be let off with one year in the penitentiary. To this the grave
offender agreed, and, presenting himself before the tribunal of justice,
Hon. W. D. Gilbert presiding, plead guilty. The county attorney being
absent, the court gave Thomas, instead of twelve months, a year and a
half at hard labor. I met him in the penitentiary a few days ago, and
learned that he is putting forth an effort to secure a pardon on the
ground that had he not been promised only a one year's sentence, he
would have stood trial and been acquitted. He claims that he should be
given his liberty when his one year is up.
Thomas was out of the penitentiary long enough to go into the
army and get a bullet through his ankle, and therefor draws a pension of
twenty-four dollars per month. He takes good care of his money, and has
enough on hand to enable him to get a good start in life when he obtains
his freedom. He is a well-behaved
prisoner. He is true to his pals in crime, never having been known to
turn State's evidence. He has a mania for taking things that do not
belong to him. He claims that he never would have been caught the last
time had not his housekeeper "given him away." The two had a domestic
quarrel, and in her efforts to get even, she told the authorities of his
theft. After his trial and conviction, womanlike, she repented in
sackcloth and ashes, but Thomas would have no more to do with her.
Later, she went over into Missouri, where she has since died. One of the
first things Thomas will do on regaining his liberty will be to secure
another housekeeper, and probably the the next thing will be to steal
some farmer's horse.
This convict is now serving out his eighth term in the
penitentiary. It is fearful to contemplate these human wrecks. A wasted
life, golden opportunities unimproved, a dark and dismal future will
constitute the death knell of such fallen beings. Young man, remember
the life of this convict, and shun such a course.
10. SKILLED LABOR.
William Hurst.—Some of the narratives in
this book read like the story of Aladin's Lamp, and we have no doubt
some of them so reading are absolutely true, while for the Lamp story
nothing is claimed. For many ages men, and particularly those engaged in
the literary field of thought, have discanted on the baseness of the
passion of jealousy. There is no sense in being jealous. You are either
loved or you are not, and hence the absolute foolishness of indulging
the passion.
William Hurst, whose history we now relate, is a man of rough
personal appearance, Irish descent, and his age is now about fifty-five.
Coming to Kansas at an early day, he settled in Doniphan County, and
there courted and subsequently married one of Doniphan County's pretty
girls. Time went along as usual, and in a few years there were several
little cherubs that blessed the household of Hurst. But, as sometimes
happens, the husband began to drink, love grew colder, the necessities
of the family hourly grew greater, poverty in all its hideousness came
to curse the home once so happy. The poor, distracted wife and mother
did all she could, by taking in washing and ironing, to prevent the
starvation of her little ones. The husband through his bleared eyes
imagined he
could see that other men were too friendly to his wife. He charged her
with unfaithfulness to the marriage vows. She denied the charge. Only
incensed by this he would beat and mistreat her out of all reason. For
protection she had him arrested, intending to bind him over to keep the
peace, but on the advice of officers, who are so full of it, she
withdrew the charge and he was set at liberty. For a few days he was
quiet, but soon the red liquor poured down his throat, and like a
mountain devil stirred all the dark passions of his lost and ruined
nature. He attempted to debauch his own daughter, and was only
prevented by the physical force of the ever-watchful mother. The father
(great God! is such a human being entitled to the endearing term?)
turned upon her, and again, as had often happened, abused, kicked and
mistreated her in a most shameful manner. She had him arrested a second
time with the intention of binding him over to keep the peace. He
pretended, while in charge of the officer, that he must see his wife,
and together they started toward the hovel where they lived. They met
the wife and mother at the outskirts of the little village, had some
words, and before the officer could prevent it, Hurst sprang upon
the woman and cut her throat from ear to ear jumped away, and made good
his escape to the woods, the officer, meanwhile, deeming it more
important to aid the woman, not knowing, for a moment, that the cutting
was fatal. That fact was very soon apparent. Others were called who took
charge of the body, and the officer struck out in hot pursuit of the
murderer. He was followed to the woods a few miles from White Cloud, in
Doniphan County, there overtaken and conducted to the county seat,
tried, convicted of murder in the first degree, sentenced to be hung,
sent to the penitentiary to await the final execution, which, in our
State, never comes. He remained in there about twenty months when he
became insane, and was sent to the asylum; was there about three and a
half years, when he was pronounced cured and returned to the
penitentiary. He is now insane a second time. You have all in your
younger-days read the story of the maniac that paced his cell, repeating
"once one is two," and now comes the queerest part of this narrative.
