Hands Up; or, Thirty-Five Years of Detective Life in the Mountains and on the Plains / Reminiscences by General D. J. Cook, Chief of the Rocky Mountains Detective Association

by D. J.‏ ‎ Cook

CHAPTER XIII.

FEELING AROUSED BY THE ROBBERY OF JUDGE BROOKS—PURSUIT OF THE HIGHWAYMEN, DUGGAN AND FRANKLIN—THE DETECTIVES OBTAIN A CLUE—THE OUTLAWS OVERTAKEN IN GOLDEN—DUGGAN SHOWS FIGHT AND GETS HIS FRIEND, MILES HILL, KILLED—TERRIBLE ENCOUNTER WITH, AND TRAGIC DEATH OF, ED. FRANKLIN.

The robbery of Judge Brooks was the event which sealed the fate of both these desperate characters, and probably indirectly also that of Musgrove. The event occurred on the night of Friday, November 20, 1868. Judge Brooks was a prominent and much-esteemed citizen. The whole town was indignant. There were demands on every hand to have the highwaymen hunted down. Denver had aroused from stupor to an active appreciation of the state of affairs. An outrage had been committed, and justice must be done. The guilty parties must be found and punished. To whom should this work be entrusted? The public of Denver had already learned to appreciate “Dave” Cook. He was now town marshal, and had already organized his detective association. The case was put in his hands. He had one clue. Judge Brooks remembered that he had on his person before he was robbed a $20 bill, which had been torn and which he had mended with a piece of official paper about his office. Mr. Cook naturally concluded that there were not apt to be two bills so torn and so mended. Hence he went to work to find the man who should offer to spend this piece of money. He notified not only the officers of Denver, but those of surrounding towns as well.

The robberies had been committed on Friday. On Sunday a messenger arrived from Sheriff John Keith, of Jefferson county, saying that the men that were wanted in Denver were to be found in Golden. It was stated that they had gone to that place on Saturday; that they had been drinking and swaggering about the streets, loaded down with revolvers and defying all the officers of Christendom. It was supposed that they were desperadoes, but they were not identified until Sunday morning, when the $20 bill was tendered to some one by Duggan. This fact had no sooner become known to Sheriff Keith than he dispatched a notification to Marshal Cook. The messenger arrived late in the afternoon, so that it was dusk before the marshal and his posse were off for Golden, eighteen miles distant. There was no Colorado Central railroad between Denver and Golden in those days to pick people up in one place and set them down in another within half an hour, as there now is. But there was a splendid dirt road, and over this the horses flew, their hoofs beating melodiously on the frozen soil, as Cook and his men marched off towards the foot-hill metropolis in the pursuit of their business. The pursuing party was composed of the following named persons: D. J. Cook, W. Frank Smith, D. W. Mays, Eugene Goff, H. B. Haskell and Andy Allen. They were all mounted well and were armed very thoroughly.

Golden was reached about 9 o’clock in the evening of Sunday, November 23. The party stopped in the outskirts of the city for a few minutes, until Keith could be communicated with. Being found, he informed the Denver officers where their men were located. Franklin, he said, had been drinking heavily during the day and had retired to bed early at the Overland house. Duggan was at that moment at a saloon kept by Dan Hill. It was resolved to take Duggan first, and the officers, reinforced by Keith, started in the direction of the saloon indicated. While on their way to this point they met two men, one of whom said to the other as they passed: “What do these s—s of b—s of officers want? That’s Dave Cook, from Denver. I left one of my pistols at your saloon.” This remark was overheard by Cook and Keith, and the latter whispered to the Denver marshal the fact that the speaker, of whom Cook had not had a fair view, was Duggan. The other man, he also told Cook, was Miles Hill, brother of the proprietor of the saloon. Immediately the two men were seen to turn and cross a vacant lot of ground to the rear of Hill’s saloon. The officers stopped for a minute to arrange plans; Cook directing Smith, with Keith and others of the squad, to proceed to the front of the saloon, while he, with Goff, would go to the rear. “In case there should be shooting, boys, do not hit Miles Hill,” said Sheriff Keith, and taking up the sentence, Cook gave an order to his men to be very careful not to hurt any citizen of Golden.

