CHAPTER LXII.
SPOTTING THE FUGITIVES—THEY APPEAR IN PUEBLO AT BREAK OF DAY, AND THE OFFICERS ARE SOON AFTER THEM, WELL MOUNTED AND FAIRLY ARMED—A DASHING SCENE—A THIRTEEN-MILE RACE ACROSS THE PLAINS, WITH MANY SHOTS FIRED—THE DESPERATE FUGITIVES AT LAST BROUGHT TO A HALT AND RETURNED TO DENVER.
Rising about 6 o’clock in the morning, the officers started to engage horses, but had much difficulty. Finally they secured two, one of them a very fine animal. They then went back to the hotel, and started up the Fountaine to strike the trail of Clodfelter and Johnson. Cook had a Colt’s forty-four calibre pistol, with only six loads, and a Henry rifle, borrowed at Pueblo. Smith was armed only with a Colt’s breech-loading pistol.
They had proceeded about two hundred yards from the hotel when they heard a shout, and looking back saw one of their guards—Officer Bilby—on the hotel steps, waving his hat. The officers glanced over the town and saw the two men they sought riding through. Instantly they let their horses out, and endeavored to cut off their exit across the bridge. In this they were not successful. Then both rode up behind a building and then into the street, down which the men were riding, about a hundred yards behind them. The men had discovered they were being pursued, and had thrown away their blankets, drawn their revolvers, and put spurs to their horses.
As Cook and Smith rode into the street, Cook called upon the men to halt, but the demand was not heeded.
“If you don’t halt, you are dead men.” But in vain. The scoundrels pushed on with all the greater vim. Their horses were flying over the ground, and the officers were following with the speed of the wind.
“Let them have one just to scare them,” said Dave to Frank, and the two officers sent two shots into the air. These had no effect. The horsemen rode on without noticing the shots. There were a few people in the street at this early hour, early and cold as it was, but they all scampered indoors when the bullets began to whiz in the air. The horsemen rode on regardless of surroundings. The pursued pair now swung around in a circle and came up on the mesa near the bridge above the officers, and riding abreast and as fast as their horses would carry them. Cook stopped his horse, cocked his gun, threw it to his shoulder, and drew a bead, while both men were riding side by side, sixty yards from him. They saw the action, and realizing their imminent danger, started to drop behind their horses just as the detective’s finger touched the trigger of his Henry rifle.
The long and hard chase seemed about to be finished, as it was almost certain that Cook, being a dead shot, would either kill or seriously wound both of his men. His bead is perfect. The finger goes to the trigger; there is a quick, nervous pull—down goes the hammer and—“clack” goes the gun. It is a misfire, and the two men ride triumphantly on into the plains.
The real chase is only begun, for over the plains fly the swift steeds, pursuers and pursued. There are few parallel cases on record. For a distance of thirteen miles across the open country the two detectives chased the two criminals. At times the escape of the culprits seemed inevitable; at times their death or capture seemed certain.
After the effort above described to shoot the criminals, Smith at once seized his revolver and poured six shots after them. One of these shots just grazed Johnson’s leg, cutting through the cuticle. As they rode through the town, Cook left word for Sheriff Ellis to follow with a posse of men.
Across the country the chase continued, and up a small hill. Both pursuers threw away overcoat, gloves, scarf and pistol scabbards. Cook carried the gun, while Smith, having the fleetest horse, would ride ahead, stop, get off the horse, and be ready to take the gun and fire while Cook held the reins, or to hold the reins while Cook should fire.
But time and again the gun refused to go off. Finally, Cook turned over his revolver to Smith and tried to fix the gun, while on the run. He endeavored to take it to pieces, but failed. He pulled one cartridge, and while putting in another it stuck fast. By main strength it was finally forced into the gun. Just before this Cook’s horse, while attempting to jump a high sage brush, landed with his hind feet in a prairie dog hole, and he was thrown forward on the pommel of his saddle and was painfully hurt. After the cartridge had been forced home the officers rode up within range and gave two shots, both missing the mark. They again went after the men, who now left the road and turned into the prairie, and slightly towards Cañon City, moving over the country, jumping over the tall sagebrush and plunging into embankments of snow, over which the sun, which had now risen, gleamed as on the crest of ocean waves, almost blinding men and beast, but yet failing to take the edge off the March air, which was bitter cold.
Thus the chase went on until both parties gave evident signs of weakening. The fugitives had ridden their horses hard, and they were visibly weakening. The poor animals could not be whipped out of a trot. The officers came up to within sixty yards, and Cook being so near, shouted to them:
“See here, boys, this thing has gone about far enough. Your horses are broken down. We are well heeled, and if you don’t stop we’ll kill you. You may count on it.”
But the precious pair paid no heed to this warning, and went on as rapidly as their weary nags could carry them. Two more shots were sent after them.
A few feet further on, the fugitives were seen to slacken their pace, and one of them to reel in his saddle and fall off his horse into the snow. This was Clodfelter, and he said to Johnson, as he stopped:
“We must surrender. It’s no use. I’m shot.”