Hurst seems anxious to talk to every one that calls, and especially
anxious to shake hands; but if you say anything to him, or ask any
question, his only answer is "skilled
labor," and keeps on repeating these words as he walks up and down his
place of confinement.
Who knows but the infinite God has destroyed reason to prevent
the power of darkness over this poor, unfortunate being. Or who knows
but the demands of justice are met in the terrible conscience blows
which have staggered and shattered that which originally was in the
image of God.
11. LIFE INSURANCE AND MURDER.
McNutt and Winner.—These are two of the most noted criminals in the
penitentiary, rendered so because of the dastardly crime committed by
them, and the high social relations of the latter. They came from
Wichita, and have been in prison almost fifteen years. McNutt is a fine
artist and painter. He had his paint shop in Wichita, and was doing a
very successful business. Winner was his associate, and the two plotted
and carried into execution the following horrible crime: McNutt got his
life insured for $5,000, his wife being his beneficiary. It was a dark,
stormy night when McNutt and Winner enticed into this paint shop an
unsuspecting mutual friend. Here they
murdered him in cold blood. They then set fire to the paint shop and
took to flight. After the fire was put out, the charred remains of the
murdered man were found, and supposed to be those of McNutt, the owner
of the building. The wife, cognizant of the awful deed which her
husband had committed, followed the remains of the murdered man to the
grave, dressed in her garb of mourning.
Shortly after this she applied for the insurance money on her
husband's life. Some doubts were raised as to the identity of the body.
Detectives were employed to make an investigation of the case. They made
use of a deception, and thus got the woman to confess. They told her
that they had found an accomplice who had confessed the crime, and was
in jail. They promised the wife that if she would tell the truth they
would not prosecute her. She consented. She narrated the sickening
events as they had been plotted in her presence and under her roof.
Officers were now despatched to find the murderers. McNutt was found in
Missouri plowing corn. Winner was found near Wichita. They were brought
to trial, convicted, and sent to prison for life. Winner was unmarried
at the time of
his conviction. His father and only brother are very wealthy, and living
in Kansas City. I have been told they offer $20,000 for Winner's
pardon. McNutt is a very useful man in the prison. He has charge of the
painting department. He has done some fine work on the walls of the
prison chapel, covering them with paintings of the Grecian goddesses.
Both of these prisoners hope to receive pardons. Whether they will
regain their liberty is a question which the future alone can
answer.
12. THE HOG-THIEF.
In the coal mines, as before stated, the convicts are permitted to
converse with each other. I improved this opportunity of acquiring the
histories of the five hundred criminals with whom I daily worked, eight
hundred feet below the surface. I would talk with a fellow prisoner, and
get the details of his crime as we sat together in the darkness.
Understanding "short-hand," I would go to my cell in the evening and jot
down what I had learned during the day. I had no fears of any one
reading my notes, as I was the only short-hand writer about the
institution. Day after day I kept this up,
until I had material sufficient of this nature to fill a book of more
than two thousand pages. My readers should also know, that a convict
will tell a fellow-prisoner the details of his crime, when he would not
think of saying a word about it to others. As a rule they deny their
crimes to those who are not, like themselves, criminals, pleading
innocence. It is not difficult for a prisoner to get the confidence of a
fellow-prisoner. In fact, criminals love to unburden their minds to
those who possess their confidence. The truth is, convicts have related
their crimes so often to me that it became tiresome. They say it
relieves them to communicate their troubles. Pinkerton, of Chicago, the
prince of detectives stated at one time that a criminal could not keep
his secret. It is true. I know it to be a fact. It has been
demonstrated a hundred times in my association with these convicts in
the Kansas penitentiary. Securing their confidence, these men have not
only told me of the crimes for which they have been sent to prison, but
also of crimes that they have committed, and, in the commission of
which, they had not been detected, which, if I should make them known,
would cause a number of them to remain in the penitentiary the rest of
their lives. I am not in the detective business, and will therefore keep
what was confided to me. I have met but few criminals in the mines that
would not admit their guilt. I have thought in many cases, convicts
received sentences too severe, and not at all commensurate with the
crime committed. I have met a few men, however, who would stubbornly
deny their guilt and stoutly affirm their innocence. I have worked upon
these men day after day, and never got anything out of them but that
they were innocent. At times, in tears, they would talk of their
sufferings, and wonder if there was a just God silently permitting the
innocent to suffer for the guilty. I am satisfied these men are
innocent, and they have my sympathy. They are exceptions. Others, while
admitting their guilt on general principles, and assenting to the
justice of imprisonment, yet maintain that they were innocent of the
particular crime for which they stand convicted. I trust the reader will
not get his sympathies wrought too high, as comparatively few angels
find their way into modern prisons. I will give you a few illustrations.
