CHAPTER XLIX.
A TRAGEDY ON THE UNION PACIFIC IN ’68—JOHN KELLY’S COLD-BLOODED MURDER OF CHARLEY MAXWELL, A COLORADO BOY—SHOT DOWN FOR ASKING FOR DUES AND THE MURDER FINISHED AS THE BOY PRAYS FOR HIS LIFE—KELLY’S ESCAPE—HE IS HUNTED DOWN BY DETECTIVE BOSWELL AND FOUND IN MISSOURI, WHERE HE IS CAPTURED WITH THE AID OF A BULLET—PURSUIT BY A MOB OF RAILROAD LABORERS.
Charley Maxwell, a bright-faced and well-dispositioned lad, was shot down in a cold and cruel way by one John Kelly, a contractor on the Union Pacific railroad, near Fort Steele, Wyo., in 1868, while the railroad was building through that country. He was a Colorado boy, and his parents had permitted him to go away from home to secure work, and he had taken a place under Kelly as night herder of the contractor’s stock. The boy owned an excellent pony, which was almost his entire property, and he was naturally very fond of it. One day the Cheyenne Indians came along and stole it, and left him quite in despair at his loss. His grief was so intense as to have an effect upon the railroad workmen, and their sympathy grew to be so strong that they determined to buy him another pony, and raised sufficient money for this purpose by clubbing together. The animal being procured, young Maxwell decided one day to return to Colorado, and demanded a settlement with his employer. Kelly was a rich man, worth perhaps no less than a hundred thousand dollars, but he was about as small a specimen of manhood as was ever permitted to live in this western country, where such characters as a rule are not tolerated long at a time. When the boy asked to be paid for his services Kelly coolly handed him the amount due, less the cost of the pony—with the purchase of which he had had nothing to do, mind you—saying that he would deduct the amount paid for the animal from the boy’s pay. Maxwell was indignant, but helpless. He could only appeal for his just dues. This he did when opportunity offered, and seeing Kelly in a bank one day, went in and asked him for the balance which he thought should be to his credit. Kelly turned upon him with wrath and poured a stream of profanity upon him, exclaiming as he went out of the bank:
“I’ll teach you, you d—d little s— of a b—, to ask me for money!”
He passed out of sight for the time, and Maxwell thought no more of the matter until he saw Kelly coming down the street with a rifle thrown across his shoulder. He was then uncertain as to the man’s purpose and made no attempt to get away. Passing down the street on the opposite side from the boy, he said nothing until directly across from him, when he threw his gun across the wheel of a wagon for a rest, and, taking deliberate aim at Maxwell, shot him down in his tracks. The boy fell bleeding, crying:
“O Mr. Kelly, you have shot me; please let me live. I will not bother you again.”
Kelly loaded his gun and walked across the street, saying in response to the lad’s utterances:
“I don’t think you will,” responded Kelly as he placed the muzzle of the weapon to the boy’s ear; “not if I know what I am about. No, you won’t ask me for any more money in a public bank. I’ll warrant you don’t.”
As he spoke the last words the trigger was pulled, and the top of the writhing boy’s head was blown almost off by the bullet which went crashing through it.
The men around were most of them employés of Kelly’s, to which fact alone is doubtless due his escape from lynching at the time. He was arrested and imprisoned at Fort Steele, but soon escaped from there and disappeared. Kelly’s home was in Council Bluffs, Iowa, and thitherward he wended his way. In Omaha he was arrested, but contrived to get out of jail, whether by the use of money is not known. In Council Bluffs the programme was repeated, and the fellow after that was allowed to go free for over two years.
In 1870 Maxwell’s father decided to make a last effort to have his son’s murder avenged, and he placed the matter before Mr. N. K. Boswell, of the Rocky Mountain Detective Association of Laramie City, to whom he related the facts, saving he was poor and able to pay but little, and appealing to Mr. Boswell’s humanity. Mr. Boswell undertook the case, and never did a detective work more assiduously, or with more skill, or display greater tenacity of purpose or more downright courage than did Boswell on this case. The story would, indeed, be told except for the detective’s work; but as it is, it is just beginning.
Mr. Boswell soon learned the place of residence of his man, and going to Council Bluffs, there ascertained that Kelly was still contracting, and that at that time he was engaged near Red Oak, on the line of the Burlington and Missouri road, which was then being built in that section.