He tried to brace himself with his right hand, but that had been disabled by a bullet which had struck the palm of the hand and plowed through it and up the fellow’s arm, breaking his pistol into smithereens. It was then that the officers, discovered that they had “winged” one of their men. They had at first supposed that the men had determined to stop and make an even fight of it for their lives and liberty, but they now began to appreciate that they were preparing for a surrender, especially as Johnson also threw himself out of his saddle and threw his hands into the air, tossing his pistol away from him.
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Pursuit and capture of Clodfelter and Johnson near Pueblo, by Officers Cook and Smith.
The officers dismounted and walked up to within twenty feet of the men. Johnson was standing with his hands up, and Clodfelter lay on the ground by the side of his horse, which was blowing so loud that he could have been heard a distance of two hundred yards, as were all the others, in fact. There was a momentary silence, when Cook, addressing Johnson, said:
“You surrender, do you?”
“We do,” was the reply.
“Have you got another pistol?”
“I have just thrown it away.”
“But have you another one? You don’t come any Wilcox business on us. I will have you searched, and if another weapon is found upon you I will kill you where you stand. Do you understand?”
Slowly Johnson put his hand into an inside pocket and pulled out a revolver with his thumb and forefinger, and threw it upon the ground at his feet.
Clodfelter replied to questions that he had been so badly wounded as to be unable to get his pistol, which was in his pocket. Cook then covered the men with his gun while Smith searched them. Clodfelter was found to be quite seriously wounded, and faint from the loss of blood. He fainted away when the search was completed, and did not recover until a liberal supply of fresh snow had been dashed into his face.
The two men were then mounted upon their horses, and the party of four, officers and prisoners, started into Pueblo.
Looking far off towards the city, they saw a string of horsemen coming towards them, numbering apparently about twenty, and some of them five miles away. These were Sheriff Ellis and his posse, coming to the rescue of the two officers. The first of them had been encountered about half a mile from the scene of the capture, and soon after the sheriff himself was met. Mr. Ellis had started out gallantly at the head of his party. But it must be remembered that the hour was early. The sheriff was a man of regular habits. He had started out very soon after getting his breakfast. He had ridden along for ten miles far in advance of the remainder of his party. He was fast gaining on Cook and Smith, and might eventually have passed them in the chase and have been the first to come up with the flyers. But he was compelled to stop to see other and slower members of his party pass him one by one, and to hear their jeers and hoots. In brief, the same circumstance which prevented the proverbial dog from catching the proverbial rabbit, stepped in to prevent Sheriff Ellis from overtaking the fugitive criminals. Poor fellow! no one enjoyed the joke more than he did. He was a good soul, and loved his fun and his fellow mortals too.
Almost the entire town of Pueblo met the party upon its return, and a cavalcade of fully two hundred men rode into town with them. Johnson was full of bravado, and swore that he and his “pard” would never have been captured had Clodfelter not been shot. As for Clodfelter, he sang another tune entirely. He professed to deeply regret his part in the affair, and time and time again said: “I’m sorry; I only hope they will not hang me.” The tears would start and roll down his face when any one spoke of Charley Wilcox and his wounds, and he often asserted: “I had no enmity to Wilcox; I did it under excitement.” Indeed, he seemed anything but a desperado, and was evidently deeply sensible of the grievous wrong he committed, and suffered as much as any one.
Once on the train after leaving Pueblo, the two men told the story of their flight after the shooting of Wilcox, at Island Station, immediately after which they mounted their horses and rode to Brantner’s. Johnson remained on his horse, while Clodfelter went in and obtained a pair of blankets, and a cap and a coat for Johnson. Clodfelter told Brantner that they had got into trouble, but did not tell him the whole story. They then rode directly to Richard Morris’ ranch, on the Platte, and about a mile from Brantner’s, and inquired for Morris. Not finding him in, they rode on to Jackson farm, about two miles and a half from Morris’, up the Platte, and from there they went to Sopris’ old ranch, at the junction of the Platte and Clear creek.
Here they endeavored to obtain pistols, and then bullets and powder and shot, but did not succeed. They did obtain food. Their course was then straight for the mountains, intending to strike them south of Golden. They reached the foothills about sunrise Sunday morning, about eight miles, as they think, above Platte cañon. They spent most of the day in the mountains, but late in the afternoon came out, went to a ranch about three miles below and obtained feed for the horses and provisions for themselves. They then struck south, and a little before sundown crossed the Platte about a mile below the cañon, intending to strike the southern road. They traveled until about 12 o’clock that night, and after tying their horses laid down on the prairie and slept until morning. They were then on Willow (South Plum) creek, about a mile above Wakeman’s. About 7 o’clock Monday morning they rode to Wakeman’s and got coffee. From there they made south, in a direct line for the foothills, and struck the road running south to Colorado Springs about 3 o’clock in the afternoon. They followed the road for an hour, and then stopped at a house and got supper. They continued along the road, passing Monument and other stations. About 4 o’clock in the morning (Tuesday) they passed through Colorado Springs, and took the road south. Soon they became bewildered, and were uncertain about being on the right road. They descried a ranch and went to a hay-stack and fed their ponies, and discovered the railroad. This assured them, and crossing over to the west side of the track they continued their journey south, crossing the Fountaine about five miles below the ranch, and afterwards crossed back. About twelve miles from Colorado Springs they obtained a dinner and oats for their horses. As they pursued their southerly course, the snow began to fall and impede them. When about one mile from Pueblo, they put up at a ranch for the night, about 10 o’clock in the evening. About 7 o’clock in the morning (Wednesday) they started for Pueblo, and rode down one of the principal streets, when they were discovered. Not until they were close to the bridge did they imagine they were pursued, and then only from the peculiar action of two men on foot and two others on horseback.