The officers closed in upon the place with the greatest celerity. Smith and his force found all dark in front, but Cook and Goff discovered a small and glaring light near the door of the saloon as they came around the corner. It was evidently from the burning end of a cigar in a man’s mouth. Soon the door of the saloon opened, shedding a light upon the man with the cigar in his mouth and revealing in him the fugitive Duggan. A man came out at the door and proved to be Hill. The friends of Hill assert that he only brought Duggan’s pistol to him, but the officers say, be that as it may, he seemed to present the pistol at them, intentionally or accidentally, at which time Duggan fired on Cook and Goff, the ball flying by them and nipping a bit out of the blue soldier overcoat which Cook wore. Notwithstand the officers carried cocked revolvers in their hands and were fearful that they would have trouble, they were considerably surprised. It was a moment before they collected themselves, and before they were entirely at themselves another ball came whizzing by them in dangerous proximity to their vitals. They were not more than ten feet from the men who held pistols in their hands. There was no time to hesitate or parley. A moment’s delay might mean death to both of them. With that calm and commanding way, that cool and deliberate manner which has ever characterized Dave Cook in time of danger and placed him above other men, he raised his pistol with his left hand—he always holds his pistol in his left hand when he shoots—and taking aim, fired, telling Goff also to fire. One man fell to the ground, and the other started away on a full run, firing a parting salute as he left. The flash of the pistol revealed the fact that Duggan was the man who was making an effort to escape, and he was pursued by some of the members of the party. However, the man jumped a fence, and by so doing found a hiding place in a dense undergrowth, so that extensive pursuit of him that evening could not be otherwise than unavailing.

When the officers returned they found that the man who had been shot was Miles Hill. The ball had entered his left side and ranged downward through the abdomen and lodged in the opposite side of the man’s body. It was evident that he could not live. He was found lying in the street with a cocked revolver near him. He demanded plaintively to know why he had been shot, and when told the circumstances of the case, apparently recognized the justice of his fate.

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Fatal Fight at Golden between Officers Cook and Goff on one side, and Duggan and Miles Hill on the other.

Hill seems to have been a thoroughly good fellow, and his kindness of disposition probably led him to the point of helping Duggan out of a bad scrape. What representation he had made to Hill was not revealed by him, and will now, of course, never be known. But that Hill was influenced to aid the disreputable man into whose company he had been so unfortunate as to fall can hardly be doubted. He died about twelve hours after the shooting, and was sincerely mourned by the citizens of Golden, who permitted their friendly feeling for and acquaintance with the social qualities of the man, for the time, to influence their judgment of the killing, and, what a few days afterwards was recognized as a necessary precaution by the officers in the protection of their own lives and in the discharge of their duty in attempting to arrest Duggan, was at first criticised as “haste and negligence.” Cook and Goff either had to kill or be killed. They preferred the former alternative, repulsive as it was to them.

But there was then little time to linger over the man whose life blood was oozing gradually out as a consequence of his attempt to defend a criminal from arrest. There was other work than indulging in vain regrets to be accomplished. Duggan had escaped, but Franklin was still in town, and his whereabouts were known. He must be captured at all hazards. To allow him to escape was not a part of the programme of the officers. They had been notified by Sheriff Keith that Franklin had taken a room at the Overland house, then standing where it now does, and thitherward they wended their way, fully armed, and equipped with a strong pair of handcuffs with which they proposed to secure Franklin, and thus render his return to Denver quite beyond question when once he should be in their power.

Mr. Cook’s associates in making this arrest were Frank Smith and Mr. Keith, they volunteering from the entire company to go with him. The hotel proprietor did not hesitate to inform the officers where Franklin was to be found, and they were soon in his room after starting in the search. They did not seek admission by knocking at the door, which was found unlocked. Although soaked with liquor when he retired, Franklin had left everything in perfect order for his defense in case he should be set upon suddenly, showing himself to be a criminal who was used to being hunted, and who never forgot his caution even when apparently “too far gone to know anything.” His empty pistol scabbard hung on the bed-post, while underneath his pillow lay a large revolver, loaded, cocked and ready for use at a moment’s warning. The officers stole in with quiet tread, Cook leading the van, with his fingers on his lips, and the others following as noiselessly as if treading upon velvet, although the floor was bare. Mr. Keith carried a candle, and as he came up to the bed with it, so that the light fell upon Franklin’s eyes, he turned over with a groan. He lay stretched at full length—a man of brawny muscle and splendidly developed physique. His breast being partially bared, revealed the gunshot wound which was the memento he carried of his late exploit in standing off seventeen of Uncle Sam’s soldiers near Fort Saunders, and which had yet scarcely thoroughly healed. As he turned in the bed his eyes opened. At that moment Mr. Cook laid a heavy hand upon the arm of the man, saying:

“Franklin, we want you.”

The fellow was awake in a moment.

“The hell you do!” he exclaimed, showing that he took in the situation at a glance.

“Yes, come on quietly.”

“Quietly, be d—d! Where’s my gun? No d—d officer from Denver can arrest me. I’m not that sort of stuff. You can make up your mind to that.”

By this time he was fully aroused. He was standing on his knees, his eyes flashing fire, and striking sledge-hammer blows at any of the officers who attempted to lay hands upon him. He would listen to no entreaty, but answered all appeals with derision. At last Mr. Cook produced the handcuffs, and made a move towards Franklin with them.