These are just samples of scores of histories in my possession.
A hog-thief worked in the mines with me for a few days. His dose
was five years at hard labor. He had stolen an old sandy female swine
with six pigs. I asked him if he was really guilty of carrying on the
pork business. "Yes," said he, with a low chuckle, "I have stolen pigs
all my life, and my daddy and mammy before me were in the same business.
I got caught. They never did." He then related the details of many
thefts. He made a considerable amount of money in his wicked traffic,
which he had squandered, and was now penniless. Money secured in a
criminal manner never does the possessor any good. I asked him if he had
enough of the hog business, and if it was his intention to quit it, and
when he got out of the pen to earn an honest living. "No," he replied,
"as long as there is a hog to steal and I am a free man, I propose to
steal him." Imprisonment failed to reform this convict. Although a
hog-thief he was an excellent singer and a prominent member of the
prison choir.
There are many murderers in the mines. In fact, nearly all the
life men are there. Some of them speak of their crimes with a bravado
simply astonishing, showing their utter depravity.
Others, admitting their guilt, say but little of details. The following
will give the reader some idea of the stories that greeted my ears
almost daily, and led me to conclude that the coal mines of the
penitentiary are not inhabited exclusively by Sunday-school scholars.
This cruel and heartless wretch had murdered an old man and his wife.
The old people lived on a farm adjoining the one where this criminal,
who was then a hired man, worked, It was the talk of the neighborhood
that they had money. This human fiend undertook to secure their "loose
change," as he called it. He procured a shotgun and an axe, and, in the
dead hour of night, went to the house of the old people. He forced open
the kitchen door and went in. He had also brought with him a lantern.
He quietly stole to the bedside of the innocent and aged sleepers. He
had no use for his lantern as the moonlight shone through the window
opposite and fell upon the faces of the unconscious victims. Setting his
gun down by the side of the bed, so that he could have it handy for use,
if necessary, he took the axe and struck each of his victims a blow upon
the head. He said, with a demoniac chuckle, that
it was more difficult to kill a woman than a man, as it required two
blows from the axe to kill the woman, while one was sufficient for the
man. He then ransacked the house, and, between some blankets underneath
the straw-bed upon which the old folks were sleeping, he found a small
bag, which contained some gold, silver and paper money, amounting to
over one thousand dollars. In a cold-blooded manner he further stated
(and as I pen his words my blood nearly freezes in my veins), in order
to search the bed upon which his victims were lying, it became necessary
for him to remove the bodies; so he lifted them up one at a time, and
placed them upon the floor, face downward, for the reason, as he said,
that their eyes bulged out and seemed to stare at him.
After securing the money he fled and returned to the farm where
he worked. He slept in the barn, as is very often the case with farm
laborers during the summer season. Entering the barn he procured an old
bucket, places his money in it, covers the top with a piece of board,
and buries it in the earth east of the barn. He also buried the axe near
the bucket. He said there were clots of blood and
hair on the axe, and he thought best to put it out of sight. He then
returned to the barn, and, strange to say, soon fell asleep and slept
sweetly until morning. He went to work the next day as usual, and his
mind was taken up more by thinking of what a good time he would have
after a little, spending that money, than in worrying over the terrible
crime he had committed. He reasoned that the money would do the old
people no good, but that he could use it to advantage.