In looking over the ground, Mr. Boswell found that his man was engaged three miles from Red Oak, but that to get a train it would be necessary to drive forty miles, to the junction of the Missouri Pacific railroad, through a thinly inhabited region. Mr. Boswell, however, arranged his programme perfectly in advance, ascertained the time at which trains passed the junction, and secured the services of a faithful man, the sheriff of the county in which Kelly was at work, and together they drove out to the point where Kelly was supposed to be engaged.
Mr. Boswell had never seen Kelly, but he carried such a complete description of him that he knew he would recognize him at first glance. Fortunately the officers came upon the fugitive alone. As they drove along by the side of a railroad cut, they recognized him standing on the other side of the cut. After observing the movements of the officers for a few minutes, Kelly apparently decided in his own mind that they could bode no good to him, and started to walk away from them. When they cried to him to stop he only walked the faster, and soon he started to run, evidently intending to reach a wagon and span of horses standing half a mile away across the prairie. The officers then left their horses standing and crossed the cut, finding Kelly at a dead run by the time they came up on his side of the track. They again shouted to him to stop, and as he did not obey the command, Boswell had his man send a shot after the fugitive. With this he ran the faster.
Boswell again warned Kelly that if he did not stop he would shoot him dead; but the fellow paid no heed, and only continued his run. He was fast gaining upon the officers, and was evidently determined not to surrender. Boswell decided to make a grand effort to bring his man down. The fellow was running rapidly and the distance was great. Boswell is ordinarily a dead shot, but at this time the great distance, and the fact that he had only his pistol, were odds against him. He, however, stopped, and deliberately squatting, placed his pistol on his knee. Almost simultaneously with the report of the pistol Kelly stopped, threw up his hands and exclaimed:
“My God, stop! You have wounded me. I will surrender!”
Going up they found Kelly lying upon the ground with a bullet hole through his body, entering at the small of the back and passing out near the navel. Seriously wounded as one would have supposed the fellow to be, shot as he was, he scarcely bled at all, and he did not appear to be materially disabled. The officers compelled him to go back with them. One of them stepped the distance as they returned, and found that Boswell had shot two hundred and twenty yards when he struck Kelly. They found their man desperate, but apparently helpless. He swore with violent rage when first taken, and asserted that he had been murdered in cold blood, saying that he would not have been taken at all if his captors had not taken a miserable advantage of him.
The officers were soon permitted to see for themselves how difficult, if not impossible, it would have been for them to secure their man had they come upon him at a less fortunate time than they did. The firing of the pistols had attracted the attention of Kelly’s work hands, who were engaged near the scene of the shooting, and the officers had not gotten Kelly to the carriage, when the laborers began to swarm around them. There were no fewer than sixty of them, led by a brother of Kelly, who came marching towards them, armed with sticks and stones, and swearing that Kelly could not be taken away.
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Arrest of John Kelly, young Maxwell’s Murderer, in 1868, by Detective Boswell.
“We’ll show you about that,” responded Boswell. “We came for him and we will take him. Keep your distance!”
As Boswell talked, the two officers leveled their guns at the crowd and ordered them to not make a move. Kelly was told to get in the buggy, but he declared that he was unable to do so. Boswell, still keeping his pistol leveled at the crowd, told his fellow officer to shoot Kelly down on the spot if he did not step into the vehicle immediately. The order had its desired effect. Kelly stepped into the buggy, and the officers drove off, covering the mob with their pistols until well out of their range, leaving them gnashing their teeth and swearing, but in vain.
A fine prospect the officers had before them—very fine, indeed! A wounded man to take care of, and how badly wounded they did not know; a howling mob, headed by the brother of the prisoner, to follow them, and forty miles to the nearest railroad station, through a wild country, to them comparatively unknown. But Boswell is a man who never knew fear, who never shirked a duty, however gloomy the outlook or dangerous the path to be trod. He felt that his safety depended on the celerity of his movements, and he decided to “get up and dust.” His captive complained a great deal at first at the pain occasioned by the jolting of the vehicle; but finding that his groans occasioned no apparent compassion in the breast of his captor, that it certainly did not cause him to slacken his speed, he at last settled down into grim and sullen endurance, and the party drove on, no one saying anything. Boswell’s companion held the reins, Boswell kept his arms in readiness to meet any sudden attack, and the prisoner continually glanced about him for the friends which he felt confident would come to his relief sooner or later.