“Oh, it’s irons you have, is it?” he exclaimed, as he lunged at the party. “If that’s what you’re up to, I have some myself.”

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Killing of Ed. Franklin at Golden by Officers Cook and Smith, while resisting arrest.

And with this speech he turned to his pillow in the act of pulling his revolver from its hiding-place.

At that moment one of Cook’s assistants, considering that Franklin was preparing to shoot, struck him on the head and knocked him to the other side of the bed. He was up in a minute and more furious than ever. He had well-nigh torn his underclothes from his body, and the blood was running from the fresh wound in his head. He was furious with rage, and snorted and roared and tore about like a wild animal brought to bay, exclaiming, “Come on, all of you!” as he rose to his feet. “I suppose you can kill me, but you can not arrest me. I will not go with you. If you want to shoot, put it there—there!” And he slapped his hand violently two or three times upon his heart. The scene was extremely tragic.

Up to this time no one had intended to shoot, and Franklin was told so. “Damn you, if you don’t shoot, I will,” he exclaimed again. “I will fight your whole gang, if you will give me a fair show. I won’t be arrested, I won’t go; I’ll die first—but I’ll die hard. One or two of you will go with me if I go. Ed. Franklin does not sell out for a song.” At this he made a lunge for a cocked revolver which Cook had laid on a table near by. But the keen-eyed officers were too quick for him. They had detected the purpose of the move and were ready. They did not propose to stand up to allow another professional murderer and desperado to shoot at them. They were not betting blood on even terms with outlaws. Cook caught his pistol with his left hand, and even while Franklin was fighting his way to it like a mad man, sent a ball whizzing through his very heart. Smith’s firing followed so soon as to cause what seemed little different from one report. With hardly a groan Franklin tumbled over on the blood-stained bed, a dead and harmless man. He had sowed the wild oats of a reckless and useless life, and he had reaped the full harvest.

So ended the last of the tragedies of Golden’s night of horrors, November 22, 1868.

Of course the entire town had been aroused by this time. It was getting well along in the night, yet no one seemed to have retired. On the contrary, everybody appeared to be upon the streets. Hardly any one understood the cause of the trouble or the crimes that had been committed. There were reports that a dozen men had been killed, and that a mob had taken possession of the town. The people flew here and there like mad. It was, indeed, a wild Sabbath night for Golden—ordinarily then, as now, a very quiet and orderly town.

Coroner’s investigations of both killings, those of Miles Hill and Ed. Franklin, were ordered, and inquests were held. It was found that a ball had struck Hill in the left arm, entering his left side and passing through his abdomen, while two bullets had entered Franklin’s breast, hardly an inch apart, and both passing through the heart. In the case of Hill, local prejudice was allowed to control the deliberations of the coroner’s jury, the members of which were not in possession of all the facts in the case, and in the verdict the officers—who, the reader will bear in mind, were only returning the fire of Duggan—were slightly censured for “carelessness in the discharge of their duty.” The verdict was signed by George B. Allen, W. M. B. Sarell, J. M. Johnson, Jr., Arthur C. Harris, P. B. Cheney and J. Pipe, either one of whom would doubtless, under the same circumstances, have acted just as the officers did—if they had not depended upon their heels instead of their pistols for protection.

The verdict in the case of Franklin stood as follows:

Territory of Colorado, County of Jefferson, ss:

An inquest, holden in Golden City, Jefferson county, Colorado territory, on the 22d day of November, A. D. 1868, before J. B. Cass, a justice of the peace, upon the dead body of Ed. Franklin, alias Charles Myers, lying at the Overland house, in Golden City, Colorado territory, dead, by the jurors whose names are hereto subscribed. The said jurors, upon their oaths, do say that the said Ed. Franklin, alias Charles Myers, came to his death by the shots of pistols in the hands of D. J. Cook and Wm. F. Smith, officers, who were trying to arrest him; and that the deceased was shot because he refused to be arrested, and the officers shot him in the discharge of their duty, on the evening of the 22d of November, 1868.

D. C. CRAWFORD.
H. M. HOWELL.
JAMES GOTT.
JOSEPH CASTO.
H. R. KING.
WM. MARTIN.

Thus ended this series of tragedies, so far as Golden was involved. The officers, before returning to Denver, scoured the town of Golden and the surrounding country in search of Duggan, but failed to find him. Indeed, they soon became convinced that he had lost no time in leaving the place, and as there were then few residences either in the mountains or on the plains, there was little hope of overtaking him if pursuit should be decided upon. Consequently Gen. Cook decided to return to Denver with his men, and to send out information in all directions to his assistants of the detective association concerning the escape of the desperado, paying $50 to the landlord of the Overland house before leaving for damages done to the bed in which Franklin lay. The man who shared Franklin’s bed was found to be a deserter from the army and was turned over to the military authorities.

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