The discovery of the murder was made the next day about noon. The
alarm was given. The whole country was aroused and excited over the
commission of such a horrible crime two innocent, helpless and
highly-respected old people murdered for their money. A couple of tramps
had passed through the neighborhood the day before, and, of course,
everybody thought it must have been the tramps that committed the
murder. The object now was to find them. They were overtaken the next
day and brought back to the scene of the murder. They both stoutly
denied any knowledge of the crime. They were separated, and each was
told that the other had confessed. This was done that a confession
might be forced
from them. They continued in their affirmation of innocence. They were
then taken to the woods near by and each hung up until life was almost
extinct, but they still denied the commission of the crime. They were at
length taken to the county seat, not far distant, and, on a preliminary
examination, were bound over to appear at the next term of the District
Court, and put in the county jail. The majority of the people believed
that the perpetrators of this crime had been arrested and were now in
durance vile; the excitement soon passed away, and very little was said
about it.
"It was at this time," said my informant, that I made the mistake
of my life. I had worked hard on the farm for several months, and
thought I would take a lay off. I felt it was due me. I now made up my
mind to have a time. I went to town and soon fell in with a harlot. I
got to drinking. I am very fond of strong drink; it has been my ruin. I
became intoxicated, and during this time I must have betrayed my secret
to this wicked woman. A large reward had been offered for the murderer
of these old people. This woman who kept me company having thus obtained
my secret, went to the city marshal and made an arrangement
that for half of the reward offered she would show him the man who had
committed the crime. This was agreed to. While I was drinking and having
a good time with my `fast woman' three men were on the road to the farm
where I had been working. They found and dug up the old bucket
containing what money I had left in it, and the axe. All this I learned
at the trial. I was arrested and bound over to the District Court on a
charge of murder in the first degree. The officers had to keep me
secreted for some time, as there was strong talk of lynching. In due
time I had my trial and got a life sentence."
I asked him if he had any hope of pardon.
"Oh yes," said he, "in the course of eight or ten years I will be
able to get out once more."
"What became of the tramps that came so near being compelled to
suffer the penalty of your crime?"
" They were released as soon as I was arrested, a snug little sum
of money was raised for them, a new suit of clothes purchased, and they
went on their way rejoicing, thinking themselves creatures of luck."
As we sat together in a secluded place in the
mines, with the faint light of my miner's lamp falling on his hideous
face, the cool, deliberate manner in which he related his atrocious
doings, the fiendish spirit he displayed, led me to regard him as one
among the most debased and hardened criminals I had met in the mines—a
human being utterly devoid of moral nature —a very devil in the form of
man!
13. A NOTED COUNTERFEITER.
One of my companions in the mines, and with whom I worked a couple of
weeks, lying almost side by side with him as we dug coal in the same
room, was a noted counterfeiter. He had plied his trade for many years
successfully. Whisky finally sent him to the penitentiary. If
professional criminals would only let strong drink alone not half so
many of them would get caught. They get drunk, and in this condition
expose themselves. We don't mean to use this as an argument against the
prohibitory law! It is, perhaps, proper for them to drink. This
counterfeiter makes his dies out of plaster paris. They are very simple
and easy of construction. He explained to me the manner in which they
were made. I would give his method of making these dies
were it not for the fact that some smart boy getting hold of this book
and learning the method would undertake the business, and as a result
his good old mother would be going to the penitentiary to visit him.
When this counterfeiter would run short of funds he would purchase the
necessary material, go into the woods on a dark night, and in a very
short time would have plenty of bogus money. He taught the trade to his
brother and to some bosom friends, and it was not long until they had a
regular organized gang. Getting drunk one day one of them displayed too
many shining new pieces of money. He was "spotted." A detective was put
on his track. He was traced to the headquarters of the gang, and in a
few hours thereafter the entire posse were locked up in jail on a charge
of counterfeiting and passing "bogus money." They now formed plans for
their escape from jail. They adopted the plan of seizing the jailor, as
he brought in supper, thrusting him into a cell, locking him in, and
then making good their escape. They made the attempt. The jailor was
locked in the cell according to the programme, but so much noise was
made in the struggle that the sheriff put in an appearance with a loaded
revolver.