Both men denied that Johnson said, “You know what I did for you once.” They declared all that was said was, “You know what I’ve done,” meaning the shooting at Wilcox, and hence requesting Clodfelter to help him out of the scrape.
There was great interest in the prisoners and their successful pursuers at all stations along the road, and especially at Colorado Springs, whose pursuing party had “marched up the hill and then marched down again;” or, in other words, had slept out all night after leaving Cook and Smith at Fountaine, and returned the next day to Colorado Springs, hungry, fatigued, sleepy, almost frozen and without their booty. Colorado Springs really enjoyed the chagrin of its light brigade, and gave Cook and his party a royal reception on their return through that place as the train halted at the depot.
There was another reception in Denver. The officers came in the third day after starting out, and brought their game with them. There was talk of lynching when the party arrived. Continually after it was announced that Johnson and Clodfelter had been captured and would arrive on the evening train, the probability of a “hanging bee” was discussed on the street and in every store. The sentiment of the community was, however, strongly against Judge Lynch, and certain incentives to the gathering of a mob were generally and severely denounced. Still curiosity and excitement among a certain class had reached such a pitch that measures were taken to prevent and thwart any action of the kind.
About the time of the arrival of the train, men and boys could be seen wending their way towards the Larimer and Fifteenth street crossings, and also to the depot, as rumor had named each place for the transfer of the prisoners to carriages. The largest crowd collected at the depot, where the train did unload its burden. It is said that there were those in the crowd who openly carried ropes for halters.
As soon as the train arrived at the depot the prisoners were transferred to a ’bus, their persons being protected by a sufficient number of good men to overawe any crowd who did not care to receive cold lead. The ’bus was occupied by two travelers, Gen. Cook and Frank Smith, of the Rocky Mountain Detective Association, by Johnson and Clodfelter, and Sheriff Ellis, of Pueblo county. On top of the ’bus rode Sheriff Willoughby and aides. In the rear was a mounted policeman. As the ’bus moved up the street it was surrounded by a number of wagons and carriages, filled with people anxious to get a sight at the noted criminals, while still others followed on horseback.
On arrival at the jail, about three or four hundred persons were found collected at the entrance, who seemed indisposed to give back for the horses to pass. As soon as the ’bus came to a standstill, however, the crowd were parted by Sheriff Willoughby and his deputies, who arrived on the ’bus, and by still others at the jail. This passage was guarded by these men with drawn revolvers, and if any effort had been made to take the prisoners from the officers of the law, it would have resulted in terrible execution on the crowd. In the presence of such a display of armed men no disorder was observed, and in safety the prisoners were lodged in Arapahoe County jail.
From the time the procession of carriages left the depot until the prisoners were landed in the jail, hundreds of eyes peered from houses, stores and business blocks upon the unusual spectacle, and pedestrians paused in their walk to gaze upon the vehicle containing the men about whom so much had been written and said.
During this hurried trip through the city the prisoners were evidently uneasy and fearful of being lynched. When landed in jail and the doors were closed against the crowd, upon a remark being made to Clodfelter that he was safe, he replied:
“Yes, but the worst is to come hereafter.”
Previous to being put in a cell, the shackles, which were riveted to their ankles, were cut off, and then the men were placed in confinement.
They were soon afterwards tried in Denver, but as Wilcox’s wound did not prove fatal, they were only sent to the penitentiary for three and a half years each. They are both at liberty now, and their whereabouts has been lost sight of. Mr. Wilcox is still a resident of Denver, and now a member of the police force, and Gen. Cook carries a scar on his wrist which was caused by a slight wound created in attempting to remove the cartridge from his gun during the pursuit of the men.
The case was so thoroughly worked up by the detectives, and a clue once obtained was followed with such skill, perseverance and pluck, that the praise of the entire state was justly awarded them. The press was full of commendation, but we shall let one example speak for all. The Pueblo Chieftain said the day after the capture:
“Detectives D. J. Cook and Frank Smith have won fresh laurels for themselves by the excellent manner in which they have managed this case. Notwithstanding the fact that even the elements were arrayed against them, they have managed to follow up and arrest these scoundrels in a manner highly creditable to themselves and the association to which they belong.”
A DREAM OF DEATH.