The prisoners made a dash for liberty. A brother of my informant was
killed; another of the gang was wounded and dragged back into his cell
in the jail; the others got away. It was in the winter time. The
succeeding night was extremely cold. Wandering about all night in the
snow, their feet were frozen, and they were easily recaptured the next
day. They had their trial, and all were sent to the penitentiary. They
got eight years apiece, three for counterfeiting and five for breaking
jail. In this manner was broken up one of the worst counterfeit gangs of
the West. Whisky has trapped many a criminal. There are but very few
that do not "indulge." In fact, I cannot now recall a single
professional criminal but would take a drop if he could get it. They
must have whisky to nerve them for their iniquitous business. When the
crime is committed they drink again to soothe their wounded
consciences."
14. YELLOW BACK LITERATURE.
A boy was brought into the hospital one day while I was there, whose
history is worth relating, as it shows the fatal effects of bad
literature upon the human mind, and to what sad
results it may lead. This youth had become suddenly ill in the mines,
and had to be assisted from his place of work to the ward for the sick.
He was very ill for several days, but began to grow convalescent. An
opportunity presenting itself, I got into conversation with him, and he
told me the history of his crime. He was an orphan. At the death of both
his parents in the East he had come to Kansas to make his home with an
uncle. This relative was very kind, and after a time adopted the boy. He
had a pleasant home, and his prospects for the future were bright. How
often is it the case that the sky of the future becomes overcast. This
young criminal was a constant reader of the Life of Jesse James, and
kindred literature, until he made up his mind to go on the "war path"
and become Jesse James No. 2. With this in view, he provided himself
with two large revolvers. One night, after all the household had
retired, he crept stealthily into the bed-room of one of the hired men
and stole seventy dollars. He goes to the barn and takes one of his
uncle's horses and starts for the Indian Territory. The uncle was
awakened an hour later on account of some unusual sound at the barn, and
going thither discovered that
one of his best horses was gone, and also that his nephew was away. He
got together several of his neighbors and started in pursuit, and the
next day, about noon, the youthful thief was overtaken and surrounded.
The uncle rode up to him and began to question him as to his strange
conduct, when the boy drew one of his revolvers, and, pointing at his
uncle, shot him dead. He was going to play Jesse James to the last. When
he saw his uncle fall dead from his horse, now realizing what he had
done, the bravado spirit forsook him, and he began to quake with fear.
The neighbors closed in upon him and soon took his firearms from him. In
due time he had his trial and was sent to the penitentiary for life.
Bad books are our worst companions. I have narrated the history
of this young murderer, and now urge my boy readers to let yellow back
literature alone. It wrecked the future of this youth, and what it did
for one it may do for another.
15. A YOUTHFUL MURDERER.
Willie Sells.—In the prison, this convict is called the "baby
convict." When he came to
the penitentiary in 1886, he was but sixteen years of age, and in
appearance much younger. One of the most sickening murders committed in
Kansas is charged to the account of this boy. His home is in Neosho
County. His father, a prosperous farmer, lived happily with his wife and
three children. Willie was the oldest of the children. Early one morning
he rushed from his home and made his way to the nearest neighbor, about
half a mile distant, and with his face and hands covered with blood
conveyed the startling intelligence that the entire family had been
murdered, and he only had escaped. Soon an excited crowd of neighbors
gathered at the home of the murdered victims, and the sight that was
presented has but few parallels in the fatal and fearful results of
crime. The victims had been murdered while asleep. In one room lay the
father and mother of the youthful murderer, on their bed of death. Their
heads had been split open with an axe that lay nearby, and the blood of
one mingled with that of the other. In an adjoining bed-room, covered
with their own life's blood, were found the little brother and sister.
They had been foully murdered with the same instrument that had caused
the death of the parents. Who
was the monster that had committed this terrible and atrocious act? A
search of the premises disclosed the fact that robbery was not the
motive. No property was missing. The survivor was questioned again and
again. He said that a burly-looking tramp had effected an entrance into
the house through a window during the night; that he being awake at the
moment, and becoming alarmed, hid himself, and, unperceived, beheld his
father and mother, his brother and sister, thus foully murdered. A
thorough and extensive search was made, but no clue could be obtained
that would warrant the arrest of any one.
Finally, the surviving child was taken into custody. It was
claimed that his statements of the circumstances connected with the
crime varied, and in several instances were contradictory. The evidence
introduced at his trial was purely circumstantial. After much
deliberation and hesitancy, the jury decided on a verdict of guilty of
murder in the first degree, and this child criminal was sentenced to
imprisonment for life.
He conducts himself well in the prison. On account of his extreme
youth he is given a great deal of liberty. It is with great reluctance
that he talks about his crime, and longs for freedom.
Is this boy guilty? This question has never been satisfactorily
answered in the affirmative. I am informed there was a grave doubt in
the mind of the judge who tried the case and imposed the sentence as to
the guilt of this alleged youthful offender. A chill of horror creeps
over us as we think of the members of this family weltering in each
other's blood. Should he be innocent, it would be awful for this boy to
remain in the Kansas Hell for a lifetime.
16. A MOST REMARKABLE CASE.
William Baldwin furnishes the history of one of the most remarkable
cases in the criminal annals of Kansas. He was charged with the
atrocious crime of murdering his own sister. William and his sister
were the only children of a widowed but wealthy mother. It is claimed
that the son had received his portion of the estate prior to this sad
occurrence, and that by taking the life of his sister he would become
the sole heir of the Baldwin estate, which was supposed to be very
large. Mary, the beautiful and accomplished sister was discovered dead
one morning lying upon her bed in her chamber
with a chloroform bottle at her side. A panel of the outside door of the
house was found removed. Immediately upon the discovery of the murder
it was supposed that the house had been burglarized, and that the thief
had committed the murder. Upon an examination of the premises by the
proper officials it was found that nothing had been taken from the
house. In looking for a motive that would prompt a person to commit such
a fiendish act, and it being known that William Baldwin, the brother,
would be the sole heir in case of the death of his sister, he was at
once suspected of having committed the crime. His arrest was prompt and
immediate. He was bound over on preliminary examination, and in due
course of time had his trial and was convicted. He was sentenced to the
penitentiary for one year, at the expiration of which he was to be hung
until dead. His case was taken on appeal to the Supreme Court of the
State. Baldwin, in the meantime, was removed to the penitentiary. Here
he was placed in the tailor shop, where he has remained since. He is a
very obedient prisoner, and is highly esteemed by the prison officials.
The judgment in his case upon hearing in the Supreme Court of the
State was affirmed. From the Supreme Court of Kansas his case was taken
by appeal to the Supreme Court of the United States; in this highest
tribunal, the judgments of the lower courts were affirmed, and the fate
of William Baldwin is forever sealed so far as the judiciary of the
country is concerned. If he is permitted again to inhale the air of
freedom, it must be through the clemency of the pardoning board and of
the governor of Kansas. During one hundred and ten years of American
jurisprudence, there had been only two similar cases taken to the
Supreme Court of the United States. But a few days before my release I
was talking with Billy Baldwin in the penitentiary, and he seemed to be
very hopeful that after a time he would secure his pardon.
His wife is one of the most highly respected ladies of Atchison;
is true, faithful and devoted to her husband. She has enlisted the
sympathies of the entire community in her behalf, because of her youth
and great bereavement. His aged mother, who has been called upon to
wade through deep waters of affliction because of the great calamity
that has befallen her son and daughter, will also exert great influence
in getting signers to a petition for his pardon.
The question has often been asked me, because of my intimate
relation with Baldwin in the penitentiary, whether I believed that he is
guilty. I can answer as to my own belief. I have watched him carefully
as I have the other fifty-five lifetime convicts, and I am free to say
that I do not believe that William Baldwin ever committed the crime of
killing his sister for the malicious desire of obtaining filthy lucre,
or the estate of his sister. He does not conduct himself as scores of
other criminals who have confessed their guilt. In conversation with
him, while I was "in stripes," he has time and again told me, with tears
rolling down his cheeks, that he was innocent of the terrible crime of
which he stands accused, and that there was no brother had greater love
for his sister than he, and that he had such faith in an overruling
Providence that eventually he would be exonerated from the crime; and
that the real perpetrator would be made known. If he is innocent and it
should ever be clearly proven, his will be one of the saddest and most
mysterious events ever recorded. There is beyond doubt an unsolved
mystery hanging over this remarkable